Disney Girls

People of a certain age understand the widespread sense of loss and sadness brought about by the death yesterday of forever Mouseketeer Annette Funicello.

Annette became a teenage TV idol in the ’50’s, at a time when the idea of a TV idol was still new. Today it is considerably more common for an attractive young person to have her or his real persona distributed to a global audience for profit and entertainment. Back when the Disney Corporation did this with Annette Funicello, maintaining the aura of innocence in the midst of a marketing campaign was still possible. To her credit, she was able to maintain that image in spite of the usual pressures of fame.

I was a few years too young to catch the full blast of Annette-mania among ’50’s and ’60’s youth, but when I think of her it’s not the Mouseketeers theme song that comes to mind as readily as this one – a Beach Boys classic written and performed here by one of the least-famous Beach Boys, Bruce Johnston. It comes from a BBC2 program called “The Old Grey Whistle Test.”

What kind of fantasy world would you like to live in?

Traveling with Relatives

Today’s guest blog comes from Jacque.

My husband Lou and I both read John Berendt’s 1994 book about Savannah, Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, with pleasure and disbelief.

“We must check this place out!” we said to each other.

But we were slow to act until I learned my family had a connection to Savannah. A distant relative gathered and published her grandfather’s Civil War letters to his wife, a Jewish-to-Christian convert named Tobitha Klein Hess. This soldier, German-born Frederick Christian Hess, was my Great-great Grandfather. He toured Savannah on Sherman’s March to the Sea, spending time there as part of the occupying forces. His gracious granddaughter, Muriel Primrose Baron, made the transcripts of these letters available to all of this soldier’s descendants—about 2000 people at last count.

The spellings and capitalizations here are his, a mix of English and German. When he wrote this on Christmas Day in 1864, he had only been studying English for nine years.

The City is full of Cityzins fore they didn’t have time to run off this time. There is lots of Jews and they are very strong Sesesh. (Secessionist and pro-Confederate) But the most of the Citizens are wealthy that are living in this City.

We entered Savannah on Highways 16 to 17 to Martin Luther Drive to Liberty Avenue where suddenly a canopy of live oaks and Spanish moss laid before us.

I will send you some moss wich is growing on trees and some rice on the straw and some acorns wich are from a live oak and a magnolia seed. The magnolia is a very nice tree with large green leafs all year.

I expected to see lots of Civil War history, but no. The American Revolution is the war people to refer to in Savannah, where it is heavily memorialized.

“…in one square is the Monument of General Polaski who fell at the Siege of Savannah, Oct the 9, 1779. This is largest Monument I ever seen. It is about forty feet high and about ten foot square at the bottom, with the Inscription, “Polaski, the heroic Pole who was fighting fore American Liberty and fell mortally wounded at the Siege of Savannah, 9 Oct. 1779. And then the General is carved out on horseback wich is very nice work.”

When I first saw this monument, knowing I stood near the place my ancestor stood, I had chills down my spine.

“Now I will tell what I think of the City and give you the Discription of it. Fore yesterday fornenoon I went down in the City and took a good look at it. It is a pretty nice place with some costly buildings in it, mostly brick. It is all level and is close to the Savannah river. The streets are very Sandy and don’t run very strait fore the whole City is laid off of Squares. There is several very nice parks in it and a water fountain….

I took a picture of Lou is standing in front of the Forsyth Park fountain, the very same one Grandpa Fred viewed 160 years earlier, though for us it was dyed green for St. Pat’s day.

Though the Civil War is curiously absent from the city’s displayed history, it is alive in people’s minds. During our 2007 visit a lovely Southern Matron who was volunteering at the Visitor’s Center clarified to me, “We don’t call it The Civil War. Here we refer to that as the War of Northern Aggression.”

Hmmm. I thought.

During a tour of Sherman’s Headquarters this attitude was echoed yet again. A very distinguished gentleman lead the tour which was punctuated with resentful comments about “the Yankee Occupation” and “General William Tecumsah Sherman who did us the favor of not burning us out!” Apparently, this resentment has festered for 160 years because Grandpa Fred referred to it as well, on December 29th, 1864:

“And everybody young and old even small Children that cant hardly talk yet are talking about Sherman. The folks down here thinks that he is an awful man. And I guess that they will think more so before he gets through with them. The Citizens say that Sherman has a very good army and that there wasnt as much trouble in town now, as there use to be when there was only a few Companys of rebel soldiers.”

