Songs

Hey Nelly, Nelly

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Last year on Martin Luther King Jr. Day we had a discussion about songs and performers who spoke to the cause of civil rights. I posted a video of a Mavis Staples song and some well-known names like Nina Simone, Pete Seeger, Joan Baez and Bob Dylan were mentioned.

Near the end of the string, Barbara in Robbinsdale came up with this unexpected one – Shawn Phillips, and a folk song I had never heard before – Hey Nelly, Nelly. BiR was kind enough to give us the words, also.

Hey Nelly Nelly, come to the window
Hey Nelly Nelly look at what I see
He’s riding into town on a sway back mule
Got a tall black hat and he looks like a fool
He sure is talkin’ like he’s been to school
And it’s 1853

Hey Nelly Nelly, listen what he’s sayin’
Hey Nelly Nelly, he says it’s gettin’ late
And he says them black folks should all be free
To walk around the same as you and me
He’s talkin’ ’bout a thing he calls democracy
And it’s 1858

Hey Nelly Nelly hear the band a playing
Hey Nelly Nelly, hand me down my gun
“Cause the men are cheerin’ and the boys are too
They’re all puttin’ on their coats of blue
I can’t sit around here and talk to you
“Cause it’s 1861

Hey Nelly Nelly, Come to the window
Hey Nelly Nelly, I’ve come back alive
My coat of blue is stained with red
And the man in the tall black hat is dead
We sure will remember all the things he said
In 1865

Hey Nelly Nelly, come to the window
Hey Nelly Nelly, look at what I see
I see white folks and colored walkin’ side by side
They’re walkin’ in a column that’s a century wide
It’s still a long and a hard and a bloody ride
In 1963

I was a fan of this song before it even started because half the writing credit goes to Shel Silverstein. You can see that sly, bald devil at work as the lyrics set in context the long, long process of moving towards justice. And he gets Abe Lincoln into the starring role without ever mentioning his name. Ah, the power of a hat.

There are few things less fashionable today than earnest folk songs about changing the world, and there are even fewer songs that mention historic dates in a way that would be meaningful to anybody. “Hey Nelly Nelly” manages to do both, and it would be completely unknown today if not for a handful of recordings by Judy Collins. Still, you have to admire Silverstein and co-writer Jim Friedman for giving it a try.

What song do you know that almost no one else remembers?

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Ask Dr. Babooner

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Dear Dr. Babooner,

My girlfriend has got this thing for extreme winter sports. She is after me to go with her to see “Crashed Ice” in St. Paul this weekend, which I have read a little bit about. It appears the idea is to go as fast as you can on ice skates down a steep hill inside the padded boundaries of a course that ends, thankfully, near a hospital.

There are sudden drops, awkward turns and bumpy stretches and it all seems so wrong, Dr. Babooner. Ice is supposed to be flat and smooth and enclosed in a heated arena where I can buy a beer and a hot dog. That’s winter sports, to me! But she says my ideas are “too tame.” Friends tell me I should be thrilled to have such a fun-loving, outdoorsy girlfriend who can get excited about a raucous event where weekend daredevils risk concussions and broken bones just for the privilege of saying they did it!

I don’t get a kick out of seeing blood on the ice and limbs twisted at weird angles, but I’m starting to wonder if my girlfriend does!

Dr. Babooner, I’d rather go to “Crashed Couch”, an event where I throw myself on a short, padded course that sits in front of the TV, and the crazy, impossible goal is to stay awake all the way to the end (of the movie).

Are we incompatible?

Sincerely,
Jack, a Dull Boy

I told Jack that yes, he and his girlfriend are incompatible and if he doesn’t want to spend the rest of his life standing outside with his frozen toes surrounded by empty cans of Red Bull, he should break off the relationship right now. That, or encourage his girlfriend to become a Crashed Ice participant so he can go wait for her indoors, in the emergency room.

But that’s just one opinion. What do YOU think, Dr. Babooner?

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Artichoke Bruschetta C.S.I.

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Yesterday’s post was intended to start a conversation about marketing, but I’m amazed at how carefully at least three baboons examined the photo of my Artichoke Bruschetta jars for evidence about what goes on behind the scenes here at Trail World HQ. I guess it’s just human nature. Because I say so little about it, my life must seem mysterious and exotic and just a tiny glimpse allows fertile imaginations to run wild.

Oh, what tales they tell!

