tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2761033193557210612024-03-18T16:33:58.729-04:00OnofframpWe're where we are because of where we've been. Even the road not taken branched off from one that was taken. Everything gets connected somehow. We live on a Möbius strip.John D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01139189131396901685noreply@blogger.comBlogger1860125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-276103319355721061.post-23171258398954887892024-03-18T16:33:00.000-04:002024-03-18T16:33:06.328-04:00Malachy McCourt<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLdmZAcYMYmPFimqHtOoZntVr4dfOiY3ocDottNC0GUG0Zj4zWbbguPVq6EwM1cnAZJn8tmlZOS4vuqtMge1iJ9KHWCbMTe5YgGtWJP7KjTBkEIulK4Nj52wg8DHO_dUThnWjhY34ZA_yB5wCd_AB8n6c4Q0wlBxlUiEeEcpj6JfGcR0_gta1HqWTu1xY/s2048/MalachyMcCourt.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1639" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLdmZAcYMYmPFimqHtOoZntVr4dfOiY3ocDottNC0GUG0Zj4zWbbguPVq6EwM1cnAZJn8tmlZOS4vuqtMge1iJ9KHWCbMTe5YgGtWJP7KjTBkEIulK4Nj52wg8DHO_dUThnWjhY34ZA_yB5wCd_AB8n6c4Q0wlBxlUiEeEcpj6JfGcR0_gta1HqWTu1xY/w203-h243/MalachyMcCourt.jpeg" width="203" /></a></div>Malachy McCourt made it to one more St. Patrick's Day, just not the latest one in 2024. <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2024/03/11/books/malachy-mccourt-dead.html?searchResultPosition=1">He passed away</a> on March 11, 2024, just before this year's celebration.<p></p><p>Even if Malachy wasn't Frank McCourt's slightly younger brother, he would he no less of a character, and would still deserve the six column, half page tribute he got in the March 12, 2023 print edition of the New York Times by Sam Roberts. </p><p>Brother Frank was the high school creative writing teacher at Stuyvesant High school who famously blossomed late in life as an author who earned a Pulitzer Prize for his memoir of his mother and family life in Limerick, Ireland, "Angela's Ashes." I don't think any dry eyes finished reading that book.</p><p>The <b><i>New York Times </i></b>wrote a profile <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2023/03/10/nyregion/malachy-mccourt.html?referringSource=articleShare">piece</a> of the ailing Malachy on March 10,2023 when Malachy was hoping to make it to <b><i>just one more </i></b>St. Patrick's Day. In 2022 Malachy was ailing in a hospice, but not ailing fast enough to be discharged into the hearse parked out back. He was discharged from hospice care to home care, so he <b><i>did</i></b> make it to 2023's St. Patrick's Day, but not 2024's. Unless you die <b><i>on</i></b> St. Patrick's Day your are destined to die <b><i>in between</i></b> St. Patrick Days.</p><p>Malachy pretty much made it through life in the United States full of blarney, which of course is baloney with a brogue which pretty much let him get away with just about anything he told you. Facts never got in the way of a good story, and why should they? It may not still be a good story then.</p><p>I never met Malachy, or saw him in an East Side watering hole. But I know his kind. Years and years ago the former NYC city councilman Matthew Troy was giving a talk to us auditors on ethics of all topics at Empire BlueCross and BlueShield.</p><p>I may have been the only one in the gathering who was old enough to know that Matthew Troy was disbarred as a convicted felon for embezzling from his clients' accounts. He did 55 days in jail and was now out long enough to petition to get his law license back.</p><p>Now Matthew Troy was not from Ireland, but he was Irish-American enough to tell one entertaining story after another, all contemporaneously.</p><p>My favorite one was that as Queens County (one of NYC's 5 boroughs/counties) Democratic party head he had a say in who got nominated to judgeships in the county. One afternoon a retired NYPD police captain makes an appointment to see Mattie. He puts a briefcase on Mattie's desk, opens it, revealing the money it is filled with.</p><p>The retired police captain tells Mattie, "I want to be a judge." Mattie, in his telling, thinks for just a bit, then asks the retired police captain, "are you at least a lawyer?"</p><p>Mattie closed his talk with his motto: "I always tell the truth, unless I can't." I never forgot it.</p><p>Malachy was an unelected Matthew Troy. He was a gadabout (you're not going to come across that word too often.) as described in his obit headline: </p><p><b>Malachy McCourt, a Memoirist, Actor and Gadabout, Dies at 92</b></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkVO7S0TUt_jgvXHhR9vz3OXSlOm8KJ-H4ea8KbZhZJqhPyD6WYCCmIZCgQLNrWngzKBjBIw7i3lE1v9sSehhiX_HbnSFbPtySwKQ79Smg3BQs_0UvfeVV59AR3yvw02tBDbTeeHwUitTTvGDr9AOoQKZwcQkZjeJsfoPkbsc1494HgnAftYZo0e2P8dM/s1024/MalachyMcCourt2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="684" data-original-width="1024" height="164" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkVO7S0TUt_jgvXHhR9vz3OXSlOm8KJ-H4ea8KbZhZJqhPyD6WYCCmIZCgQLNrWngzKBjBIw7i3lE1v9sSehhiX_HbnSFbPtySwKQ79Smg3BQs_0UvfeVV59AR3yvw02tBDbTeeHwUitTTvGDr9AOoQKZwcQkZjeJsfoPkbsc1494HgnAftYZo0e2P8dM/w240-h164/MalachyMcCourt2.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>A gadabout indeed. Arriving from Limerick after his brother Frank sent him $200 to get here, he had jobs as diverse as: dishwasher, dockworker, Bible salesman on Fire Island, (words you never thought would be seen on the same line) soldier, writer, actor, radio personality. The novelist Frank Conroy said of Malachy: "he was professional Irishman, for which he can hardly be blamed," since "Irishness was all he had." I remember him a bit from his WBAI radio show<p></p><p>There doesn't seem to have been any animosity between Malachy and his brother Frank. Malachy would tell anyone who listened, "I was blamed for not being my brother. I now pledge to all those naysayers that someday I will write "Angela's Ashes" and change my name to Frank McCourt."</p><p>Malachy played a bartender as a recurring role on the soap opera "Ryan's Hope" and was the real thing as the owner of what the obit tells us was the first singles bar in the 1950s: Malachy's on the Upper East Side.</p><p>I never heard that one, but it would be very interesting to have what could be considered to be a "singles bar" in the 1950s when most bars in New York City had a policy of <b><i>not</i></b> serving unescorted women at he bar, lest they be hookers looking for Johns. In the late '60s I noticed a hardly visible sign tucked behind a Blarney Stone bar that no unescorted women would be served.</p><p>If Matthew Troy liked to say he always told the truth unless he couldn't, Malachy would tell you, "I couldn't wait to hear what I had to say next."</p><p>http://onofframp.blogspot.com</p><p><br /></p>John D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01139189131396901685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-276103319355721061.post-88673629976108018472024-03-17T16:14:00.001-04:002024-03-17T16:14:55.917-04:00The Dead Are Waiting<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG0XmwCvlrYH2tLTULrm4qboXtkV6MVCIyD9zNuP7qADaG7lCUsnDysnWItUPyXPAS6smcrtyj4TlNR8EYIpIe2O7fc5GG7a9Vl6qp7MWc-T1scUb26Fs7ORFYCTDl-F0iV2f7fM5zKUoVr86IA9CqNGP4MnaLWfYerLk8RqqoHkGk6M2zr83jCcrhjY4/s612/Tunnelconjestion.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="344" data-original-width="612" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG0XmwCvlrYH2tLTULrm4qboXtkV6MVCIyD9zNuP7qADaG7lCUsnDysnWItUPyXPAS6smcrtyj4TlNR8EYIpIe2O7fc5GG7a9Vl6qp7MWc-T1scUb26Fs7ORFYCTDl-F0iV2f7fM5zKUoVr86IA9CqNGP4MnaLWfYerLk8RqqoHkGk6M2zr83jCcrhjY4/w366-h216/Tunnelconjestion.jpeg" width="366" /></a></div>The dead are waiting for traffic to ease before the story of their lives can make it to the pint pages of <b><i>The New York Times.</i></b> <p></p><p>The obit desk is churning out so many obits that more appear online than in print. There's a backlog from the online pages to the print pages. It's like a morning traffic report that there are 30-40 minute delays getting though the Holland or Lincoln Tunnels and getting over the George Washington Bridge—upper or lower levels. Do the barely living need to be discouraged from dying? Will obit congestion pricing go into effect?</p><p>I have access to the <b><i>NYT</i></b> online edition through my home delivery subscription. I use the online editions for browsing and reference. At 75 I'm a creature for the print edition, and only look at the online edition to see what might hit the print edition. There is a lag.</p><p>Of the latest 11 online obits, 4 do not show anywhere as being in a print edition. Of the several from March 15—a day with six! tribute obits—there are two that appear in Sunday's, March 17 print edition. I purposely do not get the Sunday print edition. I have enough to do with doing newspaper deep dives than to add Sunday's pile to the mix. The home delivery people do however add the magazine, Book Review, Arts, Metropolitan and Real Estate sections with my Saturday print delivery at no extra charge. So I already get about half of the Sunday edition to go through, but not the section with obituaries.</p><p>Last week I read a print <b><i>Wall Street Journal</i></b> story on J. Robert Oppenheimer by Ben Cohen. There was a reference to the name "Bethe" toward the end of the print edition that I could not find anywhere in all of the preceding text where the name had been mentioned. I looked many times and couldn't find it. </p><p>When I dove into the online edition for the piece the name Hans Bethe was mentioned three times before the reference at the end. WTF?</p><p>I emailed Mr. Cohen and he responded nicely that they have to make cuts to the print size of a piece, and obviously made too deep a cut with what finally appeared in print. He promised they'd try and do better. Print space seems finite; but online space is not</p><p>It's kind of great that there are so many tribute obits to read, and it also seems better that they don't all appear as soon as they're ready to read in the print edition.</p><p>Unless the<b><i> NYT</i></b> adds a dedicated obituary section to compensate for their truncated New York sports coverage from The Athletic, I guess there will now always be a delay before the online obits get the space to appear in the print editions.</p><p>The notable dead will just have to wait their turn at the tunnels and bridges to cross the river and get into the print edition of the <b><i>NYT</i></b>.</p><p>http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com</p><p><br /></p>John D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01139189131396901685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-276103319355721061.post-66370465577527005742024-03-17T15:13:00.000-04:002024-03-17T15:13:10.456-04:00Kerplunk<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSKYFZQmbZ590Ime-ndoDfSopa_TSJMJNJEN2ACDHXJMNpE2YFbHgsLeFJ7qinpQ7EMIBuorvNgh1ulEbRgQAxbch1vD23MSMmJvkgAx3c2rT0MxtZ83EUglwpEdtrWCurrbBnCV-X3NHiM_M6i43AJ_cVd1iolGpr3ouQGZzemwv34SzZfGaF5nYLf1A/s1024/AOLTimeWArnerMerger.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="617" data-original-width="1024" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSKYFZQmbZ590Ime-ndoDfSopa_TSJMJNJEN2ACDHXJMNpE2YFbHgsLeFJ7qinpQ7EMIBuorvNgh1ulEbRgQAxbch1vD23MSMmJvkgAx3c2rT0MxtZ83EUglwpEdtrWCurrbBnCV-X3NHiM_M6i43AJ_cVd1iolGpr3ouQGZzemwv34SzZfGaF5nYLf1A/s320/AOLTimeWArnerMerger.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>You knew right from the start it couldn't work, the 2000 merger of AOL and Time Warner. Not when Steve Case, the C.E.O. for AOL, the dot com company, shows up at the announcement <b><i>wearing</i></b> a tie, and Gerald Levin, the Time Warner C.E.O. of the historic entertainment and media behemoth, shows up <b><i>without</i></b> wearing a tie. Can't tell from the photo if Gerald's also wearing jeans, which would have only been worse.<p>As soon as the word "synergy' escaped someone's lips, the entire deal was destined to be a Harvard Business School case study, And not because of its success.</p><p>As bad as the deal became, it especially put a catastrophic crimp in Ted Turner's net worth<i>. </i>The obit writer for the <b><i>NYT</i></b>, <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2024/03/13/obituaries/gerald-m-levin-dead.html?searchResultPosition=2">Chris Kornelis</a>, tells us:</p><p><i>By the start of 2002, AOL Time Warner's market value was hovering around $127 billion. The year, the company posted a net loss of $98.7 billion, a record for a U.S. company. Ted Turner, the company's largest individual shareholder at the time of merger, later told <b>The New York Times t</b>hat the deal had cost him 80 percent of his worth, about $8 billion. Mr. Levin resigned in 2002.</i></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVneV0YENoOMq_AmacN4FyySTUjogNQJbSNBZhOo2MrvdXFPgSsM4cYDoWacp232fCI_uwEL5bcEhE-wdzAye9f2zxnFKCh3exNrJZ9yGjcEkj_8tjQCtczgaKI0vSILtpD2VPL-xmD_TQVeYhbHCs-ZK3E5cdCKNiSnPQrSR2bbl3yVSD4s7aPZ44-b0/s240/TedandJane.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="160" data-original-width="240" height="125" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVneV0YENoOMq_AmacN4FyySTUjogNQJbSNBZhOo2MrvdXFPgSsM4cYDoWacp232fCI_uwEL5bcEhE-wdzAye9f2zxnFKCh3exNrJZ9yGjcEkj_8tjQCtczgaKI0vSILtpD2VPL-xmD_TQVeYhbHCs-ZK3E5cdCKNiSnPQrSR2bbl3yVSD4s7aPZ44-b0/w201-h125/TedandJane.jpeg" width="201" /></a></div>Ted Turner did have a good start to the new millennium. His 10 marriage to Jane Fonda <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=ted+turner+marriage+to+Jane+Fonda&sca_esv=c1ac07e53b73c3dc&source=hp&ei=Eyj3Zd7LCd_-ptQP_viMgA0&iflsig=ANes7DEAAAAAZfc2I2uCaUZ_CCCInQiT411E1ixAw0_y&ved=0ahUKEwieofn56PuEAxVfv4kEHX48A9AQ4dUDCBg&uact=5&oq=ted+turner+marriage+to+Jane+Fonda&gs_lp=Egdnd3Mtd2l6IiF0ZWQgdHVybmVyIG1hcnJpYWdlIHRvIEphbmUgRm9uZGEyBhAAGBYYHjIGEAAYFhgeMgYQABgWGB5Ilz1QAFiVOXAAeACQAQCYAW2gAfoUqgEEMzEuMrgBA8gBAPgBAZgCIaAC2xbCAgsQABiABBixAxiDAcICERAuGIAEGLEDGIMBGMcBGNEDwgILEC4YgAQYsQMYgwHCAggQLhiABBixA8ICDhAuGIAEGLEDGMcBGNEDwgIIEAAYgAQYsQPCAgUQABiABMICCBAuGLEDGIAEwgIFEC4YgATCAg4QLhiABBjHARivARiOBcICERAuGK8BGMcBGIAEGJgFGJoFwgILEAAYgAQYigUYhgOYAwCSBwQyNy42oAeliwI&sclient=gws-wiz">imploded</a> in 2001, resulting in a settlement to Jane in the millions. I guess she didn't take him for better or worse. Who knew mismatched dressed C.E.O.s might have scuttled Ted's marriage.<p></p><p>In 1997 Ted famously donated $1 billion to the U.N. Good thing it preceded the AOL Time Warner merger by a few years.</p><p>The obit tells us that Gerald Levin was seen as a media genius by having HBO be the first cable outlet to use satellites to provide national access to the cable company's offerings. Mr. Levin was quoted as saying in James Andrew Miller's book "Tinderbox: HBO's Ruthless Pursuit of New Frontiers" (2021):</p><p><i>"The only way you get ahead is if you see something that no one else sees and it's a little bit crazy." </i>[See "Elon Musk" by Walter Isaacson]</p><p>As the expected "synergy" (there's word you won't hear too often these days.) did not materialize, the analysts pointed out how mismatched the C.E.O.s were.</p><p>It was said by Mr. Miller, the author of "Tinderbox," that Levin "was the last person that central casting would've sent over" to run the world's largest media company. Levin "was an intellectual who liked to quote the Bible and the French philosopher Albert Camus."</p><p>AOL Time Warner dropped "AOL" from its name in 2003 and in 2009 Time Warner spun off the AOL unit to shareholders with a market capitalization of $3.5 billion.</p><p>Poor Gerald. He should've worn a tie that day.</p><p>http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com</p><p><br /></p>John D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01139189131396901685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-276103319355721061.post-44865204834858712182024-03-15T10:53:00.005-04:002024-03-15T11:09:39.044-04:00The Office As a Person<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWH0cdS9kSJG0pe6Q-lYC7M2QT1d7r9iED9z3PKz32XDsm7_NgRfAPoLurVdbXcgZjvE2zK1IkxgF3K0RZQ4MsKsnQmkFn2RbzKm5ZHH73D-0QM2xYN7AJ65Bq-cqEWxQGnzfmXokVSSF-WDxIDi61boFtixPC5grGR5zQpHh_cueKT0JvAlNiPe-yGtM/s194/JoeFranklinsoffice.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="194" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWH0cdS9kSJG0pe6Q-lYC7M2QT1d7r9iED9z3PKz32XDsm7_NgRfAPoLurVdbXcgZjvE2zK1IkxgF3K0RZQ4MsKsnQmkFn2RbzKm5ZHH73D-0QM2xYN7AJ65Bq-cqEWxQGnzfmXokVSSF-WDxIDi61boFtixPC5grGR5zQpHh_cueKT0JvAlNiPe-yGtM/s1600/JoeFranklinsoffice.jpeg" width="194" /></a></div>If an office was a person, Joe Franklin's office would be a bum.<p></p><p>So said William Whitworth, a "venerated profile writer and editor" who has just passed away at 87 when he wrote a 1971 <b><i>New Yorker</i></b> profile piece on Joe Franklin, who I'm call Mr. Memory Lane.