THE TWELVE DAYS OF CHRISTMAS

(A more modern version, on the premise that one's true love might have decided to get better prices through buying everything in bulk quantity)

On the first day of Christmas my true love (a real peach!)
Sent me twelve pear trees, a partridge in each.

On the second day of Christmas again came my true love
With two-and-twenty cooing turtle doves.

On the third day of Christmas my doorbell rang again,
As my true love delivered thirty French hens.

On the fourth day of Christmas my true love sent a mix
Of colley birds, in number thirty-six.

On the fifth day of Christmas he brought the damnedest thing --
A box containing forty gold rings.

On the sixth day of Christmas he sent (despite my begs)
Forty-two geese, and all were laying eggs.

On the seventh day of Christmas my true love (what a fool!)
Dropped forty-two swans into my swimming pool.

On the eighth day of Christmas my true love (such a louse!)
Sent me forty milkmaids, plus as many cows.

On the ninth day of Christmas he nearly drove me mad
With thirty-six girls dancing 'round my pad.

On the tenth day of Christmas came lords in fifteen pairs,
To leap o'er furniture and up and down the stairs.

On the eleventh day of Christmas my place got cluttered more
With a two-and-twenty member pipers' corps.

On the twelfth day of Christmas (the last one, I am proud)
Came a dozen drummers playing far too loud.

When it was finally over I phoned Salvation Bay
For thirteen vans to haul the lot away.

Still that was not the finish, as you can maybe guess,
Since it took fourteen maids to clean up all the mess.

As a crowning blow, my ex-love (that tub of lard!)
Had ordered everything and used my credit card.

PROPOSED REINSCRIPTION ON THE STATUE OF LIBERTY

(As Fostered by the Republican-Minded Types)

Give me your fat,
Your rich,
The proven cream of your society;
The business leaders from your friendly shore.
Send these, the wealthy upper crust to me.
For all the rest, I'll slam the God damn door.

A POINT OF CONJECTURE

QUESTION: Hitler's Nazis, the Ku Klux Klan, and the American Republicans have always had
something in common. What is it?
ANSWER: Their doctrines are all predicated on hatred.

A SUMMARY THOUGHT FOR THE YEAR 2009

Any country whose lawmaking giants are forced to engage in marathon public health care debate, with the interest of the people pitted against sheer profit motivation and greed, cannot exactly be one to inspire much pride or confidence.

ANOTHER OF NATURE'S PHENOMENA

Quite recently, this writer had a brief conversation with a middle-aged black lady, who informed him how she had just recovered from an attack of sickle cell disease. In response to our "what the heck is that" query, she went on to describe the severe overall bodily pain, requiring medical treatment. She then added the bombshell about her race's being the only one so victimized.

Amazing as this sounded, a subsequent look into the internet confirmed her statement that said malady is restricted to black persons only. However, no clear reason seems apparent.

This newfound rather astounding knowledge has led us to wonder if perhaps yet another far more serious and incurable ailment may prevail as well, but solely affecting people who belong to the Ku Klux Klan.

At least we can hope.

REMEMBER THE SABBATH . . . . .

This is another of our personal anecdotes from many years past, where religious intolerance again reared its ugly head, albeit in a somewhat left-handed way, strictly to serve commercialistic purposes.

Back during our Cleveland, Ohio residence days, when the children were small, we found it convenient to do the Christmas toy shopping very early, like around October, thanks largely to certain discount stores' being open on Sundays. In the span of about a half an hour, a cart could be loaded with goodies, wheeled to the cash register, and its content rung up at favorable prices, after which we'd be promptly out the door, having accomplished a major annual undertaking. The frantic December crowd-fighting would have been comfortably avoided.

According to memory, we performed this task for at least two consecutive years before the Christian axe fell, and thus recomplicated our yuletide season chores.

It so happened that the particular store we patronized was one of several in our area offering comparable discount rates on a regular Sunday basis. All or nearly all of them were owned and operated by Jews.

Well, this "unfair" competition didn't exactly swing with the numerous Christian merchants around town. While spending a relaxed Sunday at the beach, on a golf course, or else enjoying a back yard family barbecue, they were losing potential business to those Christ-betraying you-know-whos.

Lo and behold therefore, the city's lawmakers eventually yielded to the usual pressure from local special interests, by passing legislation which forbade any further Sabbath Day openings for retail establishments of this sort.

Kindly note that term Sabbath, which is always Sunday in the supercilious Christian realm. As everyone knows, Hebrew tradition devotes Saturday to such reverence. Anti-Semitism had found a new way to be exercised, under the guise of respect for a Commandment.

We've never forgotten that downright injustice wrought upon persons' being forced to close their shop doors on a day which was decidedly not their Sabbath. We deem this act to be yet another in an ever-growing list of evidential situations which help prove how Christianity, as practiced today, is virtually synonymous with hypocrisy.

REMEMBER THE SABBATH DAY . . . . .

CASE STUDIES ON PREJUDICIAL VICTIMIZATION WITHOUT CAUSE

This piece will cite four young men whose personal confrontations with the establishment resulted in their unwarranted condemnation, from which all but one eventually emerged victorious. Our backdrop in each case is the U.S. military draft system, with three pertinent to World War II and the fourth to Vietnam.

Out initial situation involves Lew Ayres, a vintage era film actor. His two most renowned performances, as an ill-fated German soldier in All Quiet on the Western Front, a first world war epic, then a budding physician in the Dr. Kildare series, had influenced his personal beliefs considerably. Accordingly, in the early 1940s, when other chaps were being whisked off daily to army camps, thanks to the universal draft, he declared himself a conscientious objector.

Those not of sufficient age to have been on the scene during the World War II years must be made aware that individual religion-inspired leanings toward pacifism at all costs was then deemed tantamount to cowardice in the public eye. Anyone unwilling to shoulder a rifle and march bravely to the front became an instant outcast. Thanks to Hitler and the fellows with the funny eyes from the Far East, national patriotism had swelled to a fever pitch. Allowing a person to exercise his basic human rights, legal though they were, couldn’t be the least bit tolerated by the overwhelming multitude. “Conscientious Objector” and “Draft Dodger” had become synonymous terms.

After committing Ayres to a special camp for those “hateful creatures”, the War Department in its supposed magnanimity soon acceded to his earlier request for Army Medical Corps service. His tour of duty took him to the Pacific Theater and New Guinea.

Still bearing the stigma from wartime days, Lew returned to Hollywood, where he played a starring role in the classic 1948 film Johnny Belinda, for which he received an Oscar nomination. Fortunately, his memorable performance helped the presumed yellow streak down his back to fade a little. He then managed to carry on his acting career quite successfully. Although still tainted somewhat in the eyes of the diehard tsk-tskers, he came out a winner in the end.

Our second illustrative case concerns another young man who worked in the entertainment industry, but never so prominently as Ayres. His name was Stuart Groshong, and he hailed from this writer’s home town, a Cleveland, Ohio suburb, hence our familiarity with the situation.

Following high school graduation in 1937, having already become renowned locally for his concert-quality singing voice, he began making downtown night club and radio station performances under the name Clyde Stuart, and shortly afterward Stuart Wade.
During the years immediately subsequent to Pearl Harbor, Stu became the regular male vocalist on a Sunday afternoon musical program, in company with a girl known by the stage name of Dorothy Brooks, plus a supporting studio band. The show enjoyed reasonable local popularity.

On a particular midweek afternoon, when the cast assembled to rehearse for the coming Sunday presentation, Mr. Wade was advised that one of his renditions would be a song entitled Any Bonds Today?, a patriotic number urging folks to shell out dollars for war savings securities, a most popular pastime in that period. On the basis of his professed pacifism, Stuart humbly declined, feeling the subject matter to be inconsistent with his personal beliefs. The reward for following his conscience was to be summarily fired by the station bigwigs. Draft dodgers simply couldn’t be tolerated as radio program performers.

It took precious little time for the word to spread throughout the suburban community where the Groshong family had long called home. Like Lew Ayres on a national scale, Stu was quickly condemned to sack cloth and ashes from a local standpoint.

With our subsequent knowledge of this man’s affairs being rather skimpy, we can merely attest to the fact that he too ended up on the winning end, but to a much more modest degree than had the actor. Apparently, the military brass never remanded young Wade to a conscientious objector camp, because he readily turned up as the male singer with Bobby Byrne’s nationally-known dance orchestra. Not long thereafter, he joined the relatively prestigious Freddy Martin outfit, with which he remained for the rest of the war.

When the big band craze drew to an abrupt halt circa 1946, Stuart tended to fade from the show business scene, at least in terms of prominence. Aside from a lead role in one of those inane horror films which became so prevalent in the latter 1940s, this one named The Monster from the Ocean Floor, plus a couple spot television commercials later on, we don’t recall seeing or hearing about him further. At least, however, he had managed to rise to a nationwide performing level, where the hometown “shame” didn’t follow him.

Another lad from this writer’s same home burg was Les Schenck, several years junior to Stuart Groshong. Raised by working class parents, he distinguished himself among fellow townspeople for his exemplary athletic prowess at the high school level. As a prolific forward passing football tailback, a sterling basketball court ace, and a weight-throwing track squad member, he earned a few years of local heroism.

Les’ case doesn’t involve his being branded a (ptui!) conscientious objector, but a dirty draft dodger nonetheless, for a different reason. The military recruiters kept repeatedly turning him down, due to the presence of a hernia, all the way to war’s end.

Under normal circumstances, young Schenck could have easily shrugged his shoulders and shuffled off back home. He certainly wasn’t the only fellow around town to be declared 4-F. However, he didn’t manage to dwell in modest anonymity.

A certain local woman, who perhaps deserved the label of Champion Busybody, wasted no time in launching a verbal smear campaign against this chap for allegedly faking a physical disability, just to avoid serving his country whose need had become so critical. She stood upon a totally unfounded premise that anybody fit enough to achieve athletic brilliance obviously possessed sufficient capability to battle a hated foe. She apparently deemed the draft board’s examining doctors as lacking adequate diagnostic skills.