How else can I explain Dan in Woodbury’s generous compliment – that I am as careful and organized as Dan and his grandfather – that I clean jars and use them to save nuts and bolts in a basement workshop. A basement workshop? Dan, I can only imagine you have something downstairs that resembles the Bat Cave. My basement is a workshop for mice!

Or tim’s observation that one jar was dated (“11/14”) and one wasn’t – a clear indication that somehow I knew the second jar would be gone soon, thus there was no reason to date it. Yes tim, but how does this connect to the fact that the victim had a glob of Artichoke Bruschetta lodged in his windpipe? C’mon, put the pieces together, man!

And then there’s Steve, who took the time to learn that Artichoke Bruschetta is a delicacy in the frozen midwest, with one jar costing in excess of $7 at Cub! Outrageous! And here you thought I was eating the low-priced spread! Am I no longer one of the 99%? What did you expect, Steve? Of course I have extravagant tastes – I own my own blog! And believe it or not, at this very moment I AM drinking a glass of champagne, flavored with Grey Poupon!

Truly I am flattered by your interest, and sorely tempted to concoct some elaborate explanation as to why I saved the jars, why one had the date written on the label, and how I can afford to live the extravagant life of an Artichoke eater when by rights I should barely be able to afford ordinary groceries. But that would take some extra effort, and at this point the truth is easier.

Dan, the jars are clean because I recycle them, and I read somewhere that they’re supposed to be clean before you put them in the bin. I always try to do what I’m told. Boring, I know.

tim, one jar is dated 11/14 because that’s when I opened it and I wanted to remember how long it had been in the fridge for the next time I decided to make pizza. One unfortunate characteristic of Artichoke Bruschetta is that it looks like a science experiment from the first moment you twist off the top. I didn’t trust myself to know if the stuff could be safely eaten the next time I opened the jar, which turned out to be about six weeks later. Being cautious, I decided staying healthy was worth the expense and I bought new jar, dumping the old and yes, rinsing the container.

And Steve, what can I say? Yes, I am an effete Bruschetta-eating snob who is out of touch with the common American. I have worked at government funded non-profits all my life while indulging in a hard-to-support fondness for foreign delicacies served on toast! For this reason alone I decided it would be a waste of my time to run for President. And yet, though I have forsaken my opportunity to lead this nation as I was meant to do, you insist on smearing my name in this way, just as a blob of Artichoke Bruschetta is smeared across a piece of anti-American crisp bread! At long last sir, have you no decency?

As for the not-so-subtle suggestion that my spending is out of control, I refer to tim’s question about the second Artichoke Bruschetta jar. tim guessed that I must have known jar #2 would not be around long because I didn’t take the time to write a date on the label. Yes, Mr. Holmes, that is correct. Not wanting to waste another overpriced jar, I used only the amount that was necessary for that night’s pizza, and bagged the rest in carefully pizza-topping-sized amounts that are now waiting in the freezer so they won’t spoil like the unlucky contents of the jar labeled “11/14”.

I’m sorry that the truth is so dull, but there it is. Believe it or not, that bland flavor in your mouth is very similar to the taste of Artichoke Bruschetta!

Have you ever been misled by a photograph?

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New & Improved!

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When it comes to marketing, I’m promotionally impaired. I never could get the hang of touting stuff, so it should come as no surprise that I’m baffled by my Artichoke Bruschetta. When I bought and opened a jar in November, it was just fine, especially as a substitute for red sauce as a base on some homemade pizza. But when I went back and bought another jar of the very same product in January, the label had changed.

New recipe? How much of a recipe is required to make Artichoke Bruschetta? Both jars list the same ingredients (Artichokes, Sunflower Oil, Red Bell Pepper, Yellow Bell Pepper, Fresh Garlic, Lemon Juice, Salt, Fresh Parsley, Oregano, Sodium Acid Sulfate, Pepper and Ground Chili Pepper) and the very same “Nutrition Facts”, right down to the last single gram of protein.

Maybe they did change something significant in the formulation, but why paste a “New Recipe” banner on the label? I can imagine only three possible thought balloons hovering over the heads of Cub shoppers as they take note of this product on the condiment shelves.

1) Bought it and liked it.
2) Bought it and hated it.
3) Artichoke what?

For the person who bought and liked it, the banner is reason to worry.
For the person who bought and hated it, the banner confirms their initial reaction – Yuk!
And for the the rest, the banner says Artichoke Bruschetta is hard to get right.