</p><p>Sam Roberts in the <b><i>New York Times </i></b>gives Mr. Whitworth the 21-gun salute of tribute <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2024/03/09/business/media/william-whitworth-dead.html?searchResultPosition=1">obits</a> across 6 columns, with two photos. spread over more than half a page in this past Monday's print edition.</p><p>It is said a picture is worth a thousand words, and the downloaded photo of Joe in his office makes it clear that Mr. Whitworth was not exaggerating. Oddly enough, the photo I chose shows Joe at the stage of his life closely resembling my father in size, dress, pose and stature. The resemblance is uncanny to me. My wife agrees as well.</p><p>The photo of Joe surrounded by what is likely huge amounts of Broadway ephemera is nothing but a cluttered closet compared to how the Collyer Brothers lived. They were the famous hoarders who in the 1940s stuffed their East Harlem mansion with so much clutter that they were found dead buried in it, 15 days apart. A <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=news+report+of+the+Collyer+brothers+being+found&sca_esv=3cd05f168dae64b7&source=hp&ei=JfryZeu6HIng0PEP-PysgAk&iflsig=ANes7DEAAAAAZfMINbAesNz4qNqBMu2S43O8RMlmKXjF&ved=0ahUKEwir4bjL7POEAxUJMDQIHXg-C5AQ4dUDCBc&uact=5&oq=news+report+of+the+Collyer+brothers+being+found&gs_lp=Egdnd3Mtd2l6Ii9uZXdzIHJlcG9ydCBvZiB0aGUgQ29sbHllciBicm90aGVycyBiZWluZyBmb3VuZDIFECEYoAEyBRAhGKABMgUQIRigATIFECEYoAEyBRAhGKABSMdVUABYw1FwAHgAkAEAmAGDAaAB3R6qAQQ0My40uAEDyAEA-AEBmAIvoALfIMICCxAuGIAEGLEDGIMBwgIREC4YgAQYsQMYgwEYxwEY0QPCAgsQABiABBixAxiDAcICCBAuGIAEGLEDwgIFEAAYgATCAg4QLhiABBixAxjHARjRA8ICDhAuGIAEGMcBGK8BGI4FwgILEC4YgAQYxwEY0QPCAg4QABiABBixAxiDARjJA8ICFBAuGIAEGIoFGLEDGIMBGMcBGNEDwgILEAAYgAQYigUYkgPCAggQABiABBixA8ICDhAAGIAEGIoFGLEDGIMBwgILEC4YgwEYsQMYgATCAhAQLhiABBjHARivARiOBRgKwgINEAAYgAQYsQMYgwEYCsICBhAAGBYYHsICCBAAGBYYHhgPwgIIEAAYFhgeGArCAgsQABiABBiKBRiGA8ICBBAhGBWYAwCSBwQ0MS42oAfrhgI&sclient=gws-wiz">news report</a> from the era gives you a small idea of their hoarding.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9mmrwQiq8Ztx9JJ7t-hymatFveU5MQcmaSQ7pLMKWGkY2AM7dJnBE0Us1a9zrnb8g0YvbiUAEBquJCuUZUHJKiIeM-Wbn1F9m-y4sPtHxz3V-S__HjUOfI_Y2UxeLKGAJJAWYToFANrF4_rW6ThxBQ6MRSipRA2BGpf3WW5Wd1g2Ww6uhSJgMcSLIRpw/s212/CollyerBrothers.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="160" data-original-width="212" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9mmrwQiq8Ztx9JJ7t-hymatFveU5MQcmaSQ7pLMKWGkY2AM7dJnBE0Us1a9zrnb8g0YvbiUAEBquJCuUZUHJKiIeM-Wbn1F9m-y4sPtHxz3V-S__HjUOfI_Y2UxeLKGAJJAWYToFANrF4_rW6ThxBQ6MRSipRA2BGpf3WW5Wd1g2Ww6uhSJgMcSLIRpw/w175-h142/CollyerBrothers.jpeg" width="175" /></a></div><i>On March 21, 1947, an anonymous tip sent authorities to the Collyer brothers' mansion in Harlem. NYPD officers found the dead body of one of the brothers amongst the 120 tons of trash they had collected. It would be another 15 days before authorities found the other brother buried underneath a collapsed pile of trash</i><p>Joe didn't shoe-horn a piano and large parts of a car into his office, and at least he was able to move around and go in and out. The brothers were hoarders as well as reclusive. At one point Joe had a restaurant in the theater district where he greeted the theater-going crowd with stories and sometimes risqué jokes.</p><p>My own working space here at home is called the "computer room." There are two desks and a desktop computer where the writing is done. The room is filled with so many pictures there is no more wall space to hang them from. The floor serves an easel for the overflow.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNj7GSu7lLzpY7pJ6VFkCp5E7E42uCLwwv2xDRwUOfRag01_u_Pb43yzuFxRrptUEIW7GHXIEVzhrRRQZTfsjCWOe1r3GgOZuBzTTuClL7ADPTdtI-AetA6JRk1SQCgWmx4r6_CFI_ekMUBQ66zx_BCLJKvroV3VbVmVAsxhJ0Yhk3TyhL43JpsMixarQ/s4608/DSC_0766.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4608" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNj7GSu7lLzpY7pJ6VFkCp5E7E42uCLwwv2xDRwUOfRag01_u_Pb43yzuFxRrptUEIW7GHXIEVzhrRRQZTfsjCWOe1r3GgOZuBzTTuClL7ADPTdtI-AetA6JRk1SQCgWmx4r6_CFI_ekMUBQ66zx_BCLJKvroV3VbVmVAsxhJ0Yhk3TyhL43JpsMixarQ/w237-h187/DSC_0766.JPG" width="237" /></a></div>My wife calls me a hoarder, but I think that word overstates my proclivity for saving newspaper clippings. There are boxes of saved clippings that I admit I will probably never go through, but that I still want. She managed to convince me that she could toss one of the boxes found in a small closet to make room for Christmas stuff. I have no idea what I'm missing, but I still feel a bit of pain that I no longer have that box. I'm convinced it held many Russell Baker Observer columns. Oh well.<p></p><p>I still actively clip newspaper stories, in particular ones that have lead me to write a posting, like the recent obituary for William Whitworth.</p><p>Mr. Whitworth apparently worked at <i><b>The Herald Tribune</b></i> back in the day with Jimmy Breslin, Tom Wolfe and Dick Schaap. I still miss <b><i>The Herald Tribune</i></b>: news, sports, editorial cartoons and just plain cartoons. To this day I still miss Our Miss Peach.</p><p><b><i>The Herald Tribune</i></b> wobbled after the 114 day newspaper strike by the typesetters in 1962-1963. The president of Typographical Union No. 6, Bertram Powers, knew the typesetter jobs were doomed by the advancing ability of a computer that could direct the formation of type rather than huge, clunky linotype machines. Word processing as we know it was coming to the newspaper industry.</p><p>Up till then New York City had 8 dailies. Mergers occurred after, one coming from the combination of <b><i>The Herald Tribune, World Telegram &Sun,</i></b> and the <b><i>Journal American: The World Journal Tribune.</i></b></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp4XST0f8nnuGHsRvzR56WD9UdLt5C44tHRPQrxLLjqDWTS_4hGiuC4qmIBHu912s66xT5DOEEM7Hd8YSAADpeHURiet0jsmTpqOQbN5nFGF7cyX-NIJNf_iq10Bsiiat1GycAe9SJ_qotNu21n_rn8yayv2hDwxJq4aXdywpX8mMcOfzMnuVZIfEOJNg/s4608/DSC_0767.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4608" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp4XST0f8nnuGHsRvzR56WD9UdLt5C44tHRPQrxLLjqDWTS_4hGiuC4qmIBHu912s66xT5DOEEM7Hd8YSAADpeHURiet0jsmTpqOQbN5nFGF7cyX-NIJNf_iq10Bsiiat1GycAe9SJ_qotNu21n_rn8yayv2hDwxJq4aXdywpX8mMcOfzMnuVZIfEOJNg/w223-h165/DSC_0767.jpeg" width="223" /></a></div>A <b><i>New Yorker</i></b> cartoon of the era (This was <b><i>NOT</i></b> easily copied, despite owning two discs of complete<b><i> New Yorker </i></b>cartoons.) showed a massively elongated news truck that resembled the longest of stretch limos with the words <b><i>World Journal Tribune...</i></b> on the side. Nightly news that was 15 minutes at 11 o' clock went to a half hour. The dawn of televised news was creeping up over the horizon. Print news media has been shrinking ever since.<p></p><p></p>Mr. Whitworth however wasn't out of a job. The became a highly respected editor at <i><b>The New Yorker</b> </i>and <b><i>The Atlantic</i></b>. He also wrote profile pieces, like the one he did of Joe Franklin. He might have been the only person who could tolerate <b style="font-style: italic;">The New Yorker's </b>prickly editor William Shawn without resorting to physical violence.<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM_wmXNcjpRqbSQ12Jl1zgnIF7hiQmK4GCLsXxGZ0gAfaTcjXwbfR3QjFDsjVGYLVMMgN2-Jl3QnMWqN-TinMsJg2NdTRSfxlq1y6d6dJzYhZm_003kVhYJEPt6ZuFQuLJnXv2fqlB97KxfloRRWg65bS890NT30mVRik886MgpWmVXogA-BMzmO_G9DU/s1135/William%20Whitworth.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1135" data-original-width="742" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM_wmXNcjpRqbSQ12Jl1zgnIF7hiQmK4GCLsXxGZ0gAfaTcjXwbfR3QjFDsjVGYLVMMgN2-Jl3QnMWqN-TinMsJg2NdTRSfxlq1y6d6dJzYhZm_003kVhYJEPt6ZuFQuLJnXv2fqlB97KxfloRRWg65bS890NT30mVRik886MgpWmVXogA-BMzmO_G9DU/w169-h235/William%20Whitworth.jpeg" width="169" /></a></div>For myself, I never heard of Mr. Whitworth, shown in the obit seated below a blowup of his Joe Franklin profile piece, appropriately holding a pencil for editing. I've read plenty of pieces by Robert Caro, Pauline Kael and other writers he's edited, but never knew of the man behind the curtain.<p></p><p>How nice it would have been to meet him. It's never going to happen now, but I would love to see what a top-flight editor would do to my postings. I might be advised to just concentrate on my other hobbies.</p><p>http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com</p><p><br /></p>John D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01139189131396901685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-276103319355721061.post-81453656278008564552024-03-12T10:38:00.005-04:002024-03-12T12:59:48.035-04:00Flaco the Owl. Rest In Peace<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-u4YG_n8Co42FmA7xcJ49tXFIXr_MdXUQ92xgTnSqclCXK7nt56uoKHNpouGd4SQc5e66CsEWQso98Ml1M8gvQjFmntuwz4LfKeD4kyzAGhnE7nnXfNFt5sZFqQCss5erUf_1PmL7vwnhchHX8hlHy6nLlmWaxZMYX0Z3lHTh9L6MFsNLnAFqigGNt-0/s225/flaco.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-u4YG_n8Co42FmA7xcJ49tXFIXr_MdXUQ92xgTnSqclCXK7nt56uoKHNpouGd4SQc5e66CsEWQso98Ml1M8gvQjFmntuwz4LfKeD4kyzAGhnE7nnXfNFt5sZFqQCss5erUf_1PmL7vwnhchHX8hlHy6nLlmWaxZMYX0Z3lHTh9L6MFsNLnAFqigGNt-0/s1600/flaco.jpeg" width="225" /></a></div>Up to now I haven't had enough words in my head to write about the passing of Flaco the Eurasian eagle-owl with the 12 foot wingspan. As anyone who has been following social media and newscasts from New York City knows by now, Flaco, who escaped from his vandalized enclosure at the Central Park Zoo on February 2, 2023, has passed away on February 23, 2024. He met his fate by most likely flying into a building on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, where he was often seen.<p></p><p>It was at night, and perhaps his eyesight, his GPS and his radar failed him, but he was found dead as a Dodo in the courtyard of a building at 267 West 89th Street at around 5:00 P.M. There was no indication if he flew into an unforgiving window, or a solid side of building bricks. Did a TV with naked people get his attention? Did just naked people get his attention? It is not known how fast he was going, or from what height his systems failed him. </p><p>He may not have even been flying when he went to his death. Initial findings state that Flaco died of "acute traumatic injury" mainly to the bird's body, but not his head. He may have just fallen from a high perch. <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2024/03/04/opinion/flaco-owl-dead.html?searchResultPosition=1">Margaret Renki</a> in the <b><i>NYT</i></b> outlines even more scenarios that could have caused his death. Full necropsy results will be weeks away. </p><p><b><i>The New York Times</i></b> did not do an obituary, but did of course report his death. An obituary for a pet, public or private, might have been seen as going too far. It might set a bad precedent. I can never remember reading an obituary in the <b><i>NYT</i></b> for an animal.</p><p>There have however been animal obituaries from other sources. <a href="https://www.cjr.org/the_profile/ann-wroe-artful-obituaries.php">Ann Wroe</a> in <b style="font-style: italic;">The Economist </b>wrote about a deceased parrot, Alex, an African gray who was the subject of a 30-year psychology study. I had a friend who bought an African Grey for about $600 decades ago. He had heard that the African Greys could be taught to talk <b><i>a lot</i></b>. My friend lived in a lobby apartment in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn. The bird didn't last too long, catching a cold by being too close to the drafty front door. It's too bad. A bird talking with a Brooklyn accent would have been unique.</p><p><b><i></i></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkkzURqvyybcIB3BeXBsnE-jDgSbqYC4nTTizwOzIcUglK2W9fceGZDi158IDVN-AXiNoaeQwt9QhjT0bcl6_llkr-uw6I6m_5NoWOrlMrBD1RMlAQ8ArsP76vZYApg5azL2wsPnrFk9d2Kg66dHBGw2-TNoePhAbqzsZlbAfvZI0igEi9mgllG4tbbIY/s251/flacomourners.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="148" data-original-width="251" height="148" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkkzURqvyybcIB3BeXBsnE-jDgSbqYC4nTTizwOzIcUglK2W9fceGZDi158IDVN-AXiNoaeQwt9QhjT0bcl6_llkr-uw6I6m_5NoWOrlMrBD1RMlAQ8ArsP76vZYApg5azL2wsPnrFk9d2Kg66dHBGw2-TNoePhAbqzsZlbAfvZI0igEi9mgllG4tbbIY/s1600/flacomourners.jpeg" width="251" /></a></i></b></div><b><i><a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2024/02/24/nyregion/flaco-eurasian-eagle-owl-nyc.html">The Times</a></i></b> and other papers covered the <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/lifestyle/2024/03/03/flaco-owl-memorial-central-park-zoo-escape/81e27060-d992-11ee-b5e9-ad4573c62315_story.html">memorial service</a> that New Yorkers held for Flaco by what they thought was his favorite oak tree in Central Park. Poems were read, eulogies flowed, and flowers were placed at the base of the tree. <p></p><p>Was Flaco just an owl who enjoyed his short-lived freedom flying around Manhattan, or was he something else, like a Chinese or a Russian drone outfitted with surveillance equipment by the perpetrator that set him free?</p><p>We all remember a Chinese spy balloon that was eventually shot down. Was Flaco the replacement? Did Flaco check out water supply sites by perching on water towers, of which there are many in Manhattan and report back? Fire escapes were another favorite perch of Flaco's—checking out escape routes for the population in case of an emergency.</p><p>Flaco was a living creature, not fiction. Living creatures meet with natural and unnatural ends. Take Superman. He flew all around Metropolis doing good deeds when needed. Disguised as Clark Kent, a mild-mannered reporter for a great metropolitan newspaper, the Daily Planet, Clark as Superman shed his glasses, shoes and socks and suit in the men's room of the Daily Planet (or a phone booth—look it up if you don't know what that is.) and leaped out of a hallway window, cruising over the city until he got where the help was needed.</p><p>His colleague Lois Lane always suspected Clark was Superman, because Clark could never be found when Superman appeared. Why Lois, being a brassy chic with major <i>cojones </i>didn't just check the men's room was something I never understood, even as a kid.<i> </i></p><p>Superman was vulnerable to Kryptonite. It made him lose his powers and his x-ray vision. Mr. Renki points out that Flaco could have become poisoned by eating rodents infested with the poison meant to kill them. He could have also received lead poisoning from eating the pigeons he was fond of consuming to survive in the wild. If poisoned, he might have just lost his balance by compromised coordination.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAQNdREJclW1jRDq9vonjRuJaujgA6fV14OjwOaHWb8JQ0vvDQ1RW8Nq6N3bmEYDpFK0ajyjtRo3K7PurMvnSWN6Z6h8AxDJYcPsLeSMqj6HJvEudWcOtu5mOoFPORFwxrH_MZKbl8VpTanrGBTSAfJx3UsfQ1R_FvHpSzHhKeBvFozzFWKDRJYLmLATA/s1024/Balto.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="1024" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAQNdREJclW1jRDq9vonjRuJaujgA6fV14OjwOaHWb8JQ0vvDQ1RW8Nq6N3bmEYDpFK0ajyjtRo3K7PurMvnSWN6Z6h8AxDJYcPsLeSMqj6HJvEudWcOtu5mOoFPORFwxrH_MZKbl8VpTanrGBTSAfJx3UsfQ1R_FvHpSzHhKeBvFozzFWKDRJYLmLATA/w235-h150/Balto.jpeg" width="235" /></a></div>When I heard of Flaco's death I thought for sure I was going to read they were going to taxiderm him and display him somewhere in the Central Park Zoo. That doesn't seem to be the case. Or maybe plans are still fluid and they'll create a statue. After all, Central Park has a statue of <a href="https://www.centralpark.com/things-to-do/attractions/balto/">Balto</a>, one of the lead huskies that traveled 674 miles in 1925 to deliver badly needed medical supplies to fight diphtheria during a blizzard in Alaska.<p></p><p>I miss Flaco, and I miss Superman. They both would have been able to fly over the gantries that hold the cameras that are going to soon impose congestion pricing on New York Manhattan drivers.</p><p>http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com</p><p><br /></p>John D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01139189131396901685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-276103319355721061.post-86180917045204194842024-03-07T15:11:00.001-05:002024-03-08T18:08:37.174-05:00The Succsesor<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVMGbzKQJHIhDZM3R-1DBRSJ1IEEjfKs1km8vQCqVa3cVTZFAaNpqoacZKV1n6pVis3qvFFqSNNrqkkevYpw8uBpEMlxBAr-l8RsV5Nk0SnVZDRBI4Qvte6jfPixHOeB0pUODsT-oGpmzEPywAtqj7RKI9DlDTfe6XKLSfZo6wLSB4cQ49DuyXoOndiQI/s1296/PoodleSkirt.