Fortunately for Les, the slings and arrows from this vicious-minded person gradually abated after war’s end. He was able to go on with his life, albeit far too short. Unlike Ayres and Wade, though, he never came out as a winner of any sorts – instead, only an unjustly slandered but ordinary person with a common physical deficiency.

For our final episode, we jump forward two decades and focus on a man who attained far greater worldwide recognition than even Lew Ayres. Born Cassius Clay and hailing from Louisville, Kentucky, this chap adopted the Muslim name Muhammad Ali, and fought his way from the International Olympics up to the heavyweight boxing pinnacle.

Generally considered to rate among the very best his sport has ever seen, he proved this point again and again by his feats in the ring. However, certain obstacles unrelated to athletics soon faced him.

The U.S. military had been busy making a collective ass of itself by waging a war against “world communism” in Vietnam. The compulsory draft still remained in effect, and the Champ’s number eventually came up.

Once more, the conscientious objection factor reared its head. Although no longer bearing quite the supposed disgrace of the second world war era, the situation had a new twist. Muhammad Ali wasn’t sticking to his guns as a Christian, but rather a Muslim. Good Lord! Blessed Jesus! This could be nothing short of intolerable. Besides, the man happened to be black, and had been aggressively campaigning for improved civil rights – a fairly unpopular cause in those days.

Like Ayres and Wade, the erstwhile Mr. Clay felt the ceiling crash down on him. Not only did the legal proceedings find him convicted on a draft evasion felony charge, but the boxing commission arbitrarily stripped him of his heavyweight championship title. His choice of religion, his color, his oft-resented arrogance, and his attacks on racial prejudice had supposedly justified these verdicts in the eyes of the tsk-tsker community.

This case has a favorable ending, though. The U.S. Supreme Court soon tossed out the compulsory draft for quite valid reasons, and Ali was exonerated. However, he could only regain his top-of-the-heap ring status by fighting for it – which he did in a most convincing manner.

A man of sound truth if ever one existed, despite his exaggerated arrogance, Muhammad Ali deserved the status he regained by virtue of his masterful skills.

In summing up this manifold case set and its final results, we might well conclude by saying that three final winners out of four ain’t bad.

CASE STUDIES ON PREJUDICIAL VICTIMIZATION WITHOUT CAUSE

This piece will cite four young men whose personal confrontations with the establishment resulted in their unwarranted condemnation, from which all but one eventually emerged victorious. Our backdrop in each case is the U.S. military draft system, with three pertinent to World War II and the fourth to Vietnam.

Out initial situation involves Lew Ayres, a vintage era film actor. His two most renowned performances, as an ill-fated German soldier in All Quiet on the Western Front, a first world war epic, then a budding physician in the Dr. Kildare series, had influenced his personal beliefs considerably. Accordingly, in the early 1940s, when other chaps were being whisked off daily to army camps, thanks to the universal draft, he declared himself a conscientious objector.

Those not of sufficient age to have been on the scene during the World War II years must be made aware that individual religion-inspired leanings toward pacifism at all costs was then deemed tantamount to cowardice in the public eye. Anyone unwilling to shoulder a rifle and march bravely to the front became an instant outcast. Thanks to Hitler and the fellows with the funny eyes from the Far East, national patriotism had swelled to a fever pitch. Allowing a person to exercise his basic human rights, legal though they were, couldn’t be the least bit tolerated by the overwhelming multitude. “Conscientious Objector” and “Draft Dodger” had become synonymous terms.

After committing Ayres to a special camp for those “hateful creatures”, the War Department in its supposed magnanimity soon acceded to his earlier request for Army Medical Corps service. His tour of duty took him to the Pacific Theater and New Guinea.

Still bearing the stigma from wartime days, Lew returned to Hollywood, where he played a starring role in the classic 1948 film Johnny Belinda, for which he received an Oscar nomination. Fortunately, his memorable performance helped the presumed yellow streak down his back to fade a little. He then managed to carry on his acting career quite successfully. Although still tainted somewhat in the eyes of the diehard tsk-tskers, he came out a winner in the end.

Our second illustrative case concerns another young man who worked in the entertainment industry, but never so prominently as Ayres. His name was Stuart Groshong, and he hailed from this writer’s home town, a Cleveland, Ohio suburb, hence our familiarity with the situation.

Following high school graduation in 1937, having already become renowned locally for his concert-quality singing voice, he began making downtown night club and radio station performances under the name Clyde Stuart, and shortly afterward Stuart Wade.
During the years immediately subsequent to Pearl Harbor, Stu became the regular male vocalist on a Sunday afternoon musical program, in company with a girl known by the stage name of Dorothy Brooks, plus a supporting studio band. The show enjoyed reasonable local popularity.

On a particular midweek afternoon, when the cast assembled to rehearse for the coming Sunday presentation, Mr. Wade was advised that one of his renditions would be a song entitled Any Bonds Today?, a patriotic number urging folks to shell out dollars for war savings securities, a most popular pastime in that period. On the basis of his professed pacifism, Stuart humbly declined, feeling the subject matter to be inconsistent with his personal beliefs. The reward for following his conscience was to be summarily fired by the station bigwigs. Draft dodgers simply couldn’t be tolerated as radio program performers.

It took precious little time for the word to spread throughout the suburban community where the Groshong family had long called home. Like Lew Ayres on a national scale, Stu was quickly condemned to sack cloth and ashes from a local standpoint.

With our subsequent knowledge of this man’s affairs being rather skimpy, we can merely attest to the fact that he too ended up on the winning end, but to a much more modest degree than had the actor. Apparently, the military brass never remanded young Wade to a conscientious objector camp, because he readily turned up as the male singer with Bobby Byrne’s nationally-known dance orchestra. Not long thereafter, he joined the relatively prestigious Freddy Martin outfit, with which he remained for the rest of the war.

When the big band craze drew to an abrupt halt circa 1946, Stuart tended to fade from the show business scene, at least in terms of prominence. Aside from a lead role in one of those inane horror films which became so prevalent in the latter 1940s, this one named The Monster from the Ocean Floor, plus a couple spot television commercials later on, we don’t recall seeing or hearing about him further. At least, however, he had managed to rise to a nationwide performing level, where the hometown “shame” didn’t follow him.

Another lad from this writer’s same home burg was Les Schenck, several years junior to Stuart Groshong. Raised by working class parents, he distinguished himself among fellow townspeople for his exemplary athletic prowess at the high school level. As a prolific forward passing football tailback, a sterling basketball court ace, and a weight-throwing track squad member, he earned a few years of local heroism.

Les’ case doesn’t involve his being branded a (ptui!) conscientious objector, but a dirty draft dodger nonetheless, for a different reason. The military recruiters kept repeatedly turning him down, due to the presence of a hernia, all the way to war’s end.

Under normal circumstances, young Schenck could have easily shrugged his shoulders and shuffled off back home. He certainly wasn’t the only fellow around town to be declared 4-F. However, he didn’t manage to dwell in modest anonymity.

A certain local woman, who perhaps deserved the label of Champion Busybody, wasted no time in launching a verbal smear campaign against this chap for allegedly faking a physical disability, just to avoid serving his country whose need had become so critical. She stood upon a totally unfounded premise that anybody fit enough to achieve athletic brilliance obviously possessed sufficient capability to battle a hated foe. She apparently deemed the draft board’s examining doctors as lacking adequate diagnostic skills.

Fortunately for Les, the slings and arrows from this vicious-minded person gradually abated after war’s end. He was able to go on with his life, albeit far too short. Unlike Ayres and Wade, though, he never came out as a winner of any sorts – instead, only an unjustly slandered but ordinary person with a common physical deficiency.

For our final episode, we jump forward two decades and focus on a man who attained far greater worldwide recognition than even Lew Ayres. Born Cassius Clay and hailing from Louisville, Kentucky, this chap adopted the Muslim name Muhammad Ali, and fought his way from the International Olympics up to the heavyweight boxing pinnacle.

Generally considered to rate among the very best his sport has ever seen, he proved this point again and again by his feats in the ring. However, certain obstacles unrelated to athletics soon faced him.

The U.S. military had been busy making a collective ass of itself by waging a war against “world communism” in Vietnam. The compulsory draft still remained in effect, and the Champ’s number eventually came up.

Once more, the conscientious objection factor reared its head. Although no longer bearing quite the supposed disgrace of the second world war era, the situation had a new twist. Muhammad Ali wasn’t sticking to his guns as a Christian, but rather a Muslim. Good Lord! Blessed Jesus! This could be nothing short of intolerable. Besides, the man happened to be black, and had been aggressively campaigning for improved civil rights – a fairly unpopular cause in those days.

Like Ayres and Wade, the erstwhile Mr. Clay felt the ceiling crash down on him. Not only did the legal proceedings find him convicted on a draft evasion felony charge, but the boxing commission arbitrarily stripped him of his heavyweight championship title. His choice of religion, his color, his oft-resented arrogance, and his attacks on racial prejudice had supposedly justified these verdicts in the eyes of the tsk-tsker community.

This case has a favorable ending, though. The U.S. Supreme Court soon tossed out the compulsory draft for quite valid reasons, and Ali was exonerated. However, he could only regain his top-of-the-heap ring status by fighting for it – which he did in a most convincing manner.

A man of sound truth if ever one existed, despite his exaggerated arrogance, Muhammad Ali deserved the status he regained by virtue of his masterful skills.

In summing up this manifold case set and its final results, we might well conclude by saying that three final winners out of four ain’t bad.

USA TODAY IN QUICK PERSPECTIVE

Upon careful reflection after having recently returned to U.S. shores following a lengthy sojourn in various faraway places, we’ve finally found a means for describing this country’s present-day oversaturated status with a simple four-word capsule.

We feel no more fitting label applies than this: Too much of everything.

THE STATE OF ART

Art, whose family name we’d best leave unmentioned under the circumstances, proved to be a solidly-founded upper strata personal friend of ours, beginning with college fraternity brotherhood times and extending long into the afteryears. Regrettably, we lost contact some time ago, which we find unfortunate.

This man’s character ranked right at the top of the heap, and his droll sense of humor remains memorable. However, does this mean that Art stood flawless? No, we’re unhappy to say. He was overly shy, lacking the fundamentals of aggressiveness to a fault. Such deficiency led to the tragedy of Art’s life, in that he never found himself careerwise until the sand had virtually run out.