I don’t know beans about marketing. What am I missing? How does “New Recipe” move the product? Especially when you could use the same valuable label space to say something that might actually improve sales, like “Now With More Artichokes!” or “Now With Fewer Artichokes!”

What phrase would YOU add to the label?

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Happy Landings

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Today is the anniversary of Amelia Earhart’s 1935 flight from Honolulu to San Francisco.

She’s not famous for this one, though it was a long solo ordeal that could have ended badly. Earhart is best known for the trip from which she didn’t return, inaccurately memorialized in my favorite song about a real event – Amelia Earhart’s Last Flight.

That last flight, still a mystery, is exceptionally song worthy. It’s hard to imagine a better chorus than this:

There’s a beautiful, beautiful field,
far away in a land that is fair.
Happy landings to you, Amelia Earhart.
Farewell, first lady of the air.

I thought it would be fun to listen to the song on this, the anniversary of a flight where she actually DID have a happy, though tired, landing. The Aberdeen, South Dakota American-News published this as part of its account:

“I had a lot of sandwiches with me but I didn’t eat any of them. I did eat a hard-boiled egg, which was quite a luxury, and drank some tomato juice. I feel just filthy and I want a bath.”
Miss Earhart said commercial flights between the islands and California were “entirely feasible.”
“They are inevitable,” she said, “and we’ll be flying everywhere in a short time.”

She was right, of course.

Describe your most arduous airplane journey.

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More Junk From Overhead

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We now know that Russia’s Phobos-Grunt Moon-of-Mars expedition will come crashing back to Earth sometime soon – probably next week.

The spacecraft looks like an elaborate wine-cork removal system I once had. “Corkscrew” was too simple a name for it, and it worked about as well as Phobos-Grunt.

While the mission had been to learn more about the Martian Moon Phobos, instead we will find out about more about how big, heavy, out-of-control things re-enter our atmosphere, explode, melt, and plummet. There might even be some advances in debris field plotting, based on the exact location of the uncontrolled landing of 20 to 30 pieces of the spacecraft.

No doubt Bathtub Safety Officer Rafferty would tell us to take cover for the next fortnight, sitting under the stairs beneath a pile of old mattresses until he sounds the all clear. But where’s the fun in that? If a speeding, molten-hot Russian space chunk scores a direct hit on your house, there’s probably no safe spot anywhere inside, unless you have built a reinforced bunker in the basement.

And maybe that bunker is not such a bad idea. The new age of private space exploration means more launches are in our future – possibly MANY more. How many will be poorly planned and ill-advised? If this is the dawn of a new Age of Exploration and the rockets are modern schooners setting out for distant, uncharted continents, then we are the creatures who live at the bottom of the sea – filtering through the stuff that settles and watching for shipwrecks that happen over our heads.

I have often wondered what such denizens of the deep thought of the sudden, catastrophic arrival of the Titanic. Weird, I know. But really – it would come as a bit of a surprise, don’t you think?

And some day in the far, far distant future, when the explosion of our own sun becomes a real threat and we have identified other Earths in “Goldilocks” zones near distant stars, you can bet the well-to-do of our planet will plan their exodus in vessels loaded with their accumulated riches. Why? Because people will always try to take it with them.

Naturally, some of these panicked expeditions will founder.

The good part – Priceless booty rains down all around us.
The bad part – A lot of it is on fire.

Still, it’s always lovely to gaze at the stars.

We blast off for a new planet in ten minutes. What’s in your suitcase?

The Baboon Congress

Sunday in Savannah

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Today’s guest post comes from Clyde.

Every New Years Day, which it is when I am writing this, I remember our first trip to Savannah.

A school district southwest of Savannah hired me to come do a workshop from 8 a.m. to 1 p.m. with the faculty of an elementary school on the Friday after News Years Day. Now think about that. A Friday morning after New Year’s Day. I was suspicious, but the principal, a charming woman with one of those endearing Georgia accents told me it would be fine. (Does any state have a wider range of accents than Georgia?)
If I flew to Atlanta and came back on Monday, it was cheaper for two tickets than one alone coming back Saturday. The district agreed to pay the two tickets and two nights stay.