We enjoyed the Savannah Southern Low-Country Cuisine—seafood boils, cornbread, and grits—my favorite is Shrimp and Grits. Grandpa Fred ate some of the same fare:

“I was down in the City yesterday and got something to eat. We can buy rice and cornbread and molasses in town frome the Citizens. Rice is 25cts per quart. Cornbread is different prices but they are big anough you can depent on that. Mollasses is one Dollar per quart.”

I returned to Savannah, at my mother’s request, with my mother and sister in 2008 to celebrate my mother’s 80th birthday. During that trip we toured gardens and experienced a Southern Tea. Mom was already using a cane and occasionally a rolling walker at that time. The cane and walker caused us to become acutely aware of the brick sidewalks and protruding, bumpy bricks everywhere.

“The churchbells have been ringing this morning and it sounded very much like home. And I should went to Church but I had to get ready fore inspection. And then I was detailed to go on picket.”

Grandpa Fred was more soldier than sightseer. But I find it amazing that I was able to walk in his footsteps 160 years after he viewed many of the same landmarks in this breathtakingly graceful city.

When and where have you traveled to get closer to your own history?

Blind Mississippi Morris

Today is the birthday of blues harmonica player Blind Mississippi Morris. He arrived on the planet on this day in 1955, in Clarksdale, Mississippi as Morris Cummings.

His artistry is the subject of this short documentary.

Blind Mississippi Morris from Bill Totolo on Vimeo.

Blind Mississippi Morris lost his harmonicas and a valuable microphone when his truck was robbed three years ago. It was just one in a series of losses and disappointments which included losing his eyesight to glaucoma, his childhood to institutionalization, and a home to foreclosure. He has also parted company with at least a dozen wives along the way if this article is to be believed.

Turning fifty-eight today, Morris began playing harmonica when he was four and has now become old enough and has suffered enough trouble to comfortably wear the persona of a genuine Old Blues Guy.  It’s reassuring to know such characters still exist in the digital world.

What was the first musical instrument you remember playing?

Ask Dr. Babooner

We are ALL Dr. Babooner
We are ALL Dr. Babooner

Dear Dr. Babooner,

Not long ago my father died and left me an entire country to play with. I had a distant relationship with the old man (he was a tyrant) and frankly I would be happier today had he dumped his nation-thing on someone else before kicking the bucket. But it was too important for him to ever let go – I guess being adored by millions of bootlickers is the kind of thing a guy just gets used to.

From my perspective, being the new “Dear Leader” is not much fun. My time is all spoken for and fawning minions tend to grate on my nerves. Plus, while people are oh-so-nice and always complimentary to my face, people in other nations make fun of me, call me a maniac, a warmonger and a thin-skinned little boy. But I’m NOT a little boy! I’m NOT!

I wish I could punish them for saying that!

So lately I’ve been acting all irrational and threatening.

What I want is respect, but I know I’m never going to get that in words. I figure the best I can hope for is a little indulgence – some sign from my critics that I might be a dangerous man. At least as dangerous as my father with some “shock and awe” potential – like a crazy sundae with an extra helping of nuts. If I could get an appropriate response – something like going to Defcon 2 status – I’d back down and everyone could go back to the things they’re really interested in.

For me, I’d like to own a basketball team. Yeah, that’s what I’d really like to do.

Anyway, right now I’m not getting the reaction I want and people are acting like I’m bluffing. But I don’t think I am.

I’ve never played poker, but should I fold my hand or bet the farm?

Sincerely,
Daddy’s Boy

I told Daddy’s Boy that when you are trying to prove you are dangerous it is important to know whether you are bluffing or not. If you only THINK you’re not bluffing, you probably are. But if you’re bluffing and you don’t know it, you’re deluded. And self-delusion is dangerous. And if your delusion makes you dangerous, then that means you’re not bluffing.

Sigh.

Things start to get complicated very quickly when you care too much about what others think of you.
But that’s just one opinion. What do YOU think, Dr. Babooner?

Leaving Footprints

If you have not yet begun to Tweet, doing so may be your one remaining shot at immortality. If you don’t mind being immortal in a crowd.

Screen shot 2013-04-03 at 7.46.54 PM

It turns out all the tweets ever tweeted will be archived by the Library of Congress. One blogger connected with the New York Times said “the library has attached itself to the firehose.”

An open, gushing firehose running into a library? That doesn’t end well.

Best of luck to the Librarians of Congress as they address the monumental task of keeping up with the flow, and Godspeed to the historians of the future who will wade into this vast ocean of data to locate a meaningful pebble. By one estimate, the library has already absorbed over 130 billion tweets.

On the plus side of that equation, I now feel a little better about the condition of my basement.