His choice of major and minor subjects while at college were International Relations and Advanced Statistics respectively, two fairly divergent fields, with the latter study seeming to predominate, as judged by his first post-graduate job.

In 1949, Art joined the federal government’s Bureau of Labor Statistics, which required this still-single young fellow to travel the country literally from Long Island to Catalina and Sault Ste. Marie to Key West, conducting appropriate local area surveys and related analyses. The frequent Ogden Nashish poems sent our way, written on hotel stationery here and there, never ceased to give this writer a helpful respite from the typical day-to-day drudgeries, and tended to convey occupational contentment on our friend’s part.

When, in due course, he returned briefly to our joint home town, we enjoyed an evening’s visit with him and a girl friend who’d been working as an associate. Applying the rule of “likes repel and opposites attract”, the feeling hit us that Art had indeed found the perfect mate, hoping the pair might soon settle down as one.

For undetermined reasons, though, the affair didn’t last. Art eventually did marry another young lady who, despite her many gracious qualities, had the same reserved personality as he. Likes had attracted, not repelled.

By then he had left his government position, on the obvious premise that endless nationwide travel was hardly consistent for a man with a new wife and nature’s resultant production.

As the years rolled along, Art kept drifting from one job to another, each of them in a direct salesman capacity, a vocation he clearly had never been cut out for. In a series of losing causes, he did his best to peddle aluminum kitchenware, female cosmetics, and other goods no longer recallable, before resorting to insurance, with its numerous disadvantages for a chap already in his mid-forties. The commissions didn’t exactly roll in with the utmost rapidity.

We later learned indirectly that Art, approaching age fifty, had engaged the services of a widely-known personnel consulting agency, which subjected him to enough aptitude tests and interviews to justify advising that he belonged in the market research field, whose tasks are somewhat steeped in statistical analysis. The shameful aspect was his failure to have realized and capitalized on such matter a quarter century earlier.

When our last joint encounter took place a few years afterward, Art proudly informed us that he’d taken a new position with a prominent greeting card company, thanks to assistance from his wife, who’d been employed there as a secretary for quite a while. Still on the rather naïve side, he cited the fact that his middle management job lay just below the executive level, to which he could eventually be moved.

Not wishing to dampen the spirits of an old friend, we merely nodded assent. However, being familiar with that particular organization, we knew the futility of working for a firmly-established Jewish family company (and we state this with no disrespect whatsoever, but in light of worldly experience) and its unavoidable glass ceiling.

We can hardly deem this piece a tribute, albeit to a great fellow, but a tale we view with vicarious remorse for such a highly-talented yet personally misdirected man and unforgettable buddy.

From the consolation standpoint, Art certainly hasn’t been the only person we’ve known over the years who selected a career other than the one actually suited for. Nevertheless, we feel his case proved to be among the most extreme we’ve had the misfortune to witness.

ALMA'S REVENGE

With Halloween just around the corner at the time this piece is being written, we’re reminded of an incident from long ago, when we too were kids out seeking edibles ruinous to our teeth on the eve before All Saints Day.

First, though, we have to lay the background. The grammar school we attended from ages five through twelve was headed by an old maid principal. Since those were the Great Depression years, necessitating that staff costs be held to a minimum, the boss lady’s duties required doubling as the sixth grade teacher for three days each week.

In order that she might handle her administrative chores adequately, the school had engaged a substitute teacher to fill in the other two days. This had been the practice for a number of years.

The substitute was a widow somewhere in her forties. By temperament, she may have been mankind’s most mild-mannered person since Melanie Hamilton of Gone with the Wind fame. In fact, her demureness had become known to the extent of making her a virtual local institution among the student gentry.

Having Mrs. Alma Horn as a part-time teacher in place of the bulky and gruff principal was a pleasure we kids actually looked forward to while working up the ladder sixth-gradeward. Older lads would revel in describing how they’d incessantly gotten the poor lady’s goat with mischievous acts during their own school attendance at age twelve.

Finally, the blessed day arrived when Mrs. Horn first presented herself to a fresh new band of cherubic-looking but rather mean-minded pupils. The girls all seemed to be polite and respectable, but not our little band of male troublemakers.

To put it mildly, a small corps of us made the woman miserable countless times throughout the year with minor pranks and antics. She became extremely frustrated on more occasions than we can recall. Although never moved to tears during our particular reign of terror, she’d been known to do so in the past.

However, the days tolled on until our crew of impish Dillinger and Nelson types moved up to junior high. No more Mrs. Horn.

Not quite, though. On Halloween night, when we were “grown up” seventh-graders, a pair of us former vagabonds began our annual house-to-house patrol to load our huge paper sacks with goodies.

The writer’s companion was Alan Hunt, a longtime buddy, who happened to live in the sector of town near the Horn residence, which was our chosen area for the evening. In due course, we rang her bell and dutifully awaited response.

Mrs. Horn opened the front door and had no difficulty recognizing two of her former adversaries. She’d already been busily dishing out candy to other trick-or-treaters, and now our turn had come – or so we believed.

We jointly rendered the lady a polite smile-laden greeting. It’s certain that our facial expressions conveyed the message “Mrs. Horn, we brought you a great deal of misery in days past, but that’s over, and we’re obviously your true pals now”.

With the door just half-open, the mild-toned lady stared at us unemotionally for perhaps ten seconds, before calmly stating “Well ….. you’d better run along”.

A bolt of lightning suddenly struck both Alan and the writer. She wasn’t going to give us any handout! An unforgiving Mrs. Horn had seized an opportunity to extract vengeance on a couple earlier enemies. After having let us drive her to distraction in the classroom, she hadn’t the slightest intent of accepting us a short year later as matured chaps claiming her friendship.

We stood dumbfounded as she slowly closed the door.

Understanding this mildish person’s basic demeanor, we can almost guarantee that, following her abrupt refusal action, the lady sat down and cried her eyes out.

We’ve never forgotten this disruptive (at the time) event. However, we must concede that Mrs. Alma Horn gained our everlasting respect for having the nerve to stick to her guns in failing to offer us so much as a small lollipop.

There’s no question but that Alan and I deserved the treatment she exacted.

ANOTHER SMALL HANDFUL OF GRAMMATICAL FLUBS

One or our recent editorial contributions dealt with English language butchery as practiced by an overly massive population segment, despite those never-ceasing schoolmarm efforts to convince pupils to do otherwise. We cited a number of the most common awfulisms uttered virtually every day by that vast array of radio and television spokespersons, whose sworn task really should be to address the viewing public in a proper manner.

Since putting that particular piece to bed, we’ve gone on to note several additional linguistic vulgarizations which we neglected to mention earlier. Again, the key culprits are those TV announcers, performers, and the like, who should have listened more intently to Miss or Sister Pruneface during their classroom years.

Consequently, we’ve chosen to discuss a few other sinful examples, in hopes of encouraging and promoting much-needed improvement, at least among our small reader band.

Mixing Plural with Singular
We’ve long failed to understand why such perfectly correct statements as “This kind of weather upsets me” or “Matters of that sort are none of your business” so often become corrupted when pluralization is required, as follows:
These kind of strawberries are the best.
Those sort of people annoy me.

It’s nothing short of obvious that “kinds” and “sorts” form the correct plurals in each above case.

Except for the convicted Italian anarchist Bartolomeo Vanzetti, who used the term “these thing” in his famous last will and testament, we’ve never once heard of any person making a similar mistake when that noun is involved. What, therefore, prompts such mental carelessness with “kind” or “sort”?

Improper Comparison
Simply stated, people or things are always different from each other, whereas than is frequently substituted in error. Correct examples are:
Susan is different from Patty (not than).
Dogs are different from Cats (not than).

It’s rather interesting that “different” seems to be the only adjective wherein such rule applies. In every other comparison which comes to mind, “than” has to be used, as in “bigger”, “smaller”, “older”, “younger”, “fatter”, “thinner”, “nicer”, “meaner”, and so forth.

Adjective Used as Adverb
This point was cited in our previous article, regarding such adjectives as “good”, “bad”, and others being employed as adverbs instead of “well”, “badly”, et al. However, we forgot to mention “real”, per the following illustrations.
Our cook makes real good apple pie.
The people next door are real nice.

Without question, either really or very is required in every such instance.

Preposition Used in Comparison
Most of our readers should be old enough to remember the furor aroused a few decades ago, when a certain tobacco company came forth with the controversial ad slogan “Winston tastes good, like a cigarette should”. The hue and cry over substituting “like” for “as” had grammatical perfectionists from coast to coast yelping bloody murder. This fellow actually had some acquaintances who switched to other brands for that reason alone.

What hardly improved the situation was the manufacturer’s feeble public retort “What do you want, good grammar or good taste?” The damage had been done.

Surprisingly, despite the purist feelings of this fellow who’s been devoting paragraph after paragraph deploring spoken improprieties, he never considered the Winston flub as being all that bad, for reasons given immediately below.

A License to Kill
James 007 Bond isn’t the only person empowered to commit homicide with apparent impunity. The same relative privilege exists in the realm of English grammar.

The unwritten rule for those of us linguistically endowed is that “If you know how to say it right, then you’re entitled to say it wrong on special occasions”, thus allowing resort to the vernacular whenever the purpose becomes suitable.

Accordingly, we must offer a personal confession for having once spoken before an assembled civic audience with an address bearing the title Tell It Like It Is. Our recollection is that the talk went over rather well.

Another expression occasionally uttered by this fellow when deemed fitting employs not a double, but a triple, negative, with “Don’t say I never done you no favors”, a personal favorite, notwithstanding the compound rule fracture.

The renowned lyricist Ira Gershwin was once known to become upset upon hearing a girl vocalist belt out the key line of his number as “I’ve got plenty of nothin’”. In his mind, “I got” should forever be the standard version. The man who also wrote “It ain’t necessarily so”, and “Bess, you is my woman now” clearly earned such a rightful claim.

What can we say by way of closing comment other than almost everything has its exceptions, no matter how hard and fast the stated rules, provided the circumstances permit?