Savannah Home

My wife and I flew down on New Year’s Day, which wasn’t as hectic as I expected. It was a pleasant drive down from Atlanta. The next morning, I went looking for the school. It was difficult to find in those pre-Google days, when GPS was in its undependable infancy. I always allowed myself ample driving time on mornings like these, fortunately. I drove west on a state highway through Fort Stewart, which I had not noticed on the map. When I got to where, by the map, I planned to turn south, I was not allowed to do so because it would take me through military gates. It took awhile to find how to get around the fort proper. Then I asked for directions; no one could help me because no one who worked in gas stations or who came in as customers had lived there very long.

Now I was really suspicious. Why was a faculty coming in on this odd Friday where so many people lived temporarily? By stories told to me by former students, I expected most of the faculty were Army wives, who had been home for the holidays and now had to come back for this Friday instead of coming back on Sunday. I stumbled upon the school.

Downtown Savannah

The principal told me, yes, most of her faculty were Army wives. She also told me that the school board had been angry with the faculty when they wrote the calendar the previous spring, which is how this day came to be. All three elementary school faculties would be in the group. The secondary teachers had their own workshop. Wow! Was I going to have a fun morning or what! If I were in the faculty, I would be angry and not a willing participant.

The workshop was very participant-active; about 65% of the time they would work on tasks instead of listening to me, which would make the day terrible if they did not comply. I began with some fun loosing-up activities, to which they fortunately responded. At coffee break they told me their grievances, but that they had decided not to hold it against me.

Tybee Island

The five hours flew by. They laughed, did the work, posted their work on the walls, and gave me high reviews for the day, among the highest I ever received. Afterward the principal and teacher leaders took me out to lunch. The principal, with a bit less of that charming accent, told me she had lied on the phone, that she expected open rebellion. As one of the teacher leaders said “I guess we just turned the other cheek.”

That afternoon and for two days, my wife and I discovered Savannah. We walked the squares, rode the buses, toured old homes, strolled Tybee Island beaches, ate wonderful meals. We were blessed with two other trips to Savannah when the Savannah Schools hired me after hearing about that first day.
Ah, Savannah!

When have you seen someone turn the other cheek gracefully?

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Millard Fillmore’s Bathtub

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The phone rang at midnight. It was America’s Safety Scold – Bathtub Safety Officer Rafferty, obviously unable to sleep.

BSOR: Today is Millard Fillmore’s birthday. Do you know what he’s famous for?

Me: For being the only person named Millard that anyone has ever heard of?

BSOR: No. He’s famous for being the first President to install and use a bathtub in the White House.

Me: Along with the many other things he did when he was President.

BSOR: There’s nothing. I checked. The bathtub is it.

Me: That’s sad.  All that power and no accomplishments?

BSOR: It gets worse. The bathtub story is a lie. Totally made up by H.L. Mencken to fill a newspaper column one day. It was one of the first recorded instances of somebody inventing a “news” story that other people bought, completely. Even after Mencken announced that the story was false, people continued to believe it. Some folks buy it to this day! It’s incredible. And you know why? Because the story sounds right, and people feel comfortable with it. Just like they feel comfortable in a warm bath on a winter’s night.  But you should never feel comfortable in the bathtub, because the bathtub is the most hazardous appliance in the most dangerous room in the entire house.

Me: And why did you call me at midnight to tell me this?

BSOR: Because Millard Fillmore’s birthday always reminds me that we should never lie about bathtubs!

Me: Or lie about IN bathtubs, right?

BSOR: You do not realize how serious this is.

Me: I guess not.

BSOR: The fake article said doctors were against bathtubs as a general principle because they were a threat to the public health. When Mencken admitted the whole thing was a lie, people assumed there was no threat at all. But Mencken was right! The combination of water, soap, and a smooth, hard surface plus the ever-present devil – gravity … make your bathtub is the most dangerous thing you own!  More dangerous than a snowmobile.  Or a wood chipper!   Or any combination thereof!

Me:  That sounds like an exaggeration worthy of H.L. Mencken.

BSOR:  And yet, each year more people are injured in their own bathtub than are hurt by wood chippers on snowmobiles.  Fact!

Me: Then why is this not the focus of a major public policy debate?

BSOR: Because most people use their bathtubs in private while they are naked. The bathtub-interaction moment is so intimate, there’s a huge sentiment that says the government has no business there. But there are good doctors who seriously question whether we should be allowed to operate bathtubs without a license. They remain silent for fear they will be laughed at.  No one takes the bathtub menace seriously, thanks to Millard Fillmore and H.L. Mencken!

Me: Then this is truly a dark day.

BSOR: That’s why I can’t sleep.