People are already worried that the things they say and do online will inadvertently be remembered forever. And people do post surprisingly revealing things in places where anybody else can see them. Whenever I stumble across an embarrassingly personal photo or an unusually thorough and detailed confession, I say to myself “Here’s someone who has decided they do not want to be anybody’s first grade teacher. Ever.”

And there are plenty who fit that description.

And now to give such people a second chance at teaching the littlest tykes, there comes a web service called “Snapchat“. Material posted using this thing is literally designed to disappear after a short time in existence. You can share your less-than-flattering I-just-out-of-bed picture to all your friends confident that, like the taped instructions delivered in every episode of “Mission Impossible,” it will self-destruct.

But can something that promises to leave without a trace really be counted on to vanish? Does anything in the digital world go away? I can’t help noticing that all those smoking Mission Impossible recorders, supposedly gone to the great smoldering beyond, are still around for your viewing pleasure, on Youtube.

What item of yours is gone forever now, and happily so?

Wake Up and Rant

Today’s post is by Bart the Bear, a hairy beast who found a smart phone in the woods. His comments have been translated from the original Ursus Textish.

He's got bars!
He’s got bars!

H’lo. Bart here.

I’m up. Been a long winter. Still is. Though I guess it’s just a game to you. As soon as I was alert enough to start surfing the Internet I saw this one article that picks “winners” and “losers” for the season. Looks like the losers are sheep and garden centers. The winners? Hot chocolate and apple trees.

Yup, I’ve got coverage up here in the woods but those aren’t the kind of “bars” I’d like to have. I’m just coming around and will be out looking for meals here in the next few days. Don’t know what I’m going to find, so if you wanted to toss some day-old bagels or bags of potato chips into the roadside ditches near my patch of the forest … maybe some Easter leftovers like the red Jello with mandarin orange slices suspended in it … I wouldn’t complain, y’know? Meal planning is hard, especially when the raw materials are still under two feet of crusty snow.

But that’s not what’s been bugging me.

What’s bugging me is the way people snoop on bears and share really private details about where we are and what we’re doing – all thanks to your “brilliant” invention – radio collars for animals. I laugh when I see how you worry about Google and Facebook sharing your “private” information, and smart phones tracking your whereabouts. These days a bear in the woods has no more privacy than a bear in a zoo.

That’s why I kinda get a kick out of your complaints that police are storing information about where your car was spotted around town.

You have a car? I’d love to have one of those – I keep trying to climb in one when people come touring up here in the summer, but there aren’t too many of them that are built for a guy my size.

You’d like some privacy? What makes you so special when a noble animal can’t climb out of his pajamas without triggering a worldwide alert? It’s true! I saw online that they’re all a-twitter in Banff because “Grizzly #122” is out of his hibernaculum.

Yup, I said “hibernaculum.” Think I’m stupid? Go look it up. Or what’s worse, try typing it out on the tiny keys of a smart phone. And then try doing it with paws that are four times the size of your itsy-bitsy hands. Paws with matted fur, and there might be some poop caked in there, too. And I haven’t had my nails trimmed either, so don’t complain about how hard it is to do some texting! You have no idea.

I wake up ornery, what of it? I won’t apologize for who I am.

Anyway, Grizzly #122 is out of his bed and the panic is on, like they know he’s been dreaming of raiding a passing school bus for morning snacks.

Oh, he’s dangerous. But you’d be dangerous too if sirens went off every morning when your feet hit the floor.

My favorite quote in the Grizzly #122 story is this one:

“Resource management specialist Ron LeBlanc said ‘Residents need to … dispose of empty beer cans left outside’.

In other words, “time to pick up the trash you’ve been tossing in the yard all winter.”

Now, I ask you. Who’s the animal?

Your pal, Bart

Bart definitely has an edge this Spring.   How’s your mood when you wake up?

No Jumping!

Today’s post comes from Bathtub Safety Officer Rafferty.

At ease, civilians!

Keep your feet on the ground and you’ll be fine, unless you’re standing over some kind of a sinkhole. I’m here to tell you about a public safety menace currently making the rounds – namely the cavalier public discussion about, and reviewing of, Sunday’s vivid basketball injury to Louisville’s Kevin Ware.

If you operate a TV station or cable channel that is constantly re-running this footage, shame on you! If you are someone who has been describing this injury in gruesome detail to people who didn’t see it, shush. And if you haven’t heard anything at all about it all, please, never mind.

In all my years as a professional alarmist I have worked hard to unsettle audiences everywhere by sharing explicit injuries using full-color photos, close-up videos and the most powerful tool of all, words. But I’ve never seen anything like this. Ware’s tibial twist threatens to make jumping the new smoking. And it has sent people into their respective camps.