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1296" data-original-width="1033" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVMGbzKQJHIhDZM3R-1DBRSJ1IEEjfKs1km8vQCqVa3cVTZFAaNpqoacZKV1n6pVis3qvFFqSNNrqkkevYpw8uBpEMlxBAr-l8RsV5Nk0SnVZDRBI4Qvte6jfPixHOeB0pUODsT-oGpmzEPywAtqj7RKI9DlDTfe6XKLSfZo6wLSB4cQ49DuyXoOndiQI/w332-h319/PoodleSkirt.jpeg" width="332" /></a></div>The skien has been broken. A centenarian has passed away and a <b><i>NYT</i></b> tribute obituary was <b><i>not</i></b> written by <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=Robert+McFadden&sca_esv=67393e17c4183385&source=hp&ei=BRXqZeCwMqvv0PEP5s2l0Ao&iflsig=ANes7DEAAAAAZeojFcd35GN7OUOUITrPNtKH565ytfXR&ved=0ahUKEwigx6D68OKEAxWrNzQIHeZmCaoQ4dUDCBg&uact=5&oq=Robert+McFadden&gs_lp=Egdnd3Mtd2l6Ig9Sb2JlcnQgTWNGYWRkZW4yBRAuGIAEMgUQLhiABDIFEAAYgAQyBRAAGIAEMgUQABiABDIFEAAYgAQyCxAuGIAEGMcBGK8BMgUQABiABDIFEC4YgAQyBRAAGIAESM0lUABYsh5wAHgAkAEAmAGPAaABmwqqAQQxMi4zuAEDyAEA-AEBmAIPoAKzC8ICCxAuGIAEGLEDGIMBwgIOEC4YgAQYigUYsQMYgwHCAggQABiABBixA8ICFBAuGIAEGIoFGLEDGIMBGMcBGNEDwgIREC4YgAQYsQMYgwEYxwEY0QPCAgsQABiABBixAxiDAcICDhAuGIAEGMcBGK8BGI4FwgIREC4YgAQYsQMYxwEY0QMY1ALCAg4QLhiABBixAxjHARjRA8ICCxAuGIMBGLEDGIAEwgIIEC4YgAQYsQPCAg4QABiABBiKBRixAxiDAcICDhAuGIAEGLEDGIMBGNQCwgIEEAAYA8ICCxAuGIAEGLEDGNQCwgIKEC4YgAQYChixA8ICBxAAGIAEGArCAgsQLhivARjHARiABJgDAJIHAzkuNqAHv5AC&sclient=gws-wiz">Robert McFadden</a>, but rather by Margalit Fox.<p></p><p>To anyone who reads and follows the <b><i>NYT</i></b> tribute obituaries this is not a surprise. The day this would happen was always coming. Robert McFadden is 87 years old, but is still with the paper, having started there in 1961. He is the dean of the reporters on the obituary staff, winning a Pulitzer in 1996 for Spot Reporting. He has written so many obituaries that his pre-written ones are aging in the obituary wine cellar called the morgue, waiting for the subjects to pass away and having the vintage opened.</p><p>The subjects in many of these pre-written obits have aged into being octogenarians, nonagenarians, and even centenarians. When some notable passes away at these advanced ages, it's almost a 1/5 cinch that the byline will be McFadden's.</p><p>I have no idea how close we are to depleting all the McFadden obits, but we might be getting close when the obit for 101-year-old <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2024/03/04/fashion/juli-lynne-charlot-dead.html?searchResultPosition=1">Juli Lynne Charlot </a>was uncorked from the cellar and poured onto Wednesday's front page, below the fold.</p><p>Margalit Fox is no longer with the paper, having left a few years ago to write books, one of which I read—the one about Sir Arthur Conan Doyle solving a crime like his creation Sherlock Holmes.</p><p>I know when there is a lull in writing pieces on deadline for deceased notables, the obituary desk writers are assigned to update, or start pre-written obits for notables who are still with us, saving time for when that subject does finally leave us. I know Margalit got these assignments.</p><p>On Monday we were treated to a McFadden obit on 102-year-old <a href="https://onofframp.blogspot.com/2024/03/iris-apfel.html">Iris Apfel,</a> a fashion icon unto herself. And now a day later, we have the life of 101-year-old Juli Lynne Charlot, creator of the poodle skirt, celebrated in an obit written by Margalit Fox delivered to the front page table—below the fold—from the obit wine cellar.</p><p>Both writers have their distinctive styles, McFadden shoehorning in so many facts of the person's life into the lede you almost don't have to read any further, but you always do, because the stream is taking you over the rapids.</p><p>Margalit is a little more playful, and when she can will have a lede that doesn't start with the usual subject's name, comma beginning. She's as close to being like the now long deceased Robert McG. Thomas Jr .who didn't live long enough to leave a body of pre-written obits behind, but did rather leave a <a href="https://www.amazon.com/52-McGs-Obituaries-Legendary-Reporter/dp/1416598278/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2PQCROU95LW5S&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.AmxOZpFGTRcLO9cRnolEN3Y6dL76N6oyezhlY3nhfab1VGUzn5_spLeOA3hBL3ndwSoWNhm9m3VvOYZBvww6ZuAAWTJyW9idmKxIIFSxmJU.q2Yxmjh7T-2UQbP-PAd5R2GTDDuOJwgR9bMZzI8_lf8&dib_tag=se&keywords=52+McGs&qid=1709839727&s=books&sprefix=52+mcgs%2Cstripbooks%2C68&sr=1-1">book </a>full of ones written on deadline for some of the great characters and ordinary notables that ever walked the earth.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhANeOGMTMkFg3obeW0BTNCcb38lHMUa1JpaSRyMueYu6ROpFEWlZqMJbHH9LVD5xb49xa3XbYPdXolnz_Oj0UlJTnDubSeylfkRvwAAMnGe264Sx5cDsQVZupbQKf-PtjnbDr3t1vNCt__q2g2NE1rF1TIyC3hqZj4CkUphBP08dUjDYKXxR2fb9TyeR8/s522/52Mcgs.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="522" data-original-width="338" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhANeOGMTMkFg3obeW0BTNCcb38lHMUa1JpaSRyMueYu6ROpFEWlZqMJbHH9LVD5xb49xa3XbYPdXolnz_Oj0UlJTnDubSeylfkRvwAAMnGe264Sx5cDsQVZupbQKf-PtjnbDr3t1vNCt__q2g2NE1rF1TIyC3hqZj4CkUphBP08dUjDYKXxR2fb9TyeR8/w172-h192/52Mcgs.jpeg" width="172" /></a></div><p>Ms. Fox, being Jewish herself, can get away with a lede for Juli Lynne Charlot that goes: "<i>What's a nice Jewish girl viscountess to do when she has a title but no money, a party invitation but no clothes and a pair of scissors but no sewing skills?</i></p><p><i>"Invent the poodle skirt, of course."</i></p><p>Everything we see and use was created by someone. We just don't usually know who, and most often don't care<i>. </i>Thus, all Bobby Soxers on American Bandstand in the 50s twirling around in their poodle skirts and Penny Marshall as Laverne DeFazio in Laverne and Shirley who proudly flounced around in her poodle skirt with the large scripted <i><b>L</b></i> on the front, owe homage to Ms. Charlot, who in December 1947 cut a huge piece of white felt into a circle with an opening at the top to step through, sewed some appliqués of Christmas tress on the skirt to fit the theme for the Christmas party, and attached it to her waist. And just like that she was a hit and created a fashion industry. </p><p>Ms. Fox sneaks in an alternate meaning of "paid" when she tells us; "by the height of the Swinging Sixties the miniskirt had put paid to the poodle." Huh? </p><p>I am not often sent to the OED for a definition, but this one stumped me. But there is was, the third definition of the noun "pay," labelled <i>"fig"</i> for figuratively, with the definitions, "retaliation, penalty, retribution, punishment..."</p><p>Ms. Fox's kicker at the end is almost ruined by a photo and a caption, but she mentions a quote by Erma Bombeck who wrote in a 1984 column, "when I was a teenager, every girl in the Western world wore a poodle skirt."</p><p>In 1951 a 25-year-old woman went to a hoedown celebration in Ottawa at the home of Canada's governor general wearing "a steel blue circle skirt by Ms Charlot that was appliquéd with hearts, flowering branches and stylized figures of Romeo and Juliet."</p><p>The woman was Elizabeth Alexandra Mary Windsor who would be known the next year as Queen Elizabeth II.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqRjhpwdf9LRVbT3W64ZTAnwZYnZiM59hYK5Bq9jVDP-RvpfSthblQpyXf3_LpJEfMHoCU4NeR0LfdinnZEUbwQXBSBYMbl6kxGwqCQWRr0zfh-zJBqaxKtZF7kFf1ONY5IGGoSrLPCMf7_dcppkUVLvitxE_xacMQkqBVxPnAcEhYIm-BcW09tAHb1Yc/s2048/QueenElizabethII.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1595" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqRjhpwdf9LRVbT3W64ZTAnwZYnZiM59hYK5Bq9jVDP-RvpfSthblQpyXf3_LpJEfMHoCU4NeR0LfdinnZEUbwQXBSBYMbl6kxGwqCQWRr0zfh-zJBqaxKtZF7kFf1ONY5IGGoSrLPCMf7_dcppkUVLvitxE_xacMQkqBVxPnAcEhYIm-BcW09tAHb1Yc/s320/QueenElizabethII.jpeg" width="249" /></a></div><p>http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com</p><p><br /></p>John D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01139189131396901685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-276103319355721061.post-80474527449344513072024-03-05T11:08:00.001-05:002024-03-05T11:08:25.490-05:00Iris Apfel<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdqoLPa4J5YI8d1NEpiSi92PM_VcajLWhvGSZtUJJnfUCLAmnTnmbjEixYzkeyiaP29Y01UP4T2jFZ5OX4hQ1Ydtyr1yjCij8bUVZRCwirTADLR9nvi_qXG9EUUuzlxMm4d0O3lUC_mRnRmbFFPh23ZsUeBDXXUC17qc-KWyU240u7bG5D6L_QSE3vAQQ/s2048/IrisApfel.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1366" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdqoLPa4J5YI8d1NEpiSi92PM_VcajLWhvGSZtUJJnfUCLAmnTnmbjEixYzkeyiaP29Y01UP4T2jFZ5OX4hQ1Ydtyr1yjCij8bUVZRCwirTADLR9nvi_qXG9EUUuzlxMm4d0O3lUC_mRnRmbFFPh23ZsUeBDXXUC17qc-KWyU240u7bG5D6L_QSE3vAQQ/w178-h259/IrisApfel.jpeg" width="178" /></a></div>Robert McFadden's record for delivering tribute obituaries for the deceased who have lived passed 80, 90, and even 100 remains intact. Yesterday's print edition of the <b><i>NYT</i></b> delivers a six-column full color obit for <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2024/03/02/style/iris-apfel-style-fashion-photos.html?searchResultPosition=1">Iris Apfel,</a> 102, who passed away in Palm Beach, Florida.<p></p><p>This might be the first McFadden obit I've ever seen for a subject who was an eclectically dressed woman who was not a fashion designer, but rather a fashion design unto herself.</p><p>McFadden's lede is breathless: "a New York Society matron and interior designer who late in life knocked the socks off the fashion world with a brash bohemian style that mixed hippie vintage and haute couture, found treasures in flea markets and reveled in contradictions..."</p><p>She did this wearing, seemingly all at once: "boxy multicolored Bill Blass jackets with tinted Hopi dancing skirts and hairy goatskin boots; fluffy evening coats of red and green rooster feathers with suede pants slashed to the knees, a rose angora sweater and a19th-century Chinese brocade panel skirt." And those were just <b style="font-style: italic;">some of the </b>clothes. The accessories were another story<b style="font-style: italic;">.</b></p><p>I would have loved to have seen her on a NYC crosstown bus.</p><p>She may not have ridden a crosstown bus, but she was seen all over town. Her wardrobe was an exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in 2005. The request from the Met for her clothing collection to be shown surprised her. She thought you had to be dead to be the subject of a show at the Met.</p><p>She started as a trained interior designer. She was born as Iris Barrel in Astoria, Queens in 1921 and married Carl Apfel an advertising executive in 1948. He passed away in 2015 at 100. There were no children.</p><p>Together Iris and her husband formed a company called Old World Weavers that restored drapes at the White House for nine presidents, from Harry Truman to Bill Clinton.</p><p>She sold scarves, bangles and beads of her own design on the Home Shopping Network. And she wore what she sold. Her arms were weighed down with pounds of bracelets the size of "tricycles tires" and necklaces that went down to her knees. It's amazing she was able to stand up.</p><p>The Metropolitan show was titled "Rara Avis: Selections from the Iris Apfel Collection." Rara Avis refers to "rare bird," and certainly her owlish eyeglasses were surely made all the better to see you with. She was Flaco the owl long before that ill-fated bird got out of his Central Park Zoo enclosure and flew around Manhattan for only a little more than a year.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixxf5n17z1GEDHavDl51VDYYaUT99pCHI1sexLqwZsw5JOhZ8vCSg51MH2ZjbKtsHBpSfJJ3l3LDBF7imUCimJU6vCYm1U3GGJo9j3mwS2vGm3LKJAyzDyDqyoKFY5Yyebk35jFjyHLBwLln-Qcy5J7osTQSb_QExJkg4nS8bzHN59kY5l35u1PH02i4k/s2048/ApfelFashionshow.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixxf5n17z1GEDHavDl51VDYYaUT99pCHI1sexLqwZsw5JOhZ8vCSg51MH2ZjbKtsHBpSfJJ3l3LDBF7imUCimJU6vCYm1U3GGJo9j3mwS2vGm3LKJAyzDyDqyoKFY5Yyebk35jFjyHLBwLln-Qcy5J7osTQSb_QExJkg4nS8bzHN59kY5l35u1PH02i4k/w407-h233/ApfelFashionshow.jpeg" width="407" /></a></div>I never saw Iris Apfel, and that's no surprise, because we surely traveled in vastly different circles. The only woman I ever saw that came close to being as eye catching was years ago when I saw an elderly woman by the Saks Fifth Avenue elevators on the main floor who was dressed mostly in black with a hat of some kind who had a bearing about her like Bette Davis. She was with some fashionably dressed younger woman who were not wearing all black. They no doubt were headed to a floor I wasn't going to.<p></p><p>Iris Apfel was indeed a rara avis.</p><p>http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com</p><p><br /></p>John D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01139189131396901685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-276103319355721061.post-22233582905663275092024-03-03T12:45:00.003-05:002024-03-04T13:25:11.951-05:00Apropos<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibDeJksmjEKSjJmAL1CWTfSR-xVoY4ChkfFKDEZaJxnGZd0kA7SaZOGqRyUiEzuUGZaARl-bH-l92FfdwcRQXwE9sR7CW4DS705IFWbTxjvqrAYTe8HGM9pvykPhTOb2sw2PMS9E0uoVws7I8U9OLooe-SqFHCTVPDda08Rclxd7HH2eqFMZ1zY1CWrfI/s321/OED.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="157" data-original-width="321" height="157" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibDeJksmjEKSjJmAL1CWTfSR-xVoY4ChkfFKDEZaJxnGZd0kA7SaZOGqRyUiEzuUGZaARl-bH-l92FfdwcRQXwE9sR7CW4DS705IFWbTxjvqrAYTe8HGM9pvykPhTOb2sw2PMS9E0uoVws7I8U9OLooe-SqFHCTVPDda08Rclxd7HH2eqFMZ1zY1CWrfI/s320/OED.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div> Apropos. <p></p><p>What a great word. I don't think I've heard that word in decades, or even seen it in print until my good friend Melissa used it in a recent email: "It's so apropos because today is the one year anniversary..."</p><p>The word appropriate fits as a more common synonym; even the word suitable, but how much more pleasant sounding is the word apropos?</p><p>Of course it is French in origin, which makes it pleasant sounding. Apropos should be part of a Lerner and Lowe lyric in Camelot for Robert Goulet to sing as Lancelot. "C'est moi...It's apropos I slay my foe..."</p><p>The OED tells us it can be an adverb, adjective, noun, or preposition. The first definition offered is as an adverb, meaning to the point, fittingly, opportunely; as an adjective: pertinent, appropriate, opportune; as a noun: an opportune or pertinent occurrence; as a preposition: concerning with regard to.</p><p>I guess as a preposition it never caught on to be used in legal documents, or we would have heard it more often: "...as it concerns apropos to the first party..."</p><p>For any word to gain traction it has to be uttered on the news, Saturday Night Live, or coming from a political candidate or a sports figure uttering a sound byte. Without that exposure the word will never make a weekly shake down by Ben Zimmer in the <b><i>Wall Street Journal</i></b> weekend edition. who this week treats us to a dissertation on "hurkle-durkle, which apparently means loitering in bed in Scotland or on Tik Tok.</p><p>I just don't think that's apropos to anything I've been hearing.</p><p>http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com</p><p><br /></p>John D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01139189131396901685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-276103319355721061.post-36209590789520392992024-02-27T10:40:00.000-05:002024-02-27T10:40:51.489-05:00The Speaking Stone<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2j_etBPt00N2EQGRfycSEEbNudQkxmKmN67Qt8ncbPRTcnd3dh_Qnom-ouICFYQFNR7lK-lReytDQn2FqUn0ntHqvZsqDdpuedgPgBO_DvjwLzZoq7ma637OCryFORDhK52ueGpOB9BojwC6WygLx1mlMEqr_Q7Xa3jaFkRzMNBzDbLO8Hn9hviy14PE/s327/SpeakingStoneBook.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="327" data-original-width="218" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2j_etBPt00N2EQGRfycSEEbNudQkxmKmN67Qt8ncbPRTcnd3dh_Qnom-ouICFYQFNR7lK-lReytDQn2FqUn0ntHqvZsqDdpuedgPgBO_DvjwLzZoq7ma637OCryFORDhK52ueGpOB9BojwC6WygLx1mlMEqr_Q7Xa3jaFkRzMNBzDbLO8Hn9hviy14PE/w164-h241/SpeakingStoneBook.jpeg" width="164" /></a></div>A friend of mine recommended taking in<b><i> The Speaking Stone: Stories Cemeteries </i></b>Tell by Michael Griffith, a collection of essays ruminating about obituaries and strolls through a fair size garden graveyard in Cincinnati, apparently the nation's fourth largest, measured I'm guessing by acreage.<p></p><p>Mr. Griffith's book is not an easy read, with a lot of parenthetical thoughts and long—but grammatically correct sentences. But it is a great literary improvement over the book I just finished, Holmes, Marple and Poe—the first (and surely last) I ever read by James Patterson and his sidekick of the moment. Compared to anything else, Patterson's book is only a slight advancement over Dick and Jane. It should be on the first grade best seller list.