ANOTHER SMALL HANDFUL OF GRAMMATICAL FLUBS

One or our recent editorial contributions dealt with English language butchery as practiced by an overly massive population segment, despite those never-ceasing schoolmarm efforts to convince pupils to do otherwise. We cited a number of the most common awfulisms uttered virtually every day by that vast array of radio and television spokespersons, whose sworn task really should be to address the viewing public in a proper manner.

Since putting that particular piece to bed, we’ve gone on to note several additional linguistic vulgarizations which we neglected to mention earlier. Again, the key culprits are those TV announcers, performers, and the like, who should have listened more intently to Miss or Sister Pruneface during their classroom years.

Consequently, we’ve chosen to discuss a few other sinful examples, in hopes of encouraging and promoting much-needed improvement, at least among our small reader band.

Mixing Plural with Singular
We’ve long failed to understand why such perfectly correct statements as “This kind of weather upsets me” or “Matters of that sort are none of your business” so often become corrupted when pluralization is required, as follows:
These kind of strawberries are the best.
Those sort of people annoy me.

It’s nothing short of obvious that “kinds” and “sorts” form the correct plurals in each above case.

Except for the convicted Italian anarchist Bartolomeo Vanzetti, who used the term “these thing” in his famous last will and testament, we’ve never once heard of any person making a similar mistake when that noun is involved. What, therefore, prompts such mental carelessness with “kind” or “sort”?

Improper Comparison
Simply stated, people or things are always different from each other, whereas than is frequently substituted in error. Correct examples are:
Susan is different from Patty (not than).
Dogs are different from Cats (not than).

It’s rather interesting that “different” seems to be the only adjective wherein such rule applies. In every other comparison which comes to mind, “than” has to be used, as in “bigger”, “smaller”, “older”, “younger”, “fatter”, “thinner”, “nicer”, “meaner”, and so forth.

Adjective Used as Adverb
This point was cited in our previous article, regarding such adjectives as “good”, “bad”, and others being employed as adverbs instead of “well”, “badly”, et al. However, we forgot to mention “real”, per the following illustrations.
Our cook makes real good apple pie.
The people next door are real nice.

Without question, either really or very is required in every such instance.

Preposition Used in Comparison
Most of our readers should be old enough to remember the furor aroused a few decades ago, when a certain tobacco company came forth with the controversial ad slogan “Winston tastes good, like a cigarette should”. The hue and cry over substituting “like” for “as” had grammatical perfectionists from coast to coast yelping bloody murder. This fellow actually had some acquaintances who switched to other brands for that reason alone.

What hardly improved the situation was the manufacturer’s feeble public retort “What do you want, good grammar or good taste?” The damage had been done.

Surprisingly, despite the purist feelings of this fellow who’s been devoting paragraph after paragraph deploring spoken improprieties, he never considered the Winston flub as being all that bad, for reasons given immediately below.

A License to Kill
James 007 Bond isn’t the only person empowered to commit homicide with apparent impunity. The same relative privilege exists in the realm of English grammar.

The unwritten rule for those of us linguistically endowed is that “If you know how to say it right, then you’re entitled to say it wrong on special occasions”, thus allowing resort to the vernacular whenever the purpose becomes suitable.

Accordingly, we must offer a personal confession for having once spoken before an assembled civic audience with an address bearing the title Tell It Like It Is. Our recollection is that the talk went over rather well.

Another expression occasionally uttered by this fellow when deemed fitting employs not a double, but a triple, negative, with “Don’t say I never done you no favors”, a personal favorite, notwithstanding the compound rule fracture.

The renowned lyricist Ira Gershwin was once known to become upset upon hearing a girl vocalist belt out the key line of his number as “I’ve got plenty of nothin’”. In his mind, “I got” should forever be the standard version. The man who also wrote “It ain’t necessarily so”, and “Bess, you is my woman now” clearly earned such a rightful claim.

What can we say by way of closing comment other than almost everything has its exceptions, no matter how hard and fast the stated rules, provided the circumstances permit?

SPOOFIA -- GUARANTEED TO FIX YOUR WAGON

After a great many years of engagement in other business activities, we’ve finally decided to enter the TV advertising field, having become duly inspired by the never-ending parade of commercial messages we see every day ad nauseam -- especially those extolling the health-enhancing qualities available from all those grand and glorious pharmaceutical products on the market. Accordingly, we plan to submit the following script to a suitable agency.

Fade in to a rugged-looking man in his late 40s or early 50s, standing outside and wearing conventional work clothes, as he utters his words of endorsement:
“I used to be a real wilting violet on the job I’m employed to carry out. Then one day,
my doctor recommended Spoofia. Ever since I started taking it on a regular basis,
I’ve been able to handle the heavy needs related to my work performance much
more effectively. In fact, so much of the energy I’d lost has returned to a point
where I can now hold my own with all my colleagues.”

Fadeout to a new scene of an elderly lady moving about in her living room and attending to odd chores as she speaks:
“Before taking Spoofia, I never felt like doing anything but sit around the house.
That has all changed, now that I’m using it every day. I’m always eager to get out
and do my shopping, tend to my gardening, and keep my home in shipshape order –
and I never stop feeling great around the clock. I heartily recommend Spoofia for
everybody.”

Fadeout, followed by several sequential shots of the man at work and the lady attending to various shopping, gardening, or household chores, as the background announcer carries on:
“You’ll make no mistake with Spoofia, a thoroughly-tested pharmaceutical product
recommended by leading doctors from coast to coast. Your buildup to restored
healthfulness and energetic vitality will be a certainty once you begin the requisite
daily dosage.”
(Speaking a bit more rapidly, and in a milder tone)
“Side effects from using Spoofia might include post-nasal drip, occasional vomiting
without advance warning, hiccoughs, and poison ivy. If your teeth begin to fall out
one-by-one, stop taking Spoofia and see your doctor.”

At approximate midpoint in the above background announcer’s spiel, the following text to appear at the bottom of the screen, then disappear after only a second:
Spoofia may be health-hazardous or even fatal if you had measles as a child, or
have ever smoked cigars.

Closing remarks by the background announcer, still at a fairly rapid pace and quite softly in tone:
“If after taking Spoofia, you begin having dreams that you are King Kong, and wake
up with an urge to climb the Empire State Building, check with your doctor right
away.
(Now in a much louder voice)
“Don’t wait to call the 800 number on your screen. If you phone RIGHT NOW, you’ll
be eligible for our limited offer to receive the opening one week’s supply for only
$19.95 (more rapidly and low tone once again) plusshippingandhandling. (Back to a
slower rate and louder tone) And remember, Spoofia is bound to fix your wagon –
but good!!!”

Fadeout

TOUCHING UP OUR ENGLISH JUST A TAD

Any person who has attended elementary and high school will recall exposure to an annual parade of English language teachers, whose task was to ensure that the students would spend their adult lives speaking in a flawless manner. Despite such devoted effort, upon hearing today’s ordinary street dialogue, and even radio or television utterances, it’s obvious how miserably they’ve all failed.

This writer was somehow blessed with the surprising ability to remember every single grammatical rule thrown at him and his classmates throughout the lengthy ordeal. Although not the world’s most magnificent natural endowment, such condition has never gone unappreciated. Unhappily, we’ve found this to be far from the case with a substantial majority of our native populace.

Not a single conversation-listening or TV-watching day goes by without our being forced to grimace slightly over a deluge of fundamental speech errors. They range from frightful down to relatively minor, and are all in conflict with the explicit schoolroom instructions put forth by every Miss or Sister Pruneface seated up front.

The oral butchery we encounter on the street, with its rash of double negatives, wrong pronouns, incorrect verb forms, improper noun or adjective selection, misused prepositions, and the like might as well be summarily ignored. Such constant and uncontrollably misguided output is best written off, as would be a bad loan to your shiftless brother-in-law. They add up to sheer hopelessness, with no solution in sight.

However, what we view as the prime correctible sins are those committed by that vast array of persons whose livings are earned by addressing the public on a daily basis. Television, which holds predominance in our modern media world, is therefore the chief source of our private dilemma.

News and sports announcers, political pundits, talk show hosts, commercial message blabbers, and even congressmen are often heard uttering vocal errors, in what we may fittingly call benign disdain for those dedicated English teachers who once strove so valiantly on their behalves.

If a reader should choose to challenge any point we cover below regarding basic rules, our response will be either to “look it up” or else “go consult an English teacher”. Unfortunately though, following this latter route may prove fruitless, since we’ve had a few disturbing past experiences in encountering Prunefaces whose detailed language cognizance fell below acceptable standards.

Misapplied Pluralization
Pronouns which come under what we call the “indefinite” category and pertain to persons may sound plural by their nature, but are decidedly singular. Such treatment applies to “anyone”, “anybody”, “everyone”, “everybody”, “no one”, and “nobody”.

When any of the above terms is followed by a possessive adjective which modifies a noun, pluralization can never apply. In order to cut through the gobbledegookery of the statement we’ve just made, typical incorrect examples are cited below.

Anyone (or anybody) must live up to their standards.
Everyone (or everybody) wants to have their own way.
No one (or nobody) likes to have their dreams spoiled.

In each above instance, the possessive adjective must be either his or her. There are absolutely no exceptions.

The same principle applies when using the word “each”, in apparent reference to multiple persons. As a memory aide, think of the once-famous song and the old movie, both entitled To Each His Own.

Wrong Case Before Gerund
For those whose minds need a little refreshing, a gerund is a verb form that ends with “ing” and thus becomes a noun under certain context circumstances. If a personal pronoun adjective is required to precede it, the possessive case must be used. Again, we’ll illustrate with a few common erroneous examples, followed by the proper form.

The crowd cheered at me scoring a touchdown. (my)
I don’t like you getting into fights. (your)
The policeman became curious over him standing around. (his)
I heard about her being sick. (her – this one’s free!)
The storekeeper wasn’t happy about us stealing his merchandise. (our)
We’re upset over them having difficulties. (their)

The same doctrine will normally apply where a noun is used in an adjectival sense, as shown below.