Our conversation went on a lot longer than I care to admit here. If obsessive worrying was classified as a pervasive threat to the public welfare, Bathtub Safety Officer Rafferty would have to cite himself for multiple safety violations, every day. As it is, the possible long-term effects of the Millard Fillmore Bathtub Hoax keep him engaged and annoyingly alert.

Have you ever helped to spread a lie, believing it was true?

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Cam On Dog

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Our very political week comes to a close with this new idea from fresh concept generator Spin Williams, who seems to have discovered the SHIFT LOCK key as a way of giving EMPHASIS to the written word.
Not all inspirations qualify as advances.

Friends,
I have seen the FUTURE of broadcast media!

Well, I haven’t actually SEEN it, but I think I know where it’s going, and the answer is EVERYWHERE all at once, and QUICKLY, but NOT to any ONE PLACE for long! The key bit of information in this vision is simple and undeniable. People LOVE watching dogs on the internet. Thus the success of PUPPY CAMS.

One of my minions brought this up at the meeting that NEVER ends – an article from the BBC that talks about new efforts to MOUNT television cameras on the heads of canines. This amazing technology will make WONDERS possible – things that were simply IMpossible just a few years ago. Of course the article talks about using Mutt Cams to LOCATE people who are TRAPPED in hard-to-reach places, and that’s a VERY GOOD use for this REVOLUTIONARY idea.

But having watched ALL the IOWA coverage over the past week, I’m STRUCK by how NEATLY the Mutt Cam idea lines up with the way our news media covers events – they do it in a PACK! YES! They are like DOGS CHASING a RABBIT named Romney! And another rabbit named Santorum! And another rabbit named Bachmann! And another! And another! And look! A SQUIRREL!

The restless, unfocused energy of canines is a PERFECT MATCH for the unforgiving demands of the 24 hour news cycle. That’s why I PREDICT that TV journalists AND their camera crews AND the editors and NEWS DIRECTORS who give them their marching orders will all be replaced by intrepid bands of camera be-decked TERRIERS! YES! And this will happen very soon because canines will work for inexpensive treats, and they will even accept GARBAGE as food! YES! And their LOYALTY is unquestioned!

Canine Correspondent Anderson Pooper

Here’s how it will work – the dogs will be electronically outfitted and sent into areas where news is SUSPECTED to have occurred. The humans will sit back, monitor and COMMENT on the video feeds as they come in. As long as the canines remain interested, we will follow the story. Their instincts are a perfect match for cable – if something STINKS, we follow it. If something is DEAD, we roll around on it. If something is NEW, or FAST, or FLASHY, it catches our eye and we CHASE it. And then there’s always GENITALS! Ours, someone else’s … it hardly matters. Fascinating! This is a change that is BOUND to HAPPEN!

What does it mean? If you are a market watcher, put your money into wireless shock-mounted camera companies, and invest in firms that make dog clothes and harnesses. If you know someone who has found a way to minimized the effect of hair clumps on electronic components, become a partner, immediately! If you own a website with the name “dog”, “mutt”, or “TV” in the title, DO NOT SELL.

And finally, if you are a journalist, start learning a new trade. HURRY, HURRY, HURRY! Good BOY!

Spin might be on to something here – Short Attention Span News covered by packs of Camera-wearing dogs. I’d watch. At least for a little while, until something else caught my eye.

How would you describe your attention span?

Poems

Iowa Haiku

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There was SO MUCH talking about the Iowa caucuses in the days and weeks and months leading up to them, and also in the hours and hours and hours that followed. But now that the spotlight has shifted, I’m going through a slight episode of withdrawal. And I wasn’t that interested in the contest to begin with! You can imagine how it must be for the political junkies.

Going (finally) for economy with one final spasm of five syllable / seven syllable / five syllable verbiage, we find ourselves face-to-face with unattributed haiku for each of the Iowa Republicans – Bachmann, Perry, Gingrich, Paul, Santorum and Romney. Plus a bonus verse for one who was recently a front runner.

Can you tell whose is whose?

It is very hard
To smile like this all the while
You are hating me

Payback time is nigh.
To Google me is a sin
I will not forgive

Iowa Haiku
Sounds unconstitutional
The founders object

No one comprehends
the smartest man in the room
Not even himself

A pause to assess
What it means to spend millions
I forget what for

The dream is over
Iron Lady USA
No White House for you.

The difference between
“ended” and just “suspended”
Could surprise us all.

Talking points are brief.
Writing these is so simple
You should make one too.