I have learned that there are really only two different kinds of people – The Squeamish, and Everybody Else. One type is nearly incapacitated by the mere thought of a traumatic injury. The other type shrugs.

If you are a Squeamling, you know how little of someone else’s pain is required to send you into the full fetal position. If you are a Shrugger, really – you couldn’t care less. But I still want you to stop jumping, so I’ve made up a little poem to help you remember.

Be careful when leaping
Stay low when you soar
Go up just enough,
not a quarter inch more.

Between you and the ground
do not put too much room.
your leg bones are not
as tough as you assume.

So be frugal when launching
yourself into the air.
Because when you return,
you don’t want to be Ware.

Yours in compulsive, marginally irrational caution,
Bathtub Safety Officer Rafferty

Are you squeamish, or are you a shrugger?

Planetary Pinball

In case you haven’t heard, we’re getting excited about the (remote) possibility that we’ll see a comet crash into Mars next year. A comet named C/2013 A1 is scheduled to come careening into our solar system in 2014, and its path has been a little difficult to track. Best guesstimate – it has a 1 in 2,000 chance of smashing into our neighbor, the Red Planet.

Yes, observers say, those chances are slim, but forget probability. Wouldn’t it be awesome?

The reasoning goes like this – we’re watching Mars closely right now with multiple mechanical eyes overhead and on the ground. A comet’s impact would be catastrophic, just as a comet or a large asteroid striking Earth would be calamitous for our environment and might possibly signal the end of human habitation of the planet.

Not something you could enjoy watching.

Having the whole thing play out on Mars, however, gives us a chance to witness armageddon at a proper distance. We get a taste of the end times with the security of knowing this isn’t really happening (in any way that will actually affect us.) As far as we know, the dinosaurs didn’t get a sneak peek at their own apocalypse. Like any good end-of-the-world movie, we get to go home and climb into in our own beds afterwards, our pants officially scared off.

But how would that experience change our worldview (or universe-view), and our planning, the next day?

Describe a time when you enjoyed the exhilaration of being frightened.

Memories Are Made Of This

Today’s guest blog comes from Madislandgirl

I have a genuine fondness and deep respect for those people known today as “seniors”, although I think of that as a business designation for tax purposes or something.

The folks I know are so much more than that. They have wit, wisdom, and killer sense of humor. They will tell that they are old, pure and simple. I always tell them that my rule is, once you turn 80, you get to do (or not do) whatever you like.

Many of them have detailed and crystal clear memories of things that happened decades ago … but they cannot recall what you just told them about when supper was going to be served.

They can still speak and understand the Korean they learned while serving there in the “police action” … but they cannot come up with their apartment number or find their way back to it.

I recently was made aware of the fact that the Pennsylvania Polka has lyrics- I had no idea, but the whole thing was sung for me by a person who could not remember what day it was. That’s ok, all I can recall of the Pennsylvania Polka is that it rhymes “mania” with Penn-syl-vania!

The really bothersome thing for these friends of mine is that they do know that they asked the question, and you gave them an answer, but they have no idea what that answer was. Some of them find this to be an intellectual curiosity. Some of them feel downright annoyed about the whole thing.

“We had no idea getting old was going to be like this-our parents were long dead before they got this old. Of course, I don’t know what we would have done differently if we had known, I don’t suppose we would have believed it anyway”.

How do you manage new information that you know you have to remember?

Look On The Bright Side

Celebrated Python Eric Idle turns 70 today.

I liked the group’s TV shows and sketches, though I have an extra helping of fondness for Eric Idle’s work as a funny lyricist. His “Galaxy Song” is a long-time favorite. And as someone who enjoys the puzzle of trying to piece together a set of comical lyrics, I think I at least have an appreciation for the challenges he faces even if I can’t approach Eric Idle’s skill and accomplishments.

And really … how could anyone dream that a life of inspired clowning around would lead directly to an opportunity to play this role on a global stage?

(You’ll have to click through the link to watch it on You Tube. Thanks, Olympic Committee!)

This must not be the version we were allowed to view on U.S. television, since he casually drops what we in the American broadcast industry call an S-Bomb – an official part of the written lyrics to this song, which is why I couldn’t play it on the radio.

But the song is catchy, and our end-of-March weather is certainly changing my outlook. With the extra hours of increasingly powerful sunlight, you can’t deny we’ve turned an important corner, weather-wise.

What song do you sing when you want to cheer up a bit?