Parents seldom approve of their children eating junk food. (children’s)
Tell me about Betty attending school. (Betty’s)
We deplored Senator Foghorn shouting about the federal budget. (Foghorn’s)

A gerund should not be confused with the present participle verb form, spelled the same way, but becoming an adjective rather than a noun. We regret to say, however, that the distinction isn’t always too clear.

Superfluous Personal Pronouns
CNN’s well-known political reporter Wolf Blitzer commits this type of error night after night on his regular broadcasts, and he’s certainly not the medium’s only offender.

When referring to a specific person or group by name, it is absolutely incorrect to follow immediately with the related pronoun. The following examples state the case quite readily.

Peyton Manning, he’s a fine quarterback.
Michelle Obama, she appeared on Oprah Winfrey’s show.
Our foreign aid program, it’s a complex matter.
The Senate Ways and Means Committee, they met yesterday.

An individual’s or organization’s name provides adequate identification, so no need exists to embellish a sentence by adding a redundant pronoun. This is precisely in accordance with the King’s or Queen’s English rulebook.

Adjectives Used as Adverbs
The German language, a first cousin to English, contains a certain uniqueness, with the adjective and related adverb forms being the same, making matters a bit easier, at least in one isolated respect, for our counterpart citizens over yonder. We Anglophiles are granted only a small handful of similar opportunities.

However, we often hear additional adverb liberties being taken, as below.

Our family eats good. (well)
His new suit fits perfect. (perfectly)
Tom spoke direct to the commanding officer. (directly)
She fixed the dinner table up nice. (nicely)
We played the game bad. (badly)
They shouted too loud. (loudly)

Possessive Form of Else
There once was a rule which forbade using the word “else” in a possessive sense after an indefinite pronoun, but it seems to have disappeared from the books, and we consider that a fortunate development.

Technically speaking, the archaic means called for the following type of expression.

Anyone’s (or anybody’s) else contribution will be appreciated.
Everyone’s (or everybody’s) else clothing was gaudier.
No one’s (or nobody’s) else shoes will fit me.
That is someone’s (or somebody’s) else problem.

We thank our lucky stars that such silly sounding word combinations have disappeared from official use, allowing “else” to serve as a sort of specialized word under proper conditions.

After All Is Said and Done
Perhaps this fellow belongs to a very remote minority group, whose minds are devoted to 100% rulebook-adhering English. Nevertheless, we’re bound to go on wincing and gulping whenever the person on the TV screen utters a statement which fails to meet our somewhat stringent standards. Even though it’s most likely that we’ll have to go on living with this personally distasteful situation, we can’t resist the urge to fight windmills by a slightly more publicized means than before.

RACIAL LABELING: OVERDUE RESPECT OR DEMEANING SUPREMACISM?

Now that the days of four restrooms, two drinking fountains, separate schools, and “whites only” signs adorning store and restaurant doors throughout the South, complemented by snide undercover slurs in the allegedly more liberal North, seem to be gone for good, we find entirely new racial relationship rules to have taken apparent effect. Are Thomas Jefferson’s words about all men being created equal finally being observed, after a couple centuries-plus of mere lip service to his Declaration of Independence decree? Well, yes, but mostly outwardly, and rather grudgingly, as we view the situation. Specifically speaking, we consider this business of attaching “respectful” labels to minority group members an exercise in deceit.

In the interest of offering a supposed retroactive apology for the hitherto universally acceptable mistreatment and insults, some clown a few years back decided it might be nice and peachy to replace the old standby terms like “colored”, “negro”, and the numerous corollary slurs with “African-American”. By the same token, “injuns”, “redskins”, “savages”, etc. promptly came to be called “Native Americans”. In this fellow’s eyes, such practice is superficial, pompous, and silly.

Whenever we hear or read either of these definitive expressions, we tend to wince, and solemnly resolve never to resort to their hypocritical use. Our so-called newly-tolerant white populace has established little more than a new way to continue looking down on its fellow races, but in a slightly more patronizing manner.

Obviously, the first person whose name crops up as an authentic African-American is President Obama. Born here, but with a Kenyan father, he fits the description in a purely technical sense. However, does logic dictate attaching the same label to so-called black race members whose parents were native to U.S. soil – like his wife Michelle, for example? What on earth is African about her?

Regarding the business whereby Indians are now recast as Native Americans, we’ve always been under the impression that such term applies to anyone born in the United States, irrespective of heritage. Why should we limit said designation to those people who owned the Americas before the white man arrived to give them a merciless undeserved drubbing?

As we all know, the word Indian is totally incorrect, thanks to our friend Chris Colombo’s misconception. The British label Red Indian fits better, but only a tad. Nevertheless, we still refuse to buy the Native American bit solely for this particular racial group.

Since we’re doing a magnificent job at kidding ourselves, through well-chosen wordings, into believing that white supremacist thinking no longer exists, why not relabel all locally-born Jews, who are and likely always will be subject to Christian prejudice, as Israeli-Americans? In turn, we might similarly honor Asian-Americans and Hispano-Americans, or else just attach any appropriate foreign country prefix, e.g. Franco-, Germano-, Russo-, Czecho-, or whatever. That would make looking down our noses at the entire lot much easier.

By way of conclusion, therefore, why can’t our terminology practices be boiled down to a single-word designation for any human being born or legally naturalized in this country? What would be so wrong, not to mention far more respectful, with simply calling everyone so qualified as a plain American?

A SPOT OF NOSTALGIA

Since the majority of our readers are probably too young to have experienced the days when full-sized dance bands reigned supreme in the popular music world, we can only consider them unfortunate for having missed out on a brief but glorious age. Those years from approximately 1934 up until the close of the second world war remain a treasured memory in this fellow’s eyes. Its sudden decline is personally viewed as comparable in historical significance to the 1929 stock market crash and Soviet Russia’s downfall many moons afterward.

The music genre of that fabled era had actually originated late in the nineteenth century, but was pretty much limited back then to entertaining riverboat passengers or saloon and brothel patrons, quite often on piano only. The gradual progression to the early 1920s brought on numerous multi-instrumental groups, who had found a new home in the country’s recent innovation, the speakeasy. Their output sounded a bit raw much of the time, with individual members tending to strive more for originality than note-playing unison. In any event, the attentive listening public still consisted mainly of unlawful drinkers and bawdy house clientele.

By the latter 1920s, however, as evidenced by the orchestral works of Duke Ellington, Cab Calloway, and Paul Whiteman, much of the raggedness had been smoothed out. Such refinement continued into the mid-1930s, at which point a big bang suddenly occurred, helped considerably by the advancing development of radio, along with a clarinet-wielding bandleader named Benny Goodman’s bursting into prominence.

Benny’s outpourings hit the proverbial jackpot, and in virtually no time, scores of similar outfits began to spring up like mushrooms. Jazz, a term bearing an obscene connotation, quickly became relabled “swing”, and all hell proceeded to break loose across the land. The more youthful congregation felt an enthrallment bordering on sheer ecstasy, with a universal clamor for this purportedly new musicianship style. The age of fourteen-plus instrument bands had come up like more thunder ever seen from China ‘cross the bay.

Goodman’s superb clarinet artistry popularized that particular instrument no end. Additionally, the flashy stickwork and facial mugging of his drummer Gene Krupa introduced a new role for the tub-thumpers. They quickly became heroic figures, no longer mere providers of beat support for the horn blowers. Benny had also hired a chap named Lionel Hampton, who converted the hitherto unknown and unappreciated vibraphone into a longlasting modern music element.

While the kids of the realm reveled in their day-to-day enthrallment over the likes of Goodman, the Dorseys, Glenn Miller, Artie Shaw, Woody Herman, and the rest, their forbears viewed the swing exponents with downright scorn. The parental generation, a collective entity which hadn’t yet stopped mourning the Titanic, considered such output as Satan’s own doing, or more simply “just noise”. How did those whippersnappers dare play a tune other than note-for-note the way it had been written? Wasn’t the rendering of Loch Lomond and other such semi-sacred pieces with a bouncy beat virtual blasphemy? Mercy, this sacrilege couldn’t go on!

Nevertheless, it did. Benny Goodman’s 1938 concert held at Carnegie Hall became a monumental contribution to modern music. The entire realm of ultraconservative thinking was shattered in a single evening.

By way of an aside, that enraptured gang of youthful fandom would eventually grow up to condemn rock music one fine day, just as their predecessors had frowned upon the big bands and their swinging ways years earlier. Like the man said, sic transit gloria mundi.

Looking back again on that brief but glory-laden period, the standard orchestra complement of reeds, brass, and rhythm instruments also featured a pleasant-to-gaze-upon girl singer, a good-looking male counterpart, perhaps a band member who doubled as a comedic or belt-it-out vocalist, and even a supplementary warbling trio or quartet. Down Beat and Metronome, the two leading popular music industry magazines, staged annual reader polls to select their favorite outfits, individual sidemen, and balladeers.

Bands traveled by chartered bus from city to city, offering lone club or dance performances, then immediately hopping off to the next engagement. This modus operandi became known as giving one-night stands, whose definition bore no resemblance to our more modern, somewhat quickie romance connotation.

We can’t really say that World War II caused the big band age’s downfall. The demise had to be inevitable for whatever reasons. By 1946, it was no longer as practical or profitable to lug a gang of musicians across the country night after night. The demand for mellow and brassy swing numbers had dimmed in relation to the supply. The mass hysteria suddenly switched to the likes of Frank Sinatra and his fellow crooners.

Yes, individual vocalists had now taken center stage, many having emerged from the big bands to continue on their own. However, the instrumental chaps didn’t just give up and go home. Goodman, Duke Ellington, Count Basie, Woody Herman, Harry James, Gene Krupa, Stan Kenton, and others remained intact for a long while, with either their full crews or perhaps having cut them down to small combos. Still, things could never be the same again. The era of perpetual madness had passed. The output of these once-deified people brought only reminiscences, not the so-called real thing anymore.

Although that illustrious age will never return, we can at least thank heaven for today’s CDs, which have replaced the old scratchy, highly fragile phonograph records, and offer reprocessed jazz masterpieces galore. Those among us old enough to have reveled in those times when the first words uttered to a schoolmate each morning would be “Did you hear Glenn Miller last night?” are thus able to relive the pleasures of an unforgettable period.