</p><p>Mr. Griffith takes many strolls through the Spring Grove Cemetery and Arboretum as he is writing a book (fiction) about a dead obituary writer. He takes in the names, dates and inscriptions, if any, on the headstones. He's not looking for anyone in particular, but does find a lot of people, people who he of course never met when they were alive.</p><p>The advantage to being dead and buried is that when someone comes looking for you you're always in the same place. Your spot may not always be easy to find, but sure as hell if someone comes to visit again the deceased will not have moved. Guaranteed.</p><p>A well written obituary will <b><i>always</i></b> tell you something you didn't know. And even a book <b style="font-style: italic;">about </b>obituaries will tell you something you didn't know.</p><p>Take the assassination of President Kennedy on November 22, 1963, a date Mr. Griffith readily admits he wasn't alive for. (I was 14 them.) Because of Mr. Griffith's ties to Cincinnati he is able to tell us of how the limousine the Kennedy party was riding in was delivered to Hess and Eisenhardt, an armored car company, after the assassination to be redesigned and refurbished. The car lived on to carry Presidents Johnson, Nixon, and Ford before being retired in 1977. </p><p>Mr. Griffith tells of a cluster of mourners at Hess and Eisenhardt "gazing forlornly at the company's Plexiglas bubble top—a safety feature designed and manufactured, but not used that day in Dallas—which sat under a tarp behind the company's offices."</p><p>Something always happens because something else <b><i>didn't</i></b> happen. Would the outcome of the shots being fired that day be the same if there was a bullet-proof bubble installed over the top down convertible? I never knew there might have been a bubble used to shield the car's occupants. I never remember seeing one used, before or after.</p><p>Are there any more JFK references in the book? There is an index. Yes.</p><p>Within a chapter titled Death's Taxicab there is a highly detailed narrative of the construction of the limousine that was put into service in 1961. Talk about military grade. There was a committee of 30 that included members of the military that had input into the specifications that would be used to build the car, including, but not limited to a rear seat that could be raised nearly 11" so that Kennedy could be more visible; a balustrade that he could hold onto if he wanted to stand and wave to the crowd more visibly.</p><p>As Mr. Griffith points out, all these touches, and more, were not meant to provide extra safety, they were meant to provide greater <b><i>visibility. </i></b>The potential target was being made easier to see.</p><p>As with anything good or bad that happens, there are a <b><i>lot</i></b> of "ifs" that could have changed things, but didn't.</p><p>http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com</p><p><br /></p>John D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01139189131396901685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-276103319355721061.post-64573111399966992302024-02-25T17:51:00.000-05:002024-02-25T17:51:22.599-05:00Jonny Cat<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXyt0zTU7RP6hzGc6Q4cSvNBlOQjgkxtJqZ3aWNfnWfqUqCZQSvEIoHFOYkbopwbX3P5Q1K8Ig8CgfVwdExRr5rJHSdm-YOMLiPJOJZYdgHxZapGeIQx5H84_9O__l588j-eMFoPYdR_Ebl3Yg-57IqS5cl_kD4LtjRerQzyPb9puacxgXom97dQP5gZs/s344/JonnyCatLitter.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="344" data-original-width="218" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXyt0zTU7RP6hzGc6Q4cSvNBlOQjgkxtJqZ3aWNfnWfqUqCZQSvEIoHFOYkbopwbX3P5Q1K8Ig8CgfVwdExRr5rJHSdm-YOMLiPJOJZYdgHxZapGeIQx5H84_9O__l588j-eMFoPYdR_Ebl3Yg-57IqS5cl_kD4LtjRerQzyPb9puacxgXom97dQP5gZs/w152-h243/JonnyCatLitter.jpeg" width="152" /></a></div>The Friday <a href="https://www.wsj.com/search?query=The%20House%20That%20Kitty%20Litter%20Built&mod=searchresults_viewallresults">Mansion</a> section of the <b><i>Wall Street Journal </i></b>can be fun to look through. It is filled with color photos of impossibly priced houses for sale all over the country. None of the homes featured are next door to us—on either side—or across the street. Not even behind us, or anywhere near us for that matter.<p></p>Take the house featured on the second page of Friday's section: $88 million, 11 acres, pool, poolhouse, available in Santa Barbara, California.<p></p><p>The headline for this offering, described over 6 columns with two color photos, is: <b style="font-style: italic;">The House That Kitty Litter Built. </b>Holy shit.<b style="font-style: italic;"> </b>Edward Lowe made such a fortune inventing kitty litter that his heirs are looking to reap a $88 million price tag for his digs? Well, no.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqUBbnj7aSNrqsDwJy2F2yFvMXROrAAGg5XyOwF9zw6J2QNOI3MKddNkh-VQQ_wC4Tw_5l6BsQyzGjcYi2ilq8SMlUr6YI5M-pp5z7jFQZfcYdEA3WjQ8wXiiYR2bQbFdUMGktf7u_iLDKRj6_zM_wgQLkp-8zGi6YabwBSw5mNQGIQ72jrzZgTRq4F7g/s1050/KittyLitterhouse.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="686" data-original-width="1050" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqUBbnj7aSNrqsDwJy2F2yFvMXROrAAGg5XyOwF9zw6J2QNOI3MKddNkh-VQQ_wC4Tw_5l6BsQyzGjcYi2ilq8SMlUr6YI5M-pp5z7jFQZfcYdEA3WjQ8wXiiYR2bQbFdUMGktf7u_iLDKRj6_zM_wgQLkp-8zGi6YabwBSw5mNQGIQ72jrzZgTRq4F7g/w231-h156/KittyLitterhouse.jpeg" width="231" /></a></div>Anyone who is a fan of obituaries knows that Edward Lowe is forever immortalized in a Robert McG. Thomas Jr, <b><i>New York Times</i></b> <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/1995/10/06/us/edward-lowe-dies-at-75-a-hunch-led-him-to-create-kitty-litter.html?auth=login-google1tap&login=google1tap">obit</a> of October 6, 1995, titled Cat Owners' Best Friend. It is the <i>sine qua non</i> of all obituaries. <p></p><p>In 1947, Mr. Lowe, who was Navy veteran, accidently discovered what would turn out to be the basis for a best selling mixture of sawdust and kiln-dried granulated clay to pour into cat litter boxes and absorb he scent of their urine that Mr. Thomas describes in the obituary as, "one of the most noxious effluences of the animal kingdom."</p><p>Mr. Lowe went from selling so many sacks of his mixture that he was calling Kitty Litter—that he loaded into his 1943 Chevy coupe—to pet stores and cat shows that it would became a booming million dollar business. Fast forward to 1990 when he sold his Kitty Litter operation to Ralston Purina for $200 million.</p><p>Mr. Lowe started in Michigan, and there is no mention of his ever having a home in California, although the obit tells us "he spent lavishly and had 22 homes, a 72' yacht, a stable of quarter horses, a private railroad and an entire Michigan town." Given that, who needs California?</p><p>The $88 million property is for sale from the estate of Betty and John Stephens, who was the founder of the company that launched Jonny Cat. The heiress daughter of the two, Joi, is listing the home.</p><p>We've never used Jonny Cat for our litter boxes. We use Fresh Step manufactured by Clorox. The obituary for Mr. Lowe makes no mention of patents, so it is more than likely that eventually several companies reverse engineered his mixture and eventually made fortunes distributing and selling the product. Jonny Cat is made by Oil-Dri Corporation. Ralston Purina makes Tidy Cats, using the formula purchased from Edward Lowe in 1990.</p><p>There is no mention that John, Betty or their daughter Joi ever had any cats.</p><p>http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com</p><p><br /></p>John D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01139189131396901685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-276103319355721061.post-30377001595442103272024-02-24T13:50:00.001-05:002024-02-27T09:39:34.063-05:00No, No Never<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1VwecFZBffoD5Z_HGQphXoI_0rvoCbVzNeHma9EfUCPshwskWBz8G_SAVnJgLHnlfEYqznugQhFuy8nL85-FmqSA66XpdSH3ejyN3YJp1hLMqKXd1mt92ACmT9QwEBRxfQVfuwblzNfz2lqATR9dyE1VjCeobY9_DCtlMxSkG25g62DBPgiHKNJS56y8/s228/Fathertime.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="228" data-original-width="221" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1VwecFZBffoD5Z_HGQphXoI_0rvoCbVzNeHma9EfUCPshwskWBz8G_SAVnJgLHnlfEYqznugQhFuy8nL85-FmqSA66XpdSH3ejyN3YJp1hLMqKXd1mt92ACmT9QwEBRxfQVfuwblzNfz2lqATR9dyE1VjCeobY9_DCtlMxSkG25g62DBPgiHKNJS56y8/w175-h175/Fathertime.jpeg" width="175" /></a></div>I will never be on Jeopardy. I am too old.<p></p><p>Every evening when I watch the show I don't think there are any contestants near, or over 55 years old. They are all fairly youthful, skewing to 30 or 40-years-old—no doubt living with at least one teenager. </p><p>The woman who won last night—advancing in the just started Tournament of Champions—was likely only near 40. She <b><i>shredded</i></b> the other contestants to the point that the poor guy in the middle had no money when the Final Jeopardy round was set to begin. As is the custom, he had to leave the stage and could not compete in Final Jeopardy with no money.</p><p>Emily Sands was so far ahead that unless she made an incredibly stupid bet, she was going to win. In horse racing, this is called a walkover when for any number of reasons there is only one horse entered in the race. All they have to do is bound out of the gate, gallop the prescribed distance, and accept the spoils of first place. </p><p>The contestants in the Tournament of Champions are all winners of prior competitions. It's like a stakes race in horse racing. They are all at least three plus day winners. It's like the Westminster Dog show. All the dogs are Ch. champions from prior competitions. The best of the best.</p><p>I don't know how they create and grade the questions for their value. The lower amounts <b><i>are</i></b> easier, but not by much. Increased difficulty goes with the higher amounts.</p><p>Of the 60 questions/clues last might I knew only about maybe 20 of them, and not the Final Jeopardy answer. If I was a contestant, my buzzer would be useless. I'd never get to use it.</p><p>I once took the Anytime Jeopardy online test to see if I could be a contestant. They don't grade it, so you only know if you did well if they call you. If the phone don't ring, I knew it was Jeopardy calling someone else. </p><p>I don't remember if Emily mentioned living with any offspring that would know Taylor Swift lyrics by heart and any TV shows on cable, network or streaming. Having someone around 13 years old in the house can't hurt any contestant.</p><p>To advance on any show you need to be versed in hip-hop, rap, Greek and Roman mythology, astronomy, opera, the Bible, popular music after 1990, movies and TV shows after 1990, books published after 1990, history from all eras, science and geography. Only polymaths need apply.</p><p>Those are all the reasons I will <b><i>never</i></b> be a Jeopardy contestant.</p><p>I am too old and remember too many presidents.</p><p>http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com</p><p><br /></p>John D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01139189131396901685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-276103319355721061.post-5128860014015250602024-02-21T10:25:00.000-05:002024-02-21T10:25:39.581-05:00An Espionage Flap<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtgqIklo4JDPwl4ajQvA7XLaRg1rj8Wuy70tIlRXnZPR8rWKcTG9iKNFlZExwP30OaqLNGckBzg2h9RE1NWZ8gEOQj_ev7K3N8CsCqXmZYnEADmPqvyT1DUnunvbEwz213bAb6m9JQ1I36g59J5vh20jYH0jxEtfhqlzTWmOePZRO4daXi2tYFmumXVJM/s210/WSJPigeon.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="210" data-original-width="210" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtgqIklo4JDPwl4ajQvA7XLaRg1rj8Wuy70tIlRXnZPR8rWKcTG9iKNFlZExwP30OaqLNGckBzg2h9RE1NWZ8gEOQj_ev7K3N8CsCqXmZYnEADmPqvyT1DUnunvbEwz213bAb6m9JQ1I36g59J5vh20jYH0jxEtfhqlzTWmOePZRO4daXi2tYFmumXVJM/w161-h150/WSJPigeon.jpeg" width="161" /></a></div>The A-Hed <a href="https://www.wsj.com/world/india-accused-chinese-spy-racing-pigeon-08516191?page=1">piece</a> in yesterday's <b><i>WSJ </i></b>tells the story of a pigeon who has been thought to be a spy. Turns out it isn't, wasn't, but merely a racing pigeon who flew considerably off course, say from Taiwan to India.<p></p><p>It is a fairly typical A-Hed piece in that there are puns, maybe more puns that usual. The ink drawing of a pigeon that graces the front page in the center of the story is captioned, "Speculation flew." And that's only the beginning.</p><p>Other puns sprinkled throughout:<br /><i>...convinced he had committed a crime most fowl.<br />...officials flocked to the scene<br />...it [the pigeon] was, by nature after all, a flight risk.<br />...was no stool pigeon.<br />...didn't want to ruffle any feathers...<br />...accidentally booked a passage to India.<br />...Even if the pigeon was a mole.</i></p><p>Attention was drawn to the bird because it had been flying near the docks where there was good deal of international shipping. Additionally, the bird had some kind of writing on its feathers, and there were rings attached to its feet, one of which turned out to hold a microchip with an alphanumeric code: 776912 CTPRA 2023. Certainly suspicious since even ChatGPT couldn't decipher it. </p><p>Tensions between India and China have been strained since there had been a bloody clash between the nations' soldiers in 2020 leaving fatalities on both sides. No one used the phrase Red Alert, but both nations are now even more leery of each other.</p><p>After eight month's of trying to figure out what to do, forensic testing and just plain detention, the police gave the green light to release the bird from the veterinary hospital where it was being made to stay, well taken care of, but a POF—prisoner of flight— nonetheless. PETA had been repeatedly calling for the bird's release claiming the authorities were violating the bird's fundamental right to fly.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy-utsxZApsEYIKIDff1SsWwHQpF7iuMjF8kBJtswwuStCvUJhSh1MCWMNpAqG0YV0_jHdZPrAKUK-mKwOf1z8Qm7O1NhSvl8SLdhISu0MkVVWFT4e3zl7Tu7eCteEtgZcoDoJ_AP5t1JZuxN3pijYkxpVlJNbaWm0UUONoQiKA6Ugv3xicSVu94wAgSE/s1260/spypigeon.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="840" data-original-width="1260" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy-utsxZApsEYIKIDff1SsWwHQpF7iuMjF8kBJtswwuStCvUJhSh1MCWMNpAqG0YV0_jHdZPrAKUK-mKwOf1z8Qm7O1NhSvl8SLdhISu0MkVVWFT4e3zl7Tu7eCteEtgZcoDoJ_AP5t1JZuxN3pijYkxpVlJNbaWm0UUONoQiKA6Ugv3xicSVu94wAgSE/w270-h176/spypigeon.jpeg" width="270" /></a></div>On the bird's release, India's Assistant Police Inspector Patil said , "the entire Indian sky now belongs to the pigeon." (The bird remained unnamed.)<p></p><p>Anyone who has been following the news here in New York and social media knows there is an orange-eyed Eurasian eagle owl named <a href="https://onofframp.blogspot.com/2023/12/it-is-bird.html">Flaco</a> that has escaped its vandalized enclosure in the Central Park Zoo and been flying uptown and downtown throughout Manhattan.</p><p>Flaco has been spotted on top of water towers, on fire escapes and window ledges looking through apartment windows. No one has thought of Flaco as being a spy bird, but certainly a case can be made.</p><p>Casing out water supplies, methods of escape and being nosy in search of empty apartments could easily put Flaco on a "bird of interest" list.</p><p>Flaco shows no inclination to come in from the cold. And like any good spy, he shows the ability to be turned. His head turns in more angles than Kim Philby's did.</p><p>That Flaco might be an agent of a real estate firm looking for empty apartments doesn't yet seem to be speculated on, but it certainly is a possibility.</p><p>If spotted, approach cautiously.</p><p>http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com</p><p><br /></p>John D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01139189131396901685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-276103319355721061.post-26500488545839546452024-02-19T17:35:00.000-05:002024-02-19T17:35:38.814-05:00The New Christy Minstrels<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaOxLyNE3BULAHKbSmLvs46FBEcR9J-c5BY-ww7l7opunrC1pIp6GE56Q4Np5zaBGZ6qghxAp9jU-gQQqzbWqITZzYBBkjK5r_AataAEF16KFdSAh2KuSWOaj2QOedFrk3l9PFMRPzr1HiEsrTzJsTdgN03ptRgM0DJ4xiP9xKlmogeA5FDUaP-8tulzs/s2048/RandySparks.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1381" data-original-width="2048" height="177" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaOxLyNE3BULAHKbSmLvs46FBEcR9J-c5BY-ww7l7opunrC1pIp6GE56Q4Np5zaBGZ6qghxAp9jU-gQQqzbWqITZzYBBkjK5r_AataAEF16KFdSAh2KuSWOaj2QOedFrk3l9PFMRPzr1HiEsrTzJsTdgN03ptRgM0DJ4xiP9xKlmogeA5FDUaP-8tulzs/w283-h177/RandySparks.jpeg" width="283" /></a></div>Usually when a musical personality passes away that I haven't heard of I read the obituary, see what music they've recorded, and then I sample it from iTunes. If it sounds good, I purchase a few selections and add the track to my iTunes library and queue it up for copying to one of my Nanos. I have downloaded <b><i>a lot </i></b>of selections from deceased musical artists over the years.