A SPOT OF NOSTALGIA

Since the majority of our readers are probably too young to have experienced the days when full-sized dance bands reigned supreme in the popular music world, we can only consider them unfortunate for having missed out on a brief but glorious age. Those years from approximately 1934 up until the close of the second world war remain a treasured memory in this fellow’s eyes. Its sudden decline is personally viewed as comparable in historical significance to the 1929 stock market crash and Soviet Russia’s downfall many moons afterward.

The music genre of that fabled era had actually originated late in the nineteenth century, but was pretty much limited back then to entertaining riverboat passengers or saloon and brothel patrons, quite often on piano only. The gradual progression to the early 1920s brought on numerous multi-instrumental groups, who had found a new home in the country’s recent innovation, the speakeasy. Their output sounded a bit raw much of the time, with individual members tending to strive more for originality than note-playing unison. In any event, the attentive listening public still consisted mainly of unlawful drinkers and bawdy house clientele.

By the latter 1920s, however, as evidenced by the orchestral works of Duke Ellington, Cab Calloway, and Paul Whiteman, much of the raggedness had been smoothed out. Such refinement continued into the mid-1930s, at which point a big bang suddenly occurred, helped considerably by the advancing development of radio, along with a clarinet-wielding bandleader named Benny Goodman’s bursting into prominence.

Benny’s outpourings hit the proverbial jackpot, and in virtually no time, scores of similar outfits began to spring up like mushrooms. Jazz, a term bearing an obscene connotation, quickly became relabled “swing”, and all hell proceeded to break loose across the land. The more youthful congregation felt an enthrallment bordering on sheer ecstasy, with a universal clamor for this purportedly new musicianship style. The age of fourteen-plus instrument bands had come up like more thunder ever seen from China ‘cross the bay.

Goodman’s superb clarinet artistry popularized that particular instrument no end. Additionally, the flashy stickwork and facial mugging of his drummer Gene Krupa introduced a new role for the tub-thumpers. They quickly became heroic figures, no longer mere providers of beat support for the horn blowers. Benny had also hired a chap named Lionel Hampton, who converted the hitherto unknown and unappreciated vibraphone into a longlasting modern music element.

While the kids of the realm reveled in their day-to-day enthrallment over the likes of Goodman, the Dorseys, Glenn Miller, Artie Shaw, Woody Herman, and the rest, their forbears viewed the swing exponents with downright scorn. The parental generation, a collective entity which hadn’t yet stopped mourning the Titanic, considered such output as Satan’s own doing, or more simply “just noise”. How did those whippersnappers dare play a tune other than note-for-note the way it had been written? Wasn’t the rendering of Loch Lomond and other such semi-sacred pieces with a bouncy beat virtual blasphemy? Mercy, this sacrilege couldn’t go on!

Nevertheless, it did. Benny Goodman’s 1938 concert held at Carnegie Hall became a monumental contribution to modern music. The entire realm of ultraconservative thinking was shattered in a single evening.

By way of an aside, that enraptured gang of youthful fandom would eventually grow up to condemn rock music one fine day, just as their predecessors had frowned upon the big bands and their swinging ways years earlier. Like the man said, sic transit gloria mundi.

Looking back again on that brief but glory-laden period, the standard orchestra complement of reeds, brass, and rhythm instruments also featured a pleasant-to-gaze-upon girl singer, a good-looking male counterpart, perhaps a band member who doubled as a comedic or belt-it-out vocalist, and even a supplementary warbling trio or quartet. Down Beat and Metronome, the two leading popular music industry magazines, staged annual reader polls to select their favorite outfits, individual sidemen, and balladeers.

Bands traveled by chartered bus from city to city, offering lone club or dance performances, then immediately hopping off to the next engagement. This modus operandi became known as giving one-night stands, whose definition bore no resemblance to our more modern, somewhat quickie romance connotation.

We can’t really say that World War II caused the big band age’s downfall. The demise had to be inevitable for whatever reasons. By 1946, it was no longer as practical or profitable to lug a gang of musicians across the country night after night. The demand for mellow and brassy swing numbers had dimmed in relation to the supply. The mass hysteria suddenly switched to the likes of Frank Sinatra and his fellow crooners.

Yes, individual vocalists had now taken center stage, many having emerged from the big bands to continue on their own. However, the instrumental chaps didn’t just give up and go home. Goodman, Duke Ellington, Count Basie, Woody Herman, Harry James, Gene Krupa, Stan Kenton, and others remained intact for a long while, with either their full crews or perhaps having cut them down to small combos. Still, things could never be the same again. The era of perpetual madness had passed. The output of these once-deified people brought only reminiscences, not the so-called real thing anymore.

Although that illustrious age will never return, we can at least thank heaven for today’s CDs, which have replaced the old scratchy, highly fragile phonograph records, and offer reprocessed jazz masterpieces galore. Those among us old enough to have reveled in those times when the first words uttered to a schoolmate each morning would be “Did you hear Glenn Miller last night?” are thus able to relive the pleasures of an unforgettable period.

UNILINGUINITY -- A DECIDED ATTITUDE SHORTCOMING

In the course of this writer’s reasonably extensive global meanderings, he has all too often come into contact, casual or otherwise, with folks who hold steadfastly to certain beliefs, which we can most fittingly define as “onlyoneism”. What this piece deems as deplorable is how so many of our ultra-narrow minded clansmen feel that:
· There is only one country in the world, being the USA;
· There is only one religion, namely Christianity, under whatever denomination umbrella
applies;
· There is only one language worth speaking and writing (yes, you guessed it), English.

Our purpose here is to concentrate exclusively on the third-cited above case, dealing with pure and strict unilingualism. Despite our lack of sympathy with the other two highly prevalent attitudes, we’ll reserve further comment on such matters for another day.

We once heard the following joke, which tends to circulate among native Europeans, and expresses a mild degree of contempt in its context:

PAT: What do you call a person who can speak two languages?
MIKE: Well … er … bilingual.
PAT: Three languages?
MIKE: Trilingual.
PAT: Now then, how about a person speaks only one language?
MIKE: That’s easy. American.

Unhappily, we’ve found the impression so conveyed to be quite true.

Still, we’d be the first to admit that the ability to master a second language doesn’t lie within everybody, especially since so many born and educated in this country can’t even handle English adequately. Nevertheless, we see no excuse for the utter disdain so frequently observed even to make a stab at a foreign tongue, if just to learn the more common pleasantry expressions, and attempt to pronounce them properly.

We can readily excuse instances where such French terms as bon voyage and déjà vu have been absorbed into English and duly mispronounced. On the other hand, careless or downright intentional opposite language phrase distortion, a practice often carried out by diehard anglophones in such locations as Canada’s Quebec Province, a distinctly bilingual area, are totally unacceptable to our sensitive ears.

All we really seek in this exercise is a touch more of worldliness among our countrymen, as opposed to the overly-prominent verbal isolationism. Spanish has become a rather widely-used tongue on American soil, especially in New York City, the Southwest, California, and elsewhere. French has established a minor foothold in the Northeast. The West Coast offers a variety of Southeast Asian languages, and a person can hear literally dozens of others being spoken by just walking up or down Broadway at any hour.

What, therefore, could be so wrong with this vast band of onlyoners biting the bullet and accepting the fact that the U.S. has evolved into an intensely internationalized country, occupied by scads of respectable immigrants? Why not put forth a little effort to learn at least a smattering of their native speech, for no other reason than to be more friendly and communicative? Immigrants face a need for English proficiency solely by virtue of being here, and are sure to appreciate some reciprocation, albeit limited. It’s the thought that counts.

Furthermore, we consider the idea right neighborly.

DAVID KOUVEK'S OWN ADVENTURES IN GOOD EATING

Unlike Duncan Hines, America’s well-known twentieth century gourmet, who used to roam about the country in search of exotic tastes, this writer is just a fellow who has traveled a fair bit, thus having had frequent opportunity to drop in for a bite after a hard day’s journeying and sight-gasping. Furthermore, we won’t be citing the most renowned hash houses throughout the globe, but only those where memories of a delightful repast or two has been immensely enjoyed. For example, we’ve never been to Maxim’s in Paris, Amsterdam’s Five Flies, or Antoine’s, down New Orleans way. Actually, a few of our chosen eating spots are small-sized, removed some distance from the fast-track tourist areas, and never prominently displayed in the brochures.

Unfortunately, this article can hardly be usable as a guide to would-be travelers/diners. Many of our choicer beaneries may well have either ceased to exist, declined in quality, or been converted to airline ticket offices, since long years have passed since we last visited the cities mentioned. It’s simply that the recollections refuse to fade from memory.

Unhappily, the identities of a certain select few have been irretrievably forgotten. Among others are the delightful spot in Vienna which served a marvelous black forest cake for dessert, and the Michigan ski area emporium where, if you ordered a steak, they’d throw away the horns and the tail before bringing you the rest.

Anyway, our list of the fifteen most memorable appears below, alphabetically by city.

BANGKOK, THAILAND – DUX
As pleasant a spot to visit for lunch as we've found anywhere in the entire world. Not only was the food excellent, but a person could hardly tire of the unusual decor -- miniature duck figures large, medium, and small by the dozens, viewable both within the dining area and the outdoor garden, visible to all patrons, hence the establishment's chosen name. We must sadly report, however, that for undetermined reasons, the owner closed this delightful eatery a few years ago. Having since moved away from Thailand, we can't be certain if he reopened elsewhere or not. In either case, the memory of our favorite noontime restaurant will remain with us always.

BRUSSELS, BELGIUM – LE BERLAIMONT
Located just opposite the Common Market Building, in our opinion, no better steak house exists worldwide. The smallish place used to be run by a gracious middle-aged lady, who served as maitresse d’, bartender, and lone waitress all by herself. The menu selection proved bountiful. The sole drawback was the cigarette smoke drifting over in cloudlike formation from the bar adjacent to the dining room. Perhaps that has since been rectified by law. This place caters chiefly to locals, so if the owner is still on hand doing her multiple chores, we recommend taking along a friend who speaks either French or German, unless you happen to be skilled at ordering in sign language.

CHIANG MAI, THAILAND - BRUNO'S
The native Swiss proprietor offers a most delightful atmosphere, coupled with superb food and an impressive wine list. As in other cases we cite here, a meal at Bruno's will be long remembered.

CHIANG MAI, THAILAND – THE WESTIN HOTEL DINING ROOM
The Westin offers the most prolifically-laid out buffet we’ve ever seen in the whole world. A meal there is an adventure unto itself. This particular city lies an hour north of Bangkok by air.

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS – GEORGE DIAMOND’S STEAK HOUSE
This city has as vast an array of superb beaneries as one might find anywhere, including New York City. To us, however, George Diamond’s remains the most recallable. The management very wisely kept the dining area small enough to be well occupied throughout any mealtime period. As a result, most patrons would be required to first wait at the bar, but with tables becoming miraculously available just as the second cocktail had been poured. This surely helped boost a day’s profit. The steaks were excellent, and the house adamantly refused to bring catsup or any other condiment which would compromise the meat’s taste. You either ate it as broiled or went hungry.

CLEVELAND, OHIO - CAVOLI'S
Without a doubt, the best eating spot in all of the city's west side. Although the bill-of-fare selections are varied and plentiful, our personal suggestion is to go for one of the Italian specialties.

CLEVELAND, OHIO – MAX GRUBER’S
Max used to run the best restaurant in Cleveland, and hopefully his heirs still do so. Be sure to order sauer kraut balls as an appetizer. Beyond that, whatever you choose off the menu will be tops.

CLEVELAND, OHIO – THE THEATRICAL GRILL
Located in the heart of Cleveland’s business district, this delightful watering hole and eatery used to be owned by Morris “Mushy” Wexler, alleged to have a few underworld connections. However, who cared? In addition to excellent food, and bartenders you felt you’d known for twenty years, there was high-level musical entertainment every evening.

CINCINNATI, OHIO – TED KLUSZEWSKI’S
Although the writer had learned to shun eateries owned by former athletes, this turned out to be a definite exception (Jack Dempsey’s in New York being another, but not outstanding enough to make our list). Aside from the steaks offerable at Brussels’ Le Berliamont, Ted’s emporium served the best one we’ve ever demolished. The ex-home run hitting first baseman has since left us, but we hope the restaurant remains, with the output just as exemplary.

COLUMBUS, OHIO – THE JAI ALAI
Not the most highly publicized dining spot in town, but decidedly preferable to any other, the Jai Alai used to feature the old-fashioned free lunch table(well, everything cost a nickel then) from bygone days. Over and above that, the regular meals served were first rate.

GRAND RAPIDS, MICHIGAN – SCOTTIE’S
This spot had delightful atmosphere, excellent service, and the best food ever recalled in the state of Michigan. Run by a gentleman, who tended the bar, and his wife, who seated you, it was limited in space, but great in all other respects.

JACKSON, MICHIGAN – BILL CONE’S
In an area known for its multiple buffet-style locations, Bill’s always seemed to stand about all the rest, including the more renowned Win Schuler establishments. Perhaps the marvelous service had much to do with it. In addition, nobody ever left after a meal there still feeling the slightest bit hungry.

LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA – LAWRY’S THE PRIME RIB
Run by the makers of Lawry’s Salt for meat-flavor enhancement, this restaurant rates among the most unique in our memory, the reason being that it offered a single entrée only. The waitress would hand you no menu, but merely ask how you would like your prime rib of beef cooked – from rare up to well done. You’d never regret having been there, unless you happened to be a sworn vegetarian. The place would also catch the interest of the movie-star gawking types, because they’d be apt to see a few at other tables.

NEW YORK CITY – KEEN’S ENGLISH CHOP HOUSE
Keen’s may be more famous for its key atmospheric feature than its bill-of-fare, but you’re still bound to find the English mutton chop specialty quite satisfying. The big extra is the ability to enjoy a relaxing smoke on your private old-fashioned clay pipe following the meal. We dare not go back, though, having licked the tobacco habit long ago.

NEW YORK CITY – MAMA LEONIE’S
True, Gotham has many more fantastically-arrayed bistros than Leonie’s, but what remains most vividly in memory is the wide range of tasty food served, usually as supplements to the meal as ordered. This spot merits patronization for the culinary variety alone.

PARIS, FRANCE – LE TOKIANA
Most likely, few readers have ever been to this location, or even heard the name mentioned. Strictly a family eating place, and tucked away in a remote city neighborhood, even the taxi driver may have trouble finding it. If you do succeed in getting there, you won’t forget the meal. Make certain to order crepes flambees at dessert time, even if you’re already stuffed to the gills. The restaurant’s limited publicity stresses that it offers Basque food, whatever message that conveys.

ROME, ITALY – HARRY’S BAR
This very fine restaurant mustn’t be confused with the famous Paris bar bearing the same name, and occupied liberally by ladies of the night at any time. Our Harry’s lies at the very end of Rome’s widely-known Via Veneto, just before the entrance to the Villa Borghese, a public park. Perhaps the memory of a wonderful dinner was amplified by our charming guest companion.

WHAT'S PLAYING AT THE MOVIES TONIGHT, DEAR?

(A Domestic Drama in One Act)

Dramatis Personae:
Sam Evening, a husband home after a hard day’s work
Janet Evening, his wife, who had a tiring afternoon of bridge with her friends

The Setting:
Their living room, just following dinner

(Curtain)
Sam: What’s playing at the movies tonight, Dear?
Janet: (Turning newspaper pages) Hmm, let’s see ….. well, the Detroit has Gilda.
Sam: Who’s in it?
Janet: Gwyllyn Samuel Newton Ford and Margarita Carmen Cansino.
Sam: Seen it. What else?
Janet: The Graduate is on at the Hilliard Square. That’s the one where Anna Maria Luisa
Italiano seduces that young fellow just out of …..
Sam: Naw, too much sex. How about the Granada?
Janet: Aha! That exciting chariot race film, Ben Hur, with John Charles Carter.
Sam: Don’t like movies about horses. What else?
Janet: The Lincoln has a double feature. The first is Gone with the Wind. Remember, Vivian
Mary Hartley won an Oscar as …..
Sam: About the Civil War? Fooey. What’s the second one?
Janet: A horror film, the Son of Frankenstein. It has Philip St. John Rathbone, with William
Henry Platt as the monster.
Sam: Who plays Igor?
Janet: Umm ….. Bela Ferenc Dezso Blasko.
Sam: Naah, no frightening shows for me tonight. Anything else?
Janet: At the Lucier it’s Pillow Talk, a husband-wife comedy, with Roy Harold Scherer Jr. and
Doris Mary Ann Von Kappelhoff. Sounds good. What do you say we …..
Sam: Not tonight. Is there anything with a lot of dancing?
Janet: You bet. We can go to the Beach Cliff and watch Frederick Austerlitz and Virginia
Katherine McMath in …..
Sam: Never mind that. Try some of the downtown theaters.
Janet: Aah ….. at the Palace they have a cowboy flick starring Marion Michael Morrison, and the
State is featuring West Side Story, with Natalia Nikolaerna Zakharenko as the girl who
tragically gets shot …..
Sam: Doesn’t sound so hot to me. Try the Stillman.
Janet: They have that film about the criminal running around the Casbah to avoid the cops, but
falling for his girl friend, and …..
Sam: Who plays the female role?
Janet: That Austrian beauty, Hedwig Eva Maria Kiesler.
Sam: Aw, I was hoping you’d say Greta Lovita Gustafsson. I liked her. Do you see her name
anywhere?
Janet: No. Sorry, but we might try the Hippodrome.
Sam: What’s there?
Janet: Psycho, where Jeanette Helen Morrison is stabbed to death in the shower.
Sam: Too gruesome. How about the Allen?
Janet: Oh, this looks pretty good. Love Is a Many Splendored Thing, with William Franklin
Beedle Jr. and Phyllis Lee Isley.
Sam: Too slushy for me. Let’s stay home. Look at the TV schedule.
Janet: (Turning more pages) Well, for the old movies, there’s Bernard Schwartz in the Boston
Strangler.
Sam: Hey! Knock it off with the violence!
Janet: Well, a slightly more toned down one could be I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang.
Sam: Who played in that?
Janet: A very fine method actor, named Meshilem Meier Weisenfreud.
Sam: Maybe. Still, I don’t go for prison movies that much. Any variety shows on? Singers and
stuff?
Janet: We can see that comedy piano player, Borge Rosenbaum ….. or the girl who had such hits
as Tennessee Waltz and Mockingbird Hill.
Sam: What’s her name?
Janet: Clara Ann Fowler.
Sam: How about old Lucy Shows?
Janet: Yes, at ten o’clock, starring Dianne Belmont, as always. Then, at eleven is a rerun of
Maverick, with James Scott Baumgarner, or else the Aaron Chwatt Show. You
remember, don’t you, the comedian who used to sing Strange Things Are Happening and
the Ho-Ho Song?
Sam: No.
Janet: All right, then, if you want to stay up until three AM, we’ll be able to see the old movie
My Fair Lady.
Sam: Who’s in that? I forget.
Janet: Reginald Carey Henderson as Professor Higgins and Audrey Kathleen Ruston as Eliza
Doolittle.
Sam: That sounds too corny. (Yawn) Guess I’d better hit the sack early. Big day tomorrow.
(Janet folds paper and sits back in her chair as the curtain falls)

PUBLIC OPINION POLLS: WHO EVER INVENTED SUCH NONSENSE?

Perhaps the most fitting quote we’ve ever heard regarding public opinion polls was offered years ago by comedy writer Goodman Ace, when he remarked that “Everybody pays attention to them, from the lowest ranked office boy in any business firm all the way up to Thomas E. Dewey, President of the United States”.

The astute Mr. Ace seemed to capture the very gist of the pollster universe in a nutshell with that simple observation.

For those too young to expressly remember the reason underlying such comment, the Gallup, Roper, and whatever other poll services did their thing back during the 1948 presidential campaigns, kept pumping out periodic findings, with barely a variation from start to finish. The consistent prediction was that mudslinging champion Dewey would thump Harry Truman by a significant margin.