<p></p><p>But not this time. The news that <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2024/02/17/arts/music/randy-sparks-new-christy-minstrels-dead.html?searchResultPosition=1">Randy Sparks,</a> founder of the New Christy Minstrels has passed away left me with two reactions. The first was that I haven't been thinking about him at all, and quite honestly didn't know if he was alive or dead. I did know of him, however and the group.</p><p>The second was that there was no need to download, purchase, or in any way acquire some of the New Christy Minstrels' output. I already have it, and have been enjoying their songs for maybe 60 years.</p><p>I had a friend who used to tell me his roommate in college in the 60s drove him <b><i>nuts </i></b>by his love of their music. When I told him I liked/loved their music as well he made me promise <b><i>never</i></b> to play it when he was around. I complied.</p><p>I know one aspect of their music that I loved was the banjo. I didn't know Randy Sparks got Steve Martin started. Steve Martin aside from being an actor and a comedian is of course first a banjo player—a good one—who would drive late night host Johnny Carson bonkers with his banjo playing.</p><p>My love of the banjo probably started on a trip with my mother back to her hometown of Tampico, Illinois in the mid-1950s. I've written about Tampico before. <b><i>(https://onofframp.blogspot.com/2009/04/my-midwestern-roots.html; https://onofframp.blogspot.com/2012/04/small-town.html; https://onofframp.blogspot.com/2016/03/nancy-reagan.html)</i></b> </p><p>I will forever remember one evening when I must have been five or six and the adults gathered on the front porch one evening after dinner and listened to my mother's oldest brother, Howard, play the banjo. There was singing, of course. Growing up in New York City with my father's Greek relatives I had never before been part of such a family gathering. I <b><i>loved</i></b> the spontaneity of it.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ5bGH-27jNMa2rrXU8VaJlqTnas6qgWGneahu3GHbgQARB-h5Ujc09T1163GnOSYBgp-19chggBE4iK1budnmYGknCoH6hgVlJ2wnY1KwE39PxatWATkXfHhlyEmBI_KHNC6O1j2r6-Bs_i-UplEHvlrzywi9Z6iiUIp5fpQb3rwFoCX1pBU3x07EsHY/s1024/HowardCookandReagan%20Tampicoschoolhouse.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="805" data-original-width="1024" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ5bGH-27jNMa2rrXU8VaJlqTnas6qgWGneahu3GHbgQARB-h5Ujc09T1163GnOSYBgp-19chggBE4iK1budnmYGknCoH6hgVlJ2wnY1KwE39PxatWATkXfHhlyEmBI_KHNC6O1j2r6-Bs_i-UplEHvlrzywi9Z6iiUIp5fpQb3rwFoCX1pBU3x07EsHY/s320/HowardCookandReagan%20Tampicoschoolhouse.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>Uncle Howard was famously a schoolmate of Ronald Reagan in Tampico as seen in the 1919 third grade photo in front of the Tampico schoolhouse. Reagan is in the second row, left with his hand to his chin, and my uncle Howard Cook is in the third row, third from the left in the white shirt and tie. When my uncle wasn't working in his father's restaurant he had a band, "Cookie and the somethings," probably playing the banjo.<p></p><p>New Christy Minstrel music is lively, upbeat, and sentimental, even a tear jerker (Today). Many of their songs are my favorite, but I'll single one out, The Cat Came Back, one because we have a stray cat that has adopted us since 2017 that we could no more get rid of short of stealing away into the night and getting in the Witness Protection Plan. Even the, I'm not sure.</p><p>I marvel at how loyal Socks is, a neutered Tuxedo female (she showed up that way) who rarely strays off the property and will follow me across the street if need be. We don't see her much at all during the day and night, but she certainly doesn't miss any meals. She doesn't want to come in beyond the vestibule, and only when it is extremely cold out can we mange to fool her and get her in the garage where's it's warmer. Other than that, she's ours. She's an outdoor cat with no collar, and no chip in her ear. She won't stay still long enough for any of that. </p><p>Lyrics to the ditty go:</p><p><i>But the cat came back,<br />It just couldn't stay away.<br />Meow kitty, meow such a pity.<br />Meow such a pity,<br />But the cat came back.</i></p><p>If the capable Clay Risen of the <b><i>NYT </i></b>hadn't written such a comprehensive obituary of Randy Sparks, the world might not have ever heard about the New Christy Minstrels ever again, unless they stopped by the house and I was in a New Christy Minstrel mood.</p><p>http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com</p><p><br /></p>John D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01139189131396901685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-276103319355721061.post-26196996339286728422024-02-14T13:43:00.000-05:002024-02-14T13:43:56.480-05:00Sentenced to Life<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1NPrXyWpN-Vov3LBIXfIIREz9ah6ogPYHGu3xw-4hMRFTxDbcyz168I4ovXECESLT64naAlYkkCIQr3SeJGvgJ2PN9Yf6pXE9_X1euSc22qW35K2uWNfzdBzBqaGQar87HgjKhGU9i6D8t6YQgaPojq3WeXgggTU2AgSLzTP34fVj7k2ibJOInBldOiQ/s700/Marriedinthe%20clink.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="700" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1NPrXyWpN-Vov3LBIXfIIREz9ah6ogPYHGu3xw-4hMRFTxDbcyz168I4ovXECESLT64naAlYkkCIQr3SeJGvgJ2PN9Yf6pXE9_X1euSc22qW35K2uWNfzdBzBqaGQar87HgjKhGU9i6D8t6YQgaPojq3WeXgggTU2AgSLzTP34fVj7k2ibJOInBldOiQ/w316-h209/Marriedinthe%20clink.jpeg" width="316" /></a></div>Want to do something different? Get married in a prison.<p></p><p>No, not as an inmate convicted of a crime with a conjugal visit from your spouse-to-be. But as in using a unused prison as a venue that you rent for the occasion.</p><p>Yesterday's <b><i>WSJ</i></b> A-Hed <a href="https://www.wsj.com/lifestyle/unique-wedding-venue-historic-prison-airbnb-0a364eae?page=1">piece</a> appeared a day before Valentine's Day, but that doesn't matter. It seems for couples seeking wedding venues that are decidedly <b><i>not </i></b>some catering hall likely operated by the Mafia, there is the option of renting a decommissioned prison as a venue for holding the ceremony—perhaps a place where they once incarcerated some organized crime figures. There is an air of authenticity in these places.</p><p>Eastern States Penitentiary outside Philadelphia, Pennsylvania has been rented out for weddings. It is proving popular, with a discount for weekday dates and for those who live in the neighborhood.</p><p>Tax deductibility is not mentioned in the story, but weddings have been held in museums with a portion of the expense considered tax deductible as a contribution to a charitable institution. Or, at least that was once true. Tax laws change</p><p>Eastern State Penitentiary, a maximum security prison, opened in 1829 when Andrew Jackson was president and there were only 15 stars on Old Glory. It was where Al Capone was famously held, before getting a view of San Francisco Bay from "The Rock" in Alcatraz. Eastern State closed in 1971.</p><p>It was also where the famous bank robber Willie "The Actor" Sutton escaped from when he found his way out through the sewer system. Willie is thought to have offered his justification for a career of robbing banks to be that he did it because, "that's where the money is." Or was, after he left.</p><p>Other prisons have been offering their venues for weddings. Freemantle Prison in Western Australia has been tapped for nuptials. </p><p>Shrewsbury Prison across the pond in England is available, as is Ohio State Reformatory in Mansfield, Ohio, the setting for the movie Shawshank Redemption.</p><p>There is little mention of catering food in these venues. One couple arranged for a food truck to appear, offering wraps and scallion pancakes. But it seems the prison venues most often take the place of a church, with the other festivities moving to more traditional settings.</p><p>As usual, The A-Hed piece is filled with puns. The advantage to the online story and the print edition is that the editors get more opportunities to stuff them in.</p><p>Take the online edition that adds the sub-heading that doesn't appear in the print edition. <br /><i><b>Former Clinks...are renting space for your special event. Get the band to play a few bars.</b></i></p><p>Take the couple that are looking forward to celebrating their fifth wedding anniversary in Eastern State Prison. They are not <i>solitary</i> in their pursuit.</p><p>One couple wove in the theme of "till death do us part" and "sentenced to life" into their wedding vows. Unlike more people in prison who will tell anyone who listens that they didn't do, these couples tell you they did do it.</p><p>Part of the prison attractions is that the wedding guests get a tour of the prison while the happy couple are having their photos taken. This has proved to be very popular.</p><p>New York State has an active prison, Sing, Sing in Ossining, New York, a Westchester County suburb. Over the years there have been plans to empty Sing Sing out because the value of the real estate overlooking the Hudson River is astronomical.</p><p>There are developers who would <b><i>kill</i></b> to get the rights to build there. But then you'd have to put them in prison.</p><p>http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com</p>John D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01139189131396901685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-276103319355721061.post-78308157499476543592024-02-12T11:54:00.002-05:002024-02-13T17:54:59.028-05:00Super, Super, Super Bowl<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8-xvv5BgnHMy4rablVwRPVcuLnQunSo6cxiKyVAeUK37HDUqdf-GHKAQPGeNqzA-V4OcTEl0b7SeQ_tWc1dNJexh9UBlEIRUrt7KJliRJWEDrsk44f0s9UYW7SPvM15RrGM0OK9Pd148XzZKYrC760CxRhsSFlvWss3TAeO4kKHBADUkxFOvhmaRFnG4/s612/sleepzs.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="406" data-original-width="612" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8-xvv5BgnHMy4rablVwRPVcuLnQunSo6cxiKyVAeUK37HDUqdf-GHKAQPGeNqzA-V4OcTEl0b7SeQ_tWc1dNJexh9UBlEIRUrt7KJliRJWEDrsk44f0s9UYW7SPvM15RrGM0OK9Pd148XzZKYrC760CxRhsSFlvWss3TAeO4kKHBADUkxFOvhmaRFnG4/s320/sleepzs.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>If I were getting paid to write these postings I probably would have an employer and editor who will have given me the assignment to write something about last night's Super Bowl. I'm here to tell you I'm not employed by anyone, only really watched the game up to halftime, and a little after. So, writing about the game is optional for me, but even with that incomplete viewing I feel there is still<b><i> a lot</i></b> to write about. <p></p><p>Does anyone think like I do that there were <b><i>waaaaay </i></b>too many commercials? I don't have a numerical tally, but I suspect there were more commercials than plays from scrimmage. And they were shown so many times back-to-back-to-back that at one point when the viewer was released from the commercial blitz and they came back to show you the field <b><i>no one </i></b>was there. Did they all go home for the evening?</p><p>I <b><i>know </i></b>it's commercial television, but there should be a limit. Years ago those juke boxes in diners attached to the booths had to play the tune in full, not just 30-60 seconds of it. You had to get your money's worth.</p><p>But since we don't actually <b><i>pay </i></b>to see the game in a financial transaction sense, I guess the network—in this case CBS— feels they can flood the viewer with commercials for which they collected <b><i>millions of dollars</i></b> from advertisers who felt they <b><i>had </i></b>to pay through the nose be there. </p><p>I suspect there are two models brewing for televising games—with and without commercials. They've already done this with an NBC Peacock game telecast that you could watch <b><i>without</i></b> commercials, provided of course you had the streaming service Peacock. </p><p>But there was no way to watch that same game <b><i>with commercials</i></b> on regular broadcast television. It was an offer to sign up for Peacock streaming, and of course pay for <b><i>that.</i></b></p><p>So I have to believe there will be a time when you can have the option to pay to watch the game via streaming<b><i> without</i></b> commercials, or just suffer through all of them with broadcast TV.</p><p>It might be a hard sell since the commercials are touted to be as entertaining as the game itself, so why wouldn't you want to watch both?</p><p>But there is an advertising adage that you can't sell anything to anyone through advertising who is over 50, like myself, significantly over many hills.</p><p>Maybe the commercials themselves can be additionally packaged in a bundle that you pay to see all on their own without having to watch them unfold during the game. Might make a good historical DVD to watch after many years elapse. See Steve Jobs with a tie on.</p><p>No matter. I'm here to tell anyone who will listen that unless the Giants are in the Super Bowl that after watching 58 Super Bowls I won't be there, with our without commercials under <b><i>any </i></b>pay or free package.</p><p>Going to bed at a decent hour with a good book is proving more appealing. Goodbye Super Bowl. I knew you well.</p><p>http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com</p><p><br /></p>John D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01139189131396901685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-276103319355721061.post-64664205758185643782024-02-11T12:05:00.000-05:002024-02-11T12:05:14.453-05:00Almost Finished with "C" Titles<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD6L-X4w6npfsTdcGeM0I1wyvxk7-ntyihxQYyxQf_L7ItadRulcataaCUepJhTc6EsQzTETSYG_DgJbh4-vwU_PJ6rzn2oLVZ1sPatJ2bdUaxhV98VIwMbXSoPb3VuNQM4q7Lt7u1VIW1-iCy6PQ_vohqN27596BVyEdGluNSxz3NdgsproZrLM7cn5o/s206/cottonfield.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="148" data-original-width="206" height="148" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD6L-X4w6npfsTdcGeM0I1wyvxk7-ntyihxQYyxQf_L7ItadRulcataaCUepJhTc6EsQzTETSYG_DgJbh4-vwU_PJ6rzn2oLVZ1sPatJ2bdUaxhV98VIwMbXSoPb3VuNQM4q7Lt7u1VIW1-iCy6PQ_vohqN27596BVyEdGluNSxz3NdgsproZrLM7cn5o/s1600/cottonfield.jpeg" width="206" /></a></div>It's been a few months now, so I thought it might be time to update everyone on where I am playing my bathroom Nano playlist back in alphabetical order by song title. I'm almost through the letter "C".<p></p><p><b><i><u>Note:</u></i></b><br /><i>The prior postings on this alphabetical journey through recorded songs can be found with the following links:</i></p><p><i>https://onofframp.blogspot.com/2023/10/give-me-a.html</i><br /><i>https://onofframp.blogspot.com/2023/11/a-to-z.html</i></p><p>And just as I was taken by how many of my recorded songs started with Baby, I've been equally somewhat startled to find how many songs start with either the word Cotton, or the word Crazy. I wouldn't have predicted that.</p><p>There are 7 song titles on my Nano that start with the word Cotton. I have Cotton twice from two Nanci Griffith recordings, and two Cotton-Eyed Joes from two different artists, The Chieftains and Rickey Skaggs. Add to those titles Cotton Pickin' Hands ( Johnny Cash), Cotton Mill Man, and Cotton Patch Blues. For at least two mornings in the bathroom, I was neck high in cotton.</p><p>And just when I thought the string was out with Cotton song titles, I became aware of those that either were the single word Crazy (Patsy Cline and Willie Nelson, Don McLean, Linda Ronstadt, and The Ukulele Orchestra) ) and all the others that started with the word Crazy. In all, there were 22 of these, and it went on for a few days. The final entry was Crazyman Michael by Alyth McCormick.</p><p>I don't know how many songs are on the Nano. My desktop computer is holding 7,191 under iTunes that I've either downloaded from my own sources, or from an Apple purchase.</p><p>As of this writing I' haven't yet finished with the C titles. I've quipped that on my demise I will have hoped that the alert obituary writer might make mention that I made it all the way to U.</p><p>Maybe beyond.</p><p>http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com</p><p><br /></p>John D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01139189131396901685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-276103319355721061.post-87618728617771449632024-02-09T14:05:00.002-05:002024-02-11T10:09:32.153-05:00Now Batting, No. 21...<p>It was quite a few years ago when I read Molly O'Neill's valentine to her brother Paul and all things growing up O'Neill. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKZTmqbFppEgmptx3EuCbU4LUwMx_0HIqUobiOxRtDydJGAzW3q-xTsLSetTGxAAcOU-Jjb4jrldcX_IZiIUNCk61JonKYTPbeDsq7YAO7y8JAaBNstmF2LiUC3WBUjjj5z_T17vFONiT3WNyViiJvXkMob6JwlIAQLRRqNv9vtTVbxysTc8vkY_ibU-E/s327/MollyO'Neill.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="327" data-original-width="218" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKZTmqbFppEgmptx3EuCbU4LUwMx_0HIqUobiOxRtDydJGAzW3q-xTsLSetTGxAAcOU-Jjb4jrldcX_IZiIUNCk61JonKYTPbeDsq7YAO7y8JAaBNstmF2LiUC3WBUjjj5z_T17vFONiT3WNyViiJvXkMob6JwlIAQLRRqNv9vtTVbxysTc8vkY_ibU-E/w180-h224/MollyO'Neill.jpeg" width="180" /></a></div>The cover of the book depicted all the young O'Neill's sitting in the shovel portion of a parked front loader that was part of their father's construction business in Columbus, Ohio. All gangling arms and legs. Molly's is the oldest, and the only girl.<p></p><p>I think Paul is seen in the striped shirt to Molly's left. Molly has since passed away but she made her mark as a food critic in the <b><i>New York Times</i></b> and as restaurant owner. Paul of course made his mark as a star right fielder for championship New York Yankee teams in the 1990s. Paul does Yankee broadcasts these days, and he is always worth listening to.</p><p>When the book came out, or just before it came out, I think the <b><i>NYT</i></b> excepted a portion of the book about Paul growing up and playing on their field of dreams that his father had carved out of their fairly large Columbus property.</p><p>The excerpt was so well received that I remember at least one letter to the editor saying that Molly should be writing sports for the <b><i>NYT.</i></b> She never go the job doing that, but should have.</p><p>I will never forget the excerpt where Molly describers her brother Paul belting so many long balls onto the family property—and beyond—that the adjacent neighbor grew tired of throwing the balls back that landed on his land and just plain kept them.</p><p>Whether the O'Neill boys had plenty of balls of all kinds, or the neighbor was so unapproachable that they just let the balls land where they did and not ask for them back, the boys just played on with replacement balls from their supply.</p><p>This went on for years, and Molly finishes the story by telling us that when the O'Neills moved from their field of dreams because father's business went south, the neighbor came over with a box filled with the all the balls he had collected and presented them to Paul. If only he asked Paul to sign them.</p><p>My neighbor's son was very much into baseball growing up. He was always going off to Little League games on the weekends, carrying an array of bats on his back.</p><p>Our property and theirs, and that of all my neighbors, is a cookie cutter 60'x100'. All yards are fenced in, usually with 6' vinyl fencing. The father put up a pitching cage in their backyard. I don't know what position young Thomas played (He's now Junior in college.) but balls every so often came into our yard.</p><p>For the most part I always threw them back over their fence. But I would often find balls nestled in the shrubs weeks, or months after, and I would just keep them. So sense throwing them back if they don't seem to be missing them or playing anymore. Out of sight and out of mind.</p><p>We've always been on friendly terms with these neighbors and I never made a stink about the balls landing in the yard. Nothing was ever broken.</p><p>On a shelf in our garage I might have about 12 balls, softballs, hardballs or tennis balls I've collected from Thomas sending something over the fence, either batted, or thrown. As he got bigger he was powerful enough to put a hole in his father's vinyl fencing when his pitching missed the pitching cage. The father never fixed the circular hole. I have no idea if I added the ball to the pile after I found it days after it rocketed it through the fence. I wasn't aware of it when it first happened. </p><p>No one seems ready to be moving—myself or my neighbor. But knowing the O'Neill story as told by Molly, I think I'm going to be tempted to present then with a box of retrieved balls when the time comes.</p><p>I just hope they let me tell them this story.</p><p><b><i><u>Comment:</u></i></b></p><p><i>When I sent a link to the this posting to my Pleasantville son-in-law Tim, he replied that the next ball to land in our yard will be a pickleball.</i></p><p>http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com</p><p><br /></p>John D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01139189131396901685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-276103319355721061.post-69227790632293510882024-01-28T13:26:00.000-05:002024-01-28T13:26:12.757-05:00A Shirttail Relative<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ-rbvY3UJuH3mtIqyBztM4E9ji6Tu74qLukVhxpb08SevDt7hu_kLGoEwZ24fdalDIFu9qim2JYHlGS7t6-LcwhgcBGGnOikCrR6KmxoQGb_jla14QuF6s-InoeCVZTXeLe7EDt7sYlpC7oOUbRalTk9rZzuq9TJ5BT0RofXoX6pAInA6b_5gkVM826M/s204/familytree.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="192" data-original-width="204" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ-rbvY3UJuH3mtIqyBztM4E9ji6Tu74qLukVhxpb08SevDt7hu_kLGoEwZ24fdalDIFu9qim2JYHlGS7t6-LcwhgcBGGnOikCrR6KmxoQGb_jla14QuF6s-InoeCVZTXeLe7EDt7sYlpC7oOUbRalTk9rZzuq9TJ5BT0RofXoX6pAInA6b_5gkVM826M/s1600/familytree.jpeg" width="204" /></a></div>Any regular reader of these postings knows I admire the obituary writing of Robert D. McFadden, the dean of <b><i>NYT</i></b> obituary writers whose ledes are packed with information that tell you plenty about the deceased just before you run out of breath reading them back to yourself.<p></p><p>He's written so many advance obits that when the subjects invariably turn 90 the obits keep bobbing up in the river like poorly anchored mob rub outs. Just the other day two subjects, one a nonagenarian and the other a octogenarian hit the tribute obit pages, both bylined by Robert D. McFadden: <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2023/12/27/business/gaston-glock-dead.html?searchResultPosition=1">Gaston Glock</a> (an absolute piece of work who passed away at 94) and <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2023/12/27/us/herbert-kohl-dead.html?searchResultPosition=1">Herbert Kohl</a>, a four-term U.S. Senator from Wisconsin who founded Kohl's department stores and was a long time suffering owner of the N.B.A. Milwaukee Bucks. who passed away at 88.</p><p>Mr. McFadden's plain language usually never leaves me reaching for a dictionary or a phrase book, until reading Mr. Kohl's obituary where his opponents in a senate election were described as "former Governor Anthony Earl and Wisconsin's secretary of state, Doug La Follette, a shirttail relative of Robert M. La Follette, the former governor, senator and presidential candidate." </p><p>What is a shirttail relative? A relative who hangs out? Someone who looks like an unmade bed? A Hanger-on?</p><p>Trying to be a little more logical I self-defined it as someone who is a distant relation, perhaps a third cousin (removed or otherwise) Eleanor Roosevelt to Franklin Roosevelt say.</p><p>Wanting to see what the accepted definition might be, I consulted the OED, but that let me down by not having an entry of "shirttail relative" under shirttail. (I didn't think I was going to find one there.)</p><p>Okay, off to Google land. <i>A shirttail relative relative is someone who is either a relative by marriage, is distantly related (like a third cousin or family friend who is an honorary "relative.") The term has been around since the 1920s and probably originated in the American South.</i></p><p>I asked my wife if she ever heard the term "shirttail relative." I figured with her long ago track record of following <b><i>all</i></b> the <b><i>relationships</i></b> in soap operas that she would have heard the term. She could tell you who was born to who <b><i>before</i></b> the birth certificates were dug out by a P.I. or the DNA testing was in.</p><p>Until now hearing the phrase "shirttail relative" I realize "distant relative" might also apply. Charles Busch, the playwright and drag performer and I are "shirttail related" through some marriages via cousins in Syracuse. No direct blood relationship, and no free tickets to see any of his plays, which are a hoot by the way.</p><p>It is extremely doubtful even with that disclosure that any obituary writer will pick up on that, hold onto it until it's time to tell the readership that I was a "shirttail relative" of a drag performer and playwright. Shucks.</p><p>Fame is elusive.</p><p>http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com</p><p><br /></p>John D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01139189131396901685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-276103319355721061.post-25898284571369716372024-01-24T13:27:00.000-05:002024-01-24T13:27:07.768-05:00Nearly Done in by Gravity<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Zsa1OJdqhjdGXMhW9sSBD9mVU6NoHQqgkY4WXP0EpYnwZhgGicFEsrKhCa7Pd4VGvw8mujqHuCV6yWu_g3BJje6MQfc06_i24Xz_tUhlbmJMcGz6yaajV9SCUPTkv0ZNQKV4CVQFz8kR-Ikt0mzEEYgf2qK4qYNIVCnv_414iBEKr8to1OTGKzhqlgg/s269/potatoes.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="148" data-original-width="269" height="119" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Zsa1OJdqhjdGXMhW9sSBD9mVU6NoHQqgkY4WXP0EpYnwZhgGicFEsrKhCa7Pd4VGvw8mujqHuCV6yWu_g3BJje6MQfc06_i24Xz_tUhlbmJMcGz6yaajV9SCUPTkv0ZNQKV4CVQFz8kR-Ikt0mzEEYgf2qK4qYNIVCnv_414iBEKr8to1OTGKzhqlgg/w201-h119/potatoes.jpeg" width="201" /></a></div>I just read a <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2024/01/22/books/review/calvin-trillin-the-lede.html?searchResultPosition=1">book review</a> of a collection of pieces by Calvin Trillin, a man whose wit is so dry it could be a martini. Shaken, <b><i>or</i></b> stirred.<p></p><p>The book is <i style="font-weight: bold;">The Lede: Dispatches From A Life In The Press.</i> Mr. Trillin is much in demand as a eulogist, someone who will say pithy things about your life at your funeral. I don't know if he supplements his writing income with eulogy appearances, or does the work <i>pro bono,</i> but apparently he's in demand, and popular enough that there could be listings in the <b><i>New York Times </i></b>on where he'll be speaking from in the coming week.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9_8ljkpJl6G7Jq9bW4K27dQqogW5qEL6bRJHQxGKdAz-fTMTRClT1kk6DvXPudcfDiPd53JykDborUebtwB4XIXtquTllQoIfGTmKUP5LxhiVJ-eyBq86gjanWDTr1d0OieSp7DReBarlMpwb-zhXXXOkIw0OUmAarJYCofQtm-P-vwCvxGIRrgOWSzE/s327/TheLedeBookCalvinTrillin.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="327" data-original-width="218" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9_8ljkpJl6G7Jq9bW4K27dQqogW5qEL6bRJHQxGKdAz-fTMTRClT1kk6DvXPudcfDiPd53JykDborUebtwB4XIXtquTllQoIfGTmKUP5LxhiVJ-eyBq86gjanWDTr1d0OieSp7DReBarlMpwb-zhXXXOkIw0OUmAarJYCofQtm-P-vwCvxGIRrgOWSzE/w153-h204/TheLedeBookCalvinTrillin.jpeg" width="153" /></a></div>The book is described as being in sections, with one being called <b><i>R.I.P.</i></b> that contains remembrances of some of Trillin's favorite people. Amongst those listed is one of my favorite people, Russell Baker, a New York Times columnist who passed away at 93 in 2019, after being the longest-running columnist in the history of the paper.<b style="font-style: italic;"> </b><p></p><p>Mr. Trillin recalls the time Mr. Baker wrote of the time a raw potato "fell from a tall building, barely missing him." The potato didn't come loose from a roof top garden across the street from Mr. Baker's 58th Street apartment in Manhattan, but was likely chucked by a bored youngster who had yet gained access to firearms, but could be just as deadly with grocery store items. After the potato splattered on the ground missing Mr. Baker by inches, he looked around and saw a parked car nearby that be been splattered with an egg. Mom was going to have to add some items to her list.</p><p>Mr. Baker was just about to reenter his building when the grocery store hand grenade was let loose from about the 48th floor of the building across the street. At the time, Mr. Baker was musing about what to write about next. He now had the basis for his column that was appropriately given the headline <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/1979/04/24/archives/observer-groceries-from-heaven.html?auth=login-google1tap&login=google1tap&searchResultPosition=6">"Groceries from Heaven"</a> by the person who is paid to do these things.</p><p>He wrote, "what if the potato had scored a direct hit with fatal consequence? After a certain age most people probably speculate occasionally on the manner of their ultimate departure, but the possibility of becoming a potato victim was one that had not occurred to me, and I did not like it."</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLTDsjPedHVKXE4sFBLdB22lHWv6q1v4bdR238R4phYztE8SXHvKtCUJK0VLeZ3ZOahd7ES_Ps8qb7mVg-EGuVGCwSY_R2IoZXj_zzikFX1M37UFwlTR1vhulXQxlgw0JtliYp8JldCaQaQQxG-E5kBadCUsDfoSxYO9rrHI4eRiRF31cUZMe4Wex_A08/s450/NovelsinThreeLines.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="276" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLTDsjPedHVKXE4sFBLdB22lHWv6q1v4bdR238R4phYztE8SXHvKtCUJK0VLeZ3ZOahd7ES_Ps8qb7mVg-EGuVGCwSY_R2IoZXj_zzikFX1M37UFwlTR1vhulXQxlgw0JtliYp8JldCaQaQQxG-E5kBadCUsDfoSxYO9rrHI4eRiRF31cUZMe4Wex_A08/w160-h234/NovelsinThreeLines.jpg" width="160" /></a></div>I think there a book that summarizes unusual manners of death, what a British coroner might ultimately label, "death by misadventure." Luc (Lucy) Sante translated works form Félix Fénéon who compiled a book of unusual deaths, <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/en/book/show/570963"><b><i>Novels in Three Lines</i></b>.</a><p></p><p>There's one that will forever stick out in my mind that I read set in <a href="https://draft.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/276103319355721061/792266672958731014">agate type</a> from the front page of a 1912 <b>New York Times</b> about the fellow who in 1912 was taking a lunch break from blowing up tree stumps in Massachusetts with dynamite who sat down on a stump yet to be blown up with sticks of dynamite in his back pocket and was himself sent heavenward in many pieces. It was the ultimate butt dial.</p><p>We never really know what's going to do us in until perhaps a terminal disease descends. But even then something else might beat even that out as to the cause of our demise. Hospital power failure, flood, missile strike: start the list. </p><p>I've been without something to write about since January 10th, an eon for me. But reading about Russell Baker and the potato that saved him from writer's block saved <b><i>me</i></b> from writer's block.</p><p>For now.</p><p>http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com</p><p><br /></p>John D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01139189131396901685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-276103319355721061.post-58232618818519826272024-01-10T15:41:00.002-05:002024-01-15T16:16:49.703-05:00MIGHTY Python<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSUjpYKal9WIx8JXjaehyphenhyphen5fHgde44VfBg6t-DQ9AcL6-027M_ytkzqvoxlYs52jaOIB7qUX523dKlyxI35zxFbziQpgKnaW_YONpr21JpgRBKk2wq9eLQhFIMvL5IFMMEHevgv7qqV5PBe0zgf-J_bpziuA0RDCKibsHNhvvjTUXb3Y5PcjmBt0qedybI/s1200/Australiapython.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="864" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSUjpYKal9WIx8JXjaehyphenhyphen5fHgde44VfBg6t-DQ9AcL6-027M_ytkzqvoxlYs52jaOIB7qUX523dKlyxI35zxFbziQpgKnaW_YONpr21JpgRBKk2wq9eLQhFIMvL5IFMMEHevgv7qqV5PBe0zgf-J_bpziuA0RDCKibsHNhvvjTUXb3Y5PcjmBt0qedybI/w187-h240/Australiapython.jpeg" width="187" /></a></div>Most of us are aware that Australia is a land of snakes, insects—particularly spiders—kangaroos, (roos), koala bears, wallabies, and lizards. It's like living in a David Attenborough nature production. <p></p><p>There is a bit of a running joke between my Australian X-pal @justkenking and myself over the wildlife she encounters no further than from her back door, or on occasion from behind her refrigerator. Yuck.</p><p>The above photo is of a recent sighting of a <b><i>python</i></b> that was slithering over her back fence. I don't know how long it is, but Jen tells me it probably lives between her place and her neighbor's. She further informs me she's <b><i>not sure if it's the same one!</i> </b>she stepped on her in bare feet when she walked out onto the deck one morning. Jesus, give me strength.</p><p>Jen does not live in the Outback. She lives in a suburb of Brisbane, that bears all the trapping of our living in the suburbs—except for the <b><i>wide</i></b> variety of wildlife that intrudes.</p><p>Here on Long Island I've encountered possums, and the occasional racoon, but <b><i>that's</i></b> it. We keep garbage can lids closed tight with bungee cords and the racoons go elsewhere, and usually out of sight since they're nocturnal. </p><p>We did have a baby possum make itself feel at home not long ago when it started to eat the cat's dry food that we leave for Socks inside the front storm door in the vestibule. Socks comes in, eats her food, and settles for the life outdoors. She's not too interested in further domestic living, </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVAJsSgBId_WGK3f4RS-8i2lALbM-MxuI27Y0Sz5WbTeQCNU7a9qs4zdh-J9hFbS-tsF8n65S7OUVowebozvIauY6KjaDDums3zzXf6Y-efqrXCNNuMWm-QgugerVfkrmOdvlMtU5yJvOOg68mPasJEyAW-maU0BBKvYAtx1TXQzcB1tbB5_MJZRhh1pc/s225/australiajumpingcrocodile.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVAJsSgBId_WGK3f4RS-8i2lALbM-MxuI27Y0Sz5WbTeQCNU7a9qs4zdh-J9hFbS-tsF8n65S7OUVowebozvIauY6KjaDDums3zzXf6Y-efqrXCNNuMWm-QgugerVfkrmOdvlMtU5yJvOOg68mPasJEyAW-maU0BBKvYAtx1TXQzcB1tbB5_MJZRhh1pc/w169-h179/australiajumpingcrocodile.jpeg" width="169" /></a></div><div>Jen and her X posse like to tease me when there's a juicy sighting of a rather large snake or spider. They know my reaction will be one of wonderment as to how they stand it all.</div><div><br /></div>Jen likes to get real mail, so every so often we exchange postcards that actually get to each of us after about a week. I've sent her typical NYC postcards and she has sent me a post card of the giant jumping crocodile statue, I think in Adelaide, South Australia. She's also sent me a koala bear greeting card, and another postcard of green frogs. Just how I like my wildlife: on paper.<p></p><p>The fact that pythons are not venomous doesn't make them anymore appealing to me. I asked if they call someone to retrieve the snake, and Jen basically seemed to answer they live and let live, unless it's behind the refrigerator, then animal control comes. Good to know. Speed dial. "Siri, there' a <b><i>LARGE</i></b> snake in the house."</p><p>Lately I've been watching Royal Flying Doctor Service <a href="https://onofframp.blogspot.com/2023/12/flaco-meet-neil-seal.html">(RFDS)</a> about the medical treatment that is provided to Australians in <b><i>very</i></b> remote areas—and they've got plenty of that. Not everything is coastal cities. There's the Outback, and what I'll call the Out Outback.</p><p>This flying air medical team gets called out for all sorts of reasons and uses a twin engine prop plane to get to airstrips that they have to chase the "roos" off first with a jeep. Runway lights? Not much in the way of them. Get there and back before the sun sets.</p><p>The plane is a bit of a flying hospital. Once on the ground the medical teams of a doctor and a flight nurse often have to reach the patients while riding an ATV. One call-out was for a snake bite that could have been venomous. Turns out is <b><i>was</i></b> from a venomous snake, but the bite was a "dry bite." Venom hadn't been discharged when the lovely creature's jaws and teeth and the guy's hand met. He still got a plane ride back to a hospital to be further checked out.</p><p>I have no idea of how many non-Australians ever moved to Australia and stayed there despite the snakes, spiders, "roos" and all the wildlife there is that challenges the inhabitants. I wonder why they don't just pack up and leave for the U.K. An Australian accent is just as good as a British accent.</p><p>But of course we know why. When you're born there, you know what to expect. And wouldn't trade it for anything.</p><p>http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com</p><p><br /></p>John D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01139189131396901685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-276103319355721061.post-67050174513639506732024-01-09T12:17:00.000-05:002024-01-09T12:17:30.195-05:00The Brits and WW II<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7SuY04qYXXRdvEgg7Efo2DhECl8009aB5D-YzceMww1niQwy8Y9MhSi_7Wyt45DTjpSsCDLGiiQYJ1OPeRyszlpjn3Ci9cjRvGeJtMhoGt7_c2cmtgpxxfGwA7HFdSfBEfwhH3m1FAZGK0Ct5VetmV3MsJtch2XUB6hVbxkJM5hk7fto4AD2cud-dK20/s2048/MikeSadler.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1586" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7SuY04qYXXRdvEgg7Efo2DhECl8009aB5D-YzceMww1niQwy8Y9MhSi_7Wyt45DTjpSsCDLGiiQYJ1OPeRyszlpjn3Ci9cjRvGeJtMhoGt7_c2cmtgpxxfGwA7HFdSfBEfwhH3m1FAZGK0Ct5VetmV3MsJtch2XUB6hVbxkJM5hk7fto4AD2cud-dK20/w210-h243/MikeSadler.jpeg" width="210" /></a></div>WW II was a long time ago, existing outside most living people's memories. So when a veteran of WW II passes away it's guaranteed they are going to be of a very advanced age, and their <b><i>New York Times</i></b> tribute<a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2024/01/04/world/europe/mike-sadler-intrepid-dead.html?searchResultPosition=1"> obituary</a> will likely be written by Robert McFadden. Another one of McFadden's advance obits leaves the morgue.<p></p><p>WW II is just as long ago for the Brits as it is for us, but the Brits seem to hold onto it more. They still produce a miniseries like "World at War," a story of the civilian and military population who were affected by the war.</p><p>Both my parents were in the Army in WW II. My father was an engineer Tech Sergeant stationed on Guam, making maps from reconnaissance photos. My mother was a Lieutenant R.N. nurse who was never sent overseas, but was assigned to General Thayer Hospital in Nashville, Tennessee. My parents met during the war and married before it was over. As a kid I always remember hearing the adult conversations dividing time—before the war and after.</p><p>The Brits love to create any historical entertainment that shows off their trains. How many times are we treated to a train whistle from a steam engine pulling into a remote station somewhere in the countryside?</p><p>I love reading about the departed veterans and their exploits, be it building a glider to get out of Colditz prison in Germany, or a Jew whose family left Germany before it was too late, but joined the U.S. Army and acted as interpreters when they went back overseas.</p><p>Ben MacIntyre writes tirelessly about spies and military exploits, and I read most of what he's written. I read Rogue Heroes, with a freight train length subtitle: The History of the SAS, Britain's Special Forces Unit that Sabotaged the Nazi's and Changed the Nature of War. a few years ago. </p><p>If you like reading about military commandos who don't do things purely by the book, it's a good read. The multi-part streaming miniseries that just came out is equally as good.</p><p>When I read the book one of the members of the unit stood out. He was a very young lad who grew up on a farm and was very adept at finding his way around the desert using the stars as a navigational guide. He could get his unit anywhere, and get them back through the Sahara Desert, no mean feat since there is nothing there but thousands of miles of sand and no roads. He was a human GPS.</p><p>We learn from a just published <b><i>NYT</i></b> obit by Robert McFadden that <b><i>Mike Sadler, Intrepid Desert Navigator in World War II</i></b> has passed away at 103.</p><p>His contribution to his unit's success was legendary, allowing a special forces group of commandos attack the German and Italian presence in Northern Africa, destroying planes, blowing up supply depots and killing pilots on the ground.</p><p>The effectiveness of their missions are described in the obit and depicted with dramatic action sequences in the miniseries. The full-on drive by of jeeps just barreling down the runway in Libya and shooting at parked planes, disabling a slew of aircraft is stunning. Just as dramatic is when the commandos burst into a recreation hall filled with unarmed German and Italian pilots caught off guard and mowed down with machine gun fire. War is more than hell. </p><p>Until reading Rogue Heroes I never really understood what was the big deal about tanks and the Sahara Desert? Well, After WW I and the fall of the Ottoman Empire, Libya was an Italian colony. Control Libya and you have access to the Mediterranean. You also have a direct route to British-controlled Egypt.</p><p>The Axis powers of Germany and Italy were thus very interested in preserving the territorial advantage of holding Libya. Thus, the German General Erwin Rommel, The Desert Fox, saw the importance of keeping that control. And General George Patton was just as intent as smashing the Aix powers and taking Italy from the south, which he did.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1OSEF6a-vtRBLtrZJdY_RB0i1rne0RV1aJNCIeK3UFMCNOk80MM2QOMRu5Ra16azOrfdT6w5xl1TL8F3VsUEp99MS9NAxihG2uYRXVLGinsSK0McKltoGLb2Je4V6zUugn4N-CFz_Grd-fKcQj1Q3qAay7K_4rCuQTmCth6JX1uWIhKYzzNwG6zKJR1s/s2048/StirlingandRogueHeroes.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1184" data-original-width="2048" height="143" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1OSEF6a-vtRBLtrZJdY_RB0i1rne0RV1aJNCIeK3UFMCNOk80MM2QOMRu5Ra16azOrfdT6w5xl1TL8F3VsUEp99MS9NAxihG2uYRXVLGinsSK0McKltoGLb2Je4V6zUugn4N-CFz_Grd-fKcQj1Q3qAay7K_4rCuQTmCth6JX1uWIhKYzzNwG6zKJR1s/w248-h143/StirlingandRogueHeroes.jpeg" width="248" /></a></div>The life of Michael Sadler already was a story in a book, Tales From the Special Forces Club: Mike Sadler's Story (2013). The obituary mentions his capture by the Germans, and that is that last episode in the miniseries, sure to have a second season.<p></p><p>The commander, Lt Colonel David Stirling (pictured on the right) was also captured and taken to the notorious German P.O.W. prison Colditz deep in Central German.</p><p>Ben MacIntyre has also written about Colditz prison: "Prisoners of the Castle: An Epic Story of Survival and Escape from Colditz, the Nazis' Fortress Prison." <a href="https://timesmachine.nytimes.com/timesmachine/1990/11/06/037390.html?pageNumber=39">David Stirling</a> passed away in 1990. He had been captured, escaped, and then recaptured and spent the rest of the war at Colditz prison. The Germans nicknamed him the" Phantom Major" because for 14 months they couldn't capture him.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0E4b84YOpkUZhTucEw8EtZAH8PgxEmnqGJQvV-02eganBd8k8ePEClkiSEdLFrbFITdbvi3ma09G6O3PC6EV_Z6OTJLJP_tdXrYs3kBxaO5LOEC9USlX60IyxtM4DkNQVXytkubTob-qc-k3FFL0wV60kaLfxq3-6nmrpUEvc5ylY7mQ_Tg9G8j41vFo/s1278/davidsadler.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1278" data-original-width="1180" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0E4b84YOpkUZhTucEw8EtZAH8PgxEmnqGJQvV-02eganBd8k8ePEClkiSEdLFrbFITdbvi3ma09G6O3PC6EV_Z6OTJLJP_tdXrYs3kBxaO5LOEC9USlX60IyxtM4DkNQVXytkubTob-qc-k3FFL0wV60kaLfxq3-6nmrpUEvc5ylY7mQ_Tg9G8j41vFo/w241-h220/davidsadler.jpeg" width="241" /></a></div>After the war Mike Sadler remained quite busy. He is thought to be the last member of the S.A.S. fighting unit. He went on an expedition to Antarctica and later worked for the British Foreign Office doing classified work.<p></p><p>I like to think that whenever David's exploits were revealed to someone he never paid for another drink in his life.</p><p>http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>John D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01139189131396901685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-276103319355721061.post-35073967372447784882024-01-06T14:54:00.002-05:002024-02-05T09:38:45.893-05:00The Gap Year<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq7JyON6uMCzS9ktzGd6oEquikLOlixBuBs5UQzVu-dO6pRZYBxKET1LwvM3M5RwoOxZ0xjfOeIQfiC_jfVxLuaALUY7WRyjr3Pqj2ek_HOfBhtb1SAne5BRlhCgwWpIT65HZNj6e670ToCZvPDq-KIinicPZVFl4JwUW2PGXYnF-K-ZLptLLu9YhPG_s/s640/IMG_4793.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq7JyON6uMCzS9ktzGd6oEquikLOlixBuBs5UQzVu-dO6pRZYBxKET1LwvM3M5RwoOxZ0xjfOeIQfiC_jfVxLuaALUY7WRyjr3Pqj2ek_HOfBhtb1SAne5BRlhCgwWpIT65HZNj6e670ToCZvPDq-KIinicPZVFl4JwUW2PGXYnF-K-ZLptLLu9YhPG_s/w225-h155/IMG_4793.jpg" width="225" /></a></div>It's been a little over a year since my daughter Susan I have lifted cue sticks at RAXX pool hall in West Hempstead. Last year was a bit of a gap year for us.<p></p><p>First there was my shoulder rotator cuff repair, and then there was Susan's pregnancy and birth of her first, our third grandchild and first grandson, Matthew. But back to what now can be considered a family tradition: playing pool and wishing eternally that we were both better at it. Both my daughter and Matthew are doing fine. It's the pool game that is suffering.</p><p>I think I've written about this encounter before, but it's always stayed with me. When I was a young and callow fellow, and the Piermont brothers were as well, we took our legal eligibility to order a drink at a NYC to a place on Eighth Avenue, somewhere in the 50s called the Horse's Tail.</p><p>The corner establishment had a blinking neon sign that went on and off simulating a swishing horse's tail. Get it? Inside was a horseshoe shaped bar attended by a single, burly bartender wearing a white apron. When Dennis, the more talkative of us, pointed to the bowling trophies behind the bartender if he bowled, he scowled. He was going to have to talk to us. He sucked his teeth, and replied, "I bowl like old people fuck. Not well, and not often." We got the message.</p><p>Little would I know that over 50 years later I could say the same thing about my pool game. I don't care. I persist. In my mind I'm the greatest, even if my longest run yesterday was three balls in a game of straight pool going for 25 points.</p><p>My daughter Susan is a willing partner, and she will admit to being terrible at the game, but enjoys the company, as do I. But I'm here to say it's not cheap to play the game at today's rates. I don't remember what dent the rates put in our pockets when we descended on Broadway Billiards around 52nd Street in Manhattan, but that's over 50 years ago now. Prices certainly change, like neighborhoods. Now, a 1½ hour session for two costs $32.50. Ouch. Well, we don't get to do this often, which of course does nothing to help improve our game.</p><p>I don't think I ever had a bad time playing pool, despite not being very good at it measured against even a moderately good player. When I play now it's always with Dennis and Dave in my mind, and the various places we found to play: Broadway Billiards at 52nd Street and Broadway below the penny arcade; Our home turf. Julien's on 14th Street next to the Academy of Music; McGirr's on Eighth Avenue, where they filmed part of 1961 movie the Hustler with Paul, Newman, Jackie Gleason, George C. Scott, Piper Laurie, and Willie Mosconi, all people that have now passed away, with Piper Laurie just passing away recently.</p><p>It is interesting that Walter Tevis wrote the story The Hustler, and also wrote The Queen's Gambit, two books made into a very popular movie and a 2020 Netflix miniseries decades apart about games played at the highest level. Walter Tevis passed away in 1984, so he never got to see the adaption of the Queen's Gambit. The books were written decades apart, 1959 and 1983. The miniseries The Queen's Gambit provided a breakout role for the leading actress, Anya Taylor Joy.</p><p>We played at Jaycee's and King and Queen in Flushing. We played at the Friar's Club on Sunday mornings courtesy of Dennis and Dave's Uncle Benny, who was a member. We didn't go to Ames because once you can play in Manhattan, there is no need to travel to Brooklyn.</p><p>But Ames is probably where Jackie Gleason learned to "shoot a good stick" growing up in Brooklyn. Paul Newman wasn't a natural player, and someone I once met told me they saw him playing pool after making The Hustler and they were surprised at how bad he was. Hollywood.</p><p>Willie Masconi, the champion professional pool player had a small part in The Hustler, and was of course a technical consultant. If the director wanted a massé shot to be part of the action, you can be sure Mosconi was the hidden pair of hands holding the stick.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4DZUd5wYdo-50CwGiu9H9sKUXwZuSxlQt_muMmzLmLuxpPSoCzThnvzQPiXF3N5V8gMXMRdFUhLDbiBLWEqxqKNjLaC8eNogkuwyVSbm0mScQ1352q04pYfQ4lmGV9_UFtr2X8UrJrj66xjwnDdyg6tZjLxR0gPC2hJ87RAknGL84uErqA9aeU-AFssU/s251/PaulNewmanTheHustler.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="201" data-original-width="251" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4DZUd5wYdo-50CwGiu9H9sKUXwZuSxlQt_muMmzLmLuxpPSoCzThnvzQPiXF3N5V8gMXMRdFUhLDbiBLWEqxqKNjLaC8eNogkuwyVSbm0mScQ1352q04pYfQ4lmGV9_UFtr2X8UrJrj66xjwnDdyg6tZjLxR0gPC2hJ87RAknGL84uErqA9aeU-AFssU/s1600/PaulNewmanTheHustler.jpeg" width="251" /></a></div>I'm sure there's a scene in the Hustler where you can read a sign that says: No Massé Shots. I doubt the sign had the accent over the e but the message was clear: Don't be a knucklehead and think you can pull off a massé shot, probably the most difficult shot in pool, something equaling the 7/10 split in bowling.<p></p><p>The OED defines massé as: a stroke made with the cue stick more or less vertical, so as to impact extra swerve to the cue ball.</p><p>The operative word is "swerve," not "spin." Because you need a lot of pressure on the cue stick to impart this swerve there is a great chance you'll miscue (miss) and make the cue tip hit the table cloth and cause a tear. Not looked upon favorably by pool hall management.</p><p>And why would you want the cue ball to swerve? Well, the Christmas card is a great illustration of Santa making a successful massé shot and sinking the 8-ball, therefore winning the game with what could be equated to a walk-off grand slam homer. What witnesses there might be, they go wild.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS5STK2vpCtcu5Mg5qTwGfJLYMekMQHo0XHq_tAmpBrhoOcic9nfuSbWqOEFSehhIGEUA6gtePAHWc_9F5B_aChLoqrQv5RNx0kdkmLk_Rs1lhCRIuDBRQfV_Cs8rJpGho8mCPeW9JWw-fOLSbaa5ey12ZNVhatxLFZkb8qjdx0sWiPkZF7pi4aHExTU4/s4608/DSC_0750.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3072" data-original-width="4608" height="157" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS5STK2vpCtcu5Mg5qTwGfJLYMekMQHo0XHq_tAmpBrhoOcic9nfuSbWqOEFSehhIGEUA6gtePAHWc_9F5B_aChLoqrQv5RNx0kdkmLk_Rs1lhCRIuDBRQfV_Cs8rJpGho8mCPeW9JWw-fOLSbaa5ey12ZNVhatxLFZkb8qjdx0sWiPkZF7pi4aHExTU4/w258-h157/DSC_0750.JPG" width="258" /></a></div>My daughter Susan, ever the one to tie things in, got me a Christmas card that says: HAPPY CHRIST 'MASSE'. It shows Santa atop a table taking a massé shot to get the cue ball to swerve around the stripes that his opponent hasn't sunk yet so the cue ball can make contact with the 8-ball, sink it, and win the game. The Elves go wild.<p></p><p>The vapor trail depicted in on the card shows the path of the cue ball making contact with the 8-ball and sinking it in the corner pocket.</p><p>My daughter knew it was a great card to get, but didn't know what a massé was. She had to look it up. After explaining it to her I refrained from demonstrating it. I was miscuing enough yesterday. No need to add a potentially destructive massé shot to the mix. I told my daughter to look at one on YouTube.</p><p>In variably when we go to RAXX one of the solo playing guys will spot a female and say something light-hearted. This time, a fellow we hadn't seen before, but one who was clearly trying to sharpen his game, almost immediately passed by and told me to be careful, "she's a hustler."</p><p>The guy looked like Danny DeVito, and coincidently a Danny DeVito subway sandwich commercial appeared on one of the many TVs (no sound) hanging from the ceiling. We both laughed that Susan was being seen as a "hustler." I told him I was trying to win back the money my wife and I paid on her college education.</p><p>So, how did I do? I miscued often, and had a high run of three balls in the straight game we played. We're both so lousy that even a game of 8-ball can take a while to finish. Generally, because of the cost, we usually play for 1½ hours. I always pay. Susan had bought lunch.</p><p>No matter what, I will <b><i>always</i></b> wish I was better at pool.</p><p>http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com</p><p><br /></p>John D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01139189131396901685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-276103319355721061.post-583967843903408952024-01-05T18:05:00.001-05:002024-01-05T18:05:37.853-05:00Like A Bridge Over Troubled Water<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjate70SpH6_242Sl23paGhWiJ0IFlOX2wLV5E_SAcZkDLMZQO0bk7ANbggV2RRe0vFn0g51vVm6yPTiCpcFIjBjcm07Vu6I5Q8ORUCGjCp_vWgjfk-Zi74if_Y5-j-VwUPakiRhKdrUvX0D6_N455Qig9Y0kststQQXGdh8Jauq5bzxufUpvSup2bJuoY/s1024/BrooklynBridgeVendors.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="1024" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjate70SpH6_242Sl23paGhWiJ0IFlOX2wLV5E_SAcZkDLMZQO0bk7ANbggV2RRe0vFn0g51vVm6yPTiCpcFIjBjcm07Vu6I5Q8ORUCGjCp_vWgjfk-Zi74if_Y5-j-VwUPakiRhKdrUvX0D6_N455Qig9Y0kststQQXGdh8Jauq5bzxufUpvSup2bJuoY/s320/BrooklynBridgeVendors.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>My wife, like myself, is a child of the late '40s and all of the '50s, will tell you—and tell you often—that the <b><i>New York Times</i></b> is "Commie, pinko rag." <p></p><p>Like many opinions my wife has, they are not her own. Her <b><i>father</i></b> told her the<b><i> NYT</i></b> was a "Commie, pinko rag." Obviously the paper never entered her household, and just as obvious my wife's opinion of the paper has never changed. She can be intransigent. She's not uninformed, she's just not a newspaper person.</p><p>Similarly I had a friend who grew up on West 55th Street whose father was a producer for TV shows at CBS. My friend always told me the story that his father was <b><i>incensed </i></b>when the public school grammar teacher sent him home with an assignment to read an article in the <b><i>New York Times</i></b> and talk about it in Current Events the next day.</p><p>It didn't matter that my friend's father was Jewish, he <b><i>hated </i></b>the <b><i>New York Times</i></b>. He was a <b><i>Herald Tribune</i></b>,<b><i> New York Post</i></b> kind of guy, and how dare they send his son home to read what he pretty much thought was Commie propaganda. He might have even visited the public school which was just up the street from the apartment.</p><p>My own view of <b><i>The New York Times</i></b> has been way more neutral. I'm aware it can skew left, but I read it for news and stories and the once upon a time sports section which has now been outsourced to The Athletic that has a tough time knowing where Madison Square Garden is. I don't read editorials, and I don't absorb opinions. I've probably been a reader since the paper was 10¢ in the '60s.</p><p>I am a newspaper guy. I could always fold one on a crowded train when I commuted. I have a good laugh at the <b><i>NYT </i></b>because I don't readily think their reporters were born and educated in New York City. Probably not many public school kids from New York City get into Ivy League J-Schools, and therefore are never hired by <b style="font-style: italic;">The Times. </b>No matter. The paper is written and edited well, but it does sit inside a cocoon of unreality of everyday life. </p><p>Take what would be someone's idea of a New York City bridge. If you were to ask a native born and educated New Yorker (even if they went to private, or Catholic school) and told them there are 789 bridges in the city they might say, "you're fucking nuts," or something close to that, but definitely using the word fuck.</p><p>Such was my reaction when I read in Wednesday's paper the <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2024/01/02/nyregion/brooklyn-bridge-vendors.html?searchResultPosition=1">story</a> of now forbidding vendors from selling their NYC souvenir goods from the walkway of the Brooklyn Bridge, and therefore from any of the other 788 bridges. Huh?</p><p>I asked my Bronx born, Catholic school dedicated wife at dinner, did she think there were 789 bridges in New York City. She said <b><i>"what, who said that?"</i></b> (I didn't have the nerve to tell her.) as she went back to watching weatherman Lonnie Quinn with his sleeves <b><i>not</i></b> rolled up telling us there would be "some snow" somewhere soon. Ever since Lonnie effectively shut the city down several years ago with a devastating prediction of so much snow that we would disappear under it like Quebec City in February, and did not see anywhere near it, Lonnie's been a good deal more circumspect in telling New Yorkers about that other four letter word: snow.</p><p>A Tweet to the reporter, Sarah Maslin Nir, went unanswered when I asked if they could provide a map of the 789 locations of these bridges and what was the source of that number. Expecting a reply Tweet from a <b><i>NYT</i></b> reporter is like waiting for Godot.</p><p>It hit me an hour or so later that this figure might be derived from including <b style="font-style: italic;">overpasses, </b>not necessarily structures that convey people or vehicles over <b><i>water</i></b> that the city would love to put tolls on. The OED tells us the definition for bridge is broad enough that overpasses <b><i>could be</i></b> included in the tally. And I am convinced they are.</p><p><b><i>Bridge: A structure carrying a road, path, railway, etc. across a stream, river, ravine, road, railway, etc.</i></b></p><p>Yes, but why would you lump overpasses with bridges over waterways like the Brooklyn Bridge? It makes no sense.</p><p>Good old Google <b><i>does</i></b> confirm that the NYC Department of Transportation (DOT) says they are responsible for maintaining all 789 bridges in the city. And apparently proud of it no matter what their condition is.</p><p>The story is about <b><i>one</i></b> bridge in New York City, the Brooklyn Bridge, instead of being offered for sale to some rube, that has instead become 34th Street or 125th Street filled with vendors clogging up the sidewalk or walkway. I didn't know this about the bridge, but it's not surprising.</p><p>I've never seen vendors hugging the sidelines on either the Whitestone or Throggs Neck bridges, but then again they don't have walkways. </p><p>The sub-heading to the story is emphatic: <i style="font-weight: bold;">All 789 spans are closed to souvenir sellers, leaving many of them with nowhere to go. </i>It is now the city's fault that thousands of people will now not be able to sell you I Love New York sweatshirts, or operate a 3-D photo booths as you cross any of the 789 spans.</p><p>Are they nuts? Typical <b><i>New York Times</i></b>. By counting overpasses the city has been deemed to be cruel to all these people who are using 789 spans! When I lived in Flushing around the corner from the house there was a Murray Street overpass that went over the railroad tracks for the Port Washington line. This was between 41st Avenue and Barclay Street, in front of the NYFD Engine Company 274 firehouse.</p><p>In all my years in Flushing I never saw anyone selling T-shirts on this overpass, or any other overpass in the city. You might get approached in your car while you wait for a light in the Bronx or Brooklyn on an exit ramp on Mother's Day by someone selling hydrangea plants, but <b><i>nothing</i></b> approaching the open air bazaar of what the city is trying to close down on the Brooklyn Bridge.</p><p>The Brooklyn Bridge is a tourist attraction, and the walkway helps give it foot traffic, and with foot traffic come enterprising vendors.</p><p>Build it, keep it open, and they will come back.</p><p>http://www.onofframp.blogspot.com</p><p><br /></p>John D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01139189131396901685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-276103319355721061.post-18283998518989556912024-01-04T13:22:00.000-05:002024-01-04T13:22:16.283-05:00Fun With Years<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1_AUkGVu8lnJd_i_vbl08tInHDHyWycE6NOpy5S7sIp9EX-XWLlLyUQpOxhi7aPQ81a1Ij1wNtlJF0ztF123wdtxagWY0oz10fHuwAlHNF0DfUnwKbUBnYITuW1A_g9gB8QiU5GBN9TDkbr_4SRS8MkuUdQoZfaKFK0wzMi8jAvmxA2MEV86dSnXU_bA/s270/123123.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="148" data-original-width="270" height="148" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1_AUkGVu8lnJd_i_vbl08tInHDHyWycE6NOpy5S7sIp9EX-XWLlLyUQpOxhi7aPQ81a1Ij1wNtlJF0ztF123wdtxagWY0oz10fHuwAlHNF0DfUnwKbUBnYITuW1A_g9gB8QiU5GBN9TDkbr_4SRS8MkuUdQoZfaKFK0wzMi8jAvmxA2MEV86dSnXU_bA/s1600/123123.jpg" width="270" /></a></div>It was quite a few years ago when my wife and I were in a Tech-HiFi in the West 40s buying a cassette player. That sentence <b><i>alone</i></b> should tell you how long ago this was.<p></p><p>I distinctly remember the FM voice on the store radio informing us that it was a rare day. The digital time and the date and year lined up to be: <b><i>12345678</i></b>. 12:34 for the time; May 6, 1978 for the date. I always thought that was helpful because after watching so many Perry Mason episodes as a kid I was always afraid some courtroom attorney was going to question me where I was on the "day in question" and I wouldn't be able to tell anyone and I'd be convicted. But, 12345678 gave me an alibi on my whereabouts and when.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJrvyxHtgi6n4CIWvJJU9I6zrQclULlO8i3fX9U2Z2xHUIM__sH31oTiWK68sV6IB1s77la8us8ugHGjajLXx-yXxOl17yc1N4ql_bSEQwbWb3zdZPmfaanyz26Gl6-LKjuYdRzT49-BjPzGs1eOEHgK3fC2vNAJ3qKZGZBiErH9tuGIw6m_ZF7PVTMUw/s158/jeopardypicture.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="89" data-original-width="158" height="89" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJrvyxHtgi6n4CIWvJJU9I6zrQclULlO8i3fX9U2Z2xHUIM__sH31oTiWK68sV6IB1s77la8us8ugHGjajLXx-yXxOl17yc1N4ql_bSEQwbWb3zdZPmfaanyz26Gl6-LKjuYdRzT49-BjPzGs1eOEHgK3fC2vNAJ3qKZGZBiErH9tuGIw6m_ZF7PVTMUw/s1600/jeopardypicture.jpg" width="158" /></a></div>One night on Jeopardy one of the categories was palindromic years: same year forward and backwards. The clue was an event in that year; you guess the year. I 'm not sure what the clues were, but the years I remember are: 1001, 1661, 1881, 1991, 2002.<p></p><p>All this brought me back to my days of buying <b><i>MAD </i></b>magazine at Siegal's corner candy store in Flushing by the Murray Hill LIRR station when I was a kid. I never forgot the issue that shows Alfred E. Neuman, beside pointing to the IND pointing out that 1961viewed upside down is still 1961. It's not a palindrome. I don't know what you'd call it, but 1001, and 1881 are similar upside down years.<pside p="" years.=""></pside></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh78j8rNgly83adx0UvLIlE9lOKjGHoR7KUG1PwbQho6VZHNn_104AaNvkCc8szKtu0qX6nKhvgpjRMJZ6pkhKFtMd2UgWv4gyyYebG3mq7fQAnIzDpOyyvvX5ZgFvJrtgZBAgyhxxLkR8H6F2anGosw0lHhXYstc55GONnNhC236y7mIXaRzLkVNe_-PY/s150/Madmagazine1961.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="148" data-original-width="150" height="148" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh78j8rNgly83adx0UvLIlE9lOKjGHoR7KUG1PwbQho6VZHNn_104AaNvkCc8szKtu0qX6nKhvgpjRMJZ6pkhKFtMd2UgWv4gyyYebG3mq7fQAnIzDpOyyvvX5ZgFvJrtgZBAgyhxxLkR8H6F2anGosw0lHhXYstc55GONnNhC236y7mIXaRzLkVNe_-PY/s1600/Madmagazine1961.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>And ever since that 12345678 revelation at Tech-HiFi, I've looked at digital clocks a bit differently. I love to see 11:11; 12:12; 10;10; and of course the best one, 12:34<p></p><p>Of course numbers aren't the only source of palindromes. Words and their letters can be too. The one I remember most is FRED DERF from a long ago 'I Love Lucy' episode. There are many others, and I'm sure those who are great at Scrabble can easily supply more.</p><p>But why wonder what other words or phrases are palindromes? Let's just ask the latest software expert for help: ChatGPT.</p><p>-----------------------------------------------</p><p><b><i><u></u></i></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><i><u><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJArsT8k9LyKQm8B53sOBYy4ziywHmMWQAhUc-rQmFLTkEiP6hWCyi3ra-a7hJHmTnCUwK26JIzoQ20X46fRs-jf1V0kW9tYrE4HJyv94vcvptTgQfvqH_4Aj7rueY06q_PNCnLilN2qMhoG-u2pkx5iK16oXD_Rjg5MnZJIRBJFntKLSSuqpFwBoQkVQ/s181/ChatGPT.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="171" data-original-width="181" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJArsT8k9LyKQm8B53sOBYy4ziywHmMWQAhUc-rQmFLTkEiP6hWCyi3ra-a7hJHmTnCUwK26JIzoQ20X46fRs-jf1V0kW9tYrE4HJyv94vcvptTgQfvqH_4Aj7rueY06q_PNCnLilN2qMhoG-u2pkx5iK16oXD_Rjg5MnZJIRBJFntKLSSuqpFwBoQkVQ/w143-h133/ChatGPT.jpg" width="143" /></a></u></i></b></div><b><i><u>ChatGPT</u></i></b><p></p><p>Palindrome phrases are sequences of characters that read the same forward and backward. Here are some examples:</p><p>1. A man, a plan, a canal, Panama</p><p>2. Madam, in Eden, I'm Adam</p><p>3. Able was I ere I saw Elba</p><p>4. A Santa lived as a devil at NASA</p><p>These phrases remain the same when you read them from left to right, right to left, ignoring punctuation and capitalization.</p><p>------------------------------------------------</p><p>Will IBM's Watson and ChatGPT ever square off in the Tournament of Champions on Jeopardy?</p><p>http://www.onofframp.blocgspot.com</p><p><br /></p>John D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01139189131396901685noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-276103319355721061.post-18747791184634611052023-12-31T11:33:00.002-05:002023-12-31T14:38:38.724-05:00Obit Vault<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb4bWITuOS1Dp0eoDoVdIlO-EB7XCLkPlKPfN3ilC1i_-FCbAmAKBeel4YanymxoCvyQ5Ype-FlGsbmfweyf7_Q3wqS_M9_ygyAJIFIugfUKlL65mYmrHyk8u-ZkXq4U-gT3sYp5eHKFyxE5PaPMvUPtOqhJaeWEDdoCbiOBlJj_Dm92CqUaF4o3gWTWY/s2048/obitrecap2023.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb4bWITuOS1Dp0eoDoVdIlO-EB7XCLkPlKPfN3ilC