It goes without saying that we were all extremely surprised when election day evening rolled around, and we could see a victorious Truman beaming before the camera, as he held up an anticipatorily optimistic Chicago Tribune issue proclaiming DEWEY ELECTED. The paper’s editors had obviously considered the poll results equivalent to the Gospel of St. What’s-his-name. What’s more, bookies across the country were quick to admit they had not only lost their shirts, but their undershirts as well.

The ill-fated 1948 polls, however, were not the most climactically erroneous in history. During the early 1930s, a well-respected magazine called the Literary Digest, which had existed since 1890, rolled off the presses at Funk & Wagnalls every week. Current opinion articles and news analysis formed the heart of its coverage.

Then came 1936, a presidential election year. Five candidates had reached the final showdown, but the only possible winners were Republican Governor Alfred M. Landon of Kansas and the incumbent Oval Office occupant Democrat Franklin D. Roosevelt. No doubt as a means for attracting greater reader interest, the Literary Digest conducted an ongoing poll to predict the November winner.

Being nowhere nearly as sophisticated or objective as our 21st century canvassing wizards, the magazine solicited its prospective voter preferences from the following sources only:
1. Their own readers, which consisted of the better-off incomewise, since the country was
enveloped in a deep depression, making erudite publications less than affordable to the
majority.
2. Automobile owners, at the time another group whose membership was limited to the higher
earners.
3. Telephone service subscribers, whose capability of having their homes adorned with such
gadgetry amounted to nothing less than a virtual luxury.

This naively-administered poll assured an overwhelming landslide victory for Governor Landon. The magazine folk had completely ignored the countless downtrodden citizens, whose sympathies consequently lay with FDR.

When the votes had all been counted, the tally came out Roosevelt 46 states, Landon 2. Never again has a supposedly well-conceived poll been so far off the mark. Needless to say, the Literary Digest ceased to be published shortly thereafter. Who in blazes would want to read a magazine that had exhibited such utter stupidity?

With that long since under our belts, we now jump to the present day. To express our current feelings in a couple sentences, we find ourselves up to our so-called arsses with one poll after another being waged on this subject or that. Frankly, we object to being inundated day after day with pronouncements over almost every politically-related or nearly so issue under the sun.

In fact, this writer’s former steady habit of watching CNN on the boob tube has been abruptly stopped, as if its airwaves emitted bubonic plague. We don’t wish to hear the results of polls, polls, and more polls ad nauseam any further.

The majority of today’s public opinion surveyors have likely attained optimum sophistication in their methods. Still, we believe some may be dishing out questionnaires rather slanted at times. Straightforward or otherwise, though, we’re mighty fed up with the whole lot.

Our longstanding and ever continuing preference is to deal solely with established facts, not shady suppositions.

THE GOP

Based on the Republican Party’s traditional behavior patterns, we’ve finally been able to figure out what those three code letters stand for: GREED, OBSTRUCTIONISM, PROCRASTINATION.

HOLLYWOOD'S WAY: TELL IT LIKE IT WASN'T

Although a confessed movie buff from way back, this writer has found ample reason for shying away from any contemporary or future films of a biographical or historical nature. When the facts surrounding a particular event or an individual’s characterization often become flagrantly twisted merely for added audience enjoyment purposes, our rebellious outlook springs to life. Over the years, we’ve watched a good many Hollywood productions which have contained either major or less significant distortions, usually sufficient to convince us we should have better stayed at home and read a book.

We’ve picked out a dozen examples where Hollywood’s penchant for deviating from realism or reality remains indelibly in mind as deplorable misstatements and misrepresentations, where people or situations are involved. There are obviously many more, but it’s the principle involved, not the overwhelming volume of script falsifications, that we’ve chosen to focus upon.

MUTINY ON THE BOUNTY (1935 and 1962)
Captain William Bligh was not a downright schmuck who inflicted harsh and unjust punishments to crew members, apparently for sadistic personal satisfaction. His true character lay on the reserved side, with fairness often guiding his judgment. Although the causes leading to the legendary mutiny still aren’t fully clear, they certainly didn’t arise from his abject cruelty.

KNUTE ROCKNE, ALL-AMERICAN (1940)
This case may be relatively minor, but it stands as an unmitigated insult to one of America’s most revered football coaches, to portray how he decided to alter his team’s backfield coordination strategy after watching chorus girls dance in unison at a night club floor show.

PRIDE OF THE YANKEES (1942)
The immortal Lou Gehrig decidedly did not precede his first ever trip to the plate by clumsily falling over a row of baseball bats lying outside the dugout, nor did the crowd’s uproarious laughter then quickly subside, allowing his eventual missus to loudly cry “Tanglefoot!” from the front row. Yish!

TILL THE CLOUDS ROLL BY (1946)
This film gives the viewer the distinct impression that Jerome Kern handled the full composition effort, i.e. both words and music, for his countless songs. Credit due to Oscar Hammerstein II and other affiliated lyricists received the absolutely scantest mention. We deem this grossly unfair, especially considering the marvelous talents of those people summarily overlooked.

WORDS AND MUSIC (1948)
As a homosexual, Lorenz Hart could have hardly spent his entire career mooning over a girl who spurned him from the outset. Additionally, the scene with Mickey Rooney (as Hart) and Judy Garland (as herself) singing a number together at a party is completely anachronistic, she having been only a little girl in real life at the time of the film’s setting.

THE STRATTON STORY (1949)
Monty Stratton pitched effectively for a few seasons with the Chicago White Sox, but gained only limited status, not the league-shattering prominence the film depicted, up until his tragic leg loss in a hunting mishap. He tried returning to play with an artificial limb in sandlot games, but never one so important as an all-star event, according to the fabricated script.

THE WINNING TEAM (1952)
Ronald Reagan portrayed National League pitcher Grover Cleveland Alexander as a man who received his inspiration for striking out opposing batters just by seeing his wife’s face in the stands. This has to be the most ridiculous giggle in any sport movie ever turned out. As a moundsman of the highest caliber, but encumbered with a personal problem, his hang-up had nothing to do with the need for affectionate looks. He was a lush of the first order, said on occasions to head straight to the ball park following an extended drunken binge.

THE BENNY GOODMAN STORY (1956)
Perhaps the real Benny did possess an innate shyness which delayed proposing marriage to his first wife, as the plot went. However, the scene where he finally pops the question by playing his clarinet and looking out at his lady friend seated in the Carnegie Hall audience wins the all-time preposterousness prize. How silly can those Hollywood folk get?

SOMEBODY UP THERE LIKES ME (1956)
Rocky Graziano was a lowdown street-brawling hoodlum, who could barely control himself, often resorting to his fists when slightly disgruntled, thus leading to continuous trouble. The affable and readily likable Paul Newman should never have been cast in the lead role.

THE BRIDGE ON THE RIVER KWAI (1957)
Beyond question, this ranks among the finest movies ever produced. The misleading aspect is that British commandos never did sneak up and blow the bridge to smithereens. Factually speaking, it remains standing and in use today, far more sturdily constructed than the film showed.

FUNNY GIRL (1968)
Fanny Brice’s husband (the second of three in real life, not the first of two) Nicky Arnstein may not have had an honest or decent bone in his entire body, being an out-and-out swindler. The boys certainly cleaned up the character for Omar Sharif’s impressive nice upstanding chap performance.

GABLE AND LOMBARD (1976)
This production has to stand high among filmdom’s stinkeroos from the distortion angle. For openers, Carole Lombard did play several successful comedic lead roles in the 1930s, but never once reigned as undisputed queen of the cinema, as they would have us believe. Moreover, the supposed paternity suit filed against Clark Gable was totally fictitious, having been lifted instead from actual cases involving Errol Flynn and Charlie Chaplin during that era.

CLOSING COMMENT
What else can we say except oh, boy?

A FEW THOUGHTS ON POUNDAGE AND ROTUNDITY

Not long ago, one of our blog entries suggested that it might be an excellent idea if obesity were considered a misdemeanor, punishable by fine or imprisonment. We have to admit that’s stretching the issue a bit far. Nevertheless, what more revolting sight is there than a woman out in public carrying enough bulk to qualify her as a potential defensive tackle for the Green Bay Packers?

In fact, “her” isn’t the correct pronoun. Based on observations whenever we go out seemingly anywhere, it’s a case of “them” instead. Lardbutt types keep showing up in droves these days.

Still, we mustn’t just point the finger at overly fleshed-out females. A man sporting a prominent lower gut is almost equally regurgitating to view. We honestly fail to understand how an obese member of either sex can stand before a mirror without feeling utterly disgusted at the image.

Speaking of sex, now that we’ve used it in context, that leads to another element. Becoming so aroused is clearly a natural inclination, especially upon seeing a slim, trim lass, or else a gentleman whose build somewhat resembles that of a Greek god. On the other hand, we’d believe it extremely difficult for one’s libido to register any charge at all over an opposite gender’s figure which amounts to a mass of sheer fat, clothed or otherwise. Maybe our present-day prevalence of extra-marital activity has been furthered to a certain extent for this reason.

On the numerous occasions when we are so unfortunate as to spot a gentleman with an obvious ultra-protuberance in the abdominal area, our standard private comment is “I hope it’s a boy”. Maybe we’d accomplish something by walking up to the fellow and thus advising him, but that could be deemed too much of a direct insult, albeit deserved.

During our schooldays long ago, a certain male classmate is recalled as having stated almost passionately that he could never resist peanut butter. Upon recently seeing an up-to-date photo of the fellow, hence at a much more advanced age, we realized in an instant that his uncontrollable taste for such edible commodity had obviously never abated, as determinable by how his lower t-shirt area bulged outward.

Having let it all hang out, so to speak, we now feel obliged to recommend what punitive steps might be desirable regarding that abundant array of folk who are so thoroughly frightful to observe, and for which the fault rests almost exclusively with themselves.

We would strongly urge, at the very least, that such overly-padded members of either sex be required to remain at home and inside for, let’s say, 144 hours each week, with exit permission only during the other 24. In addition, we’d love to see legislation subjecting them to fines of up to perhaps $2,000 for ever appearing at public beaches or pools in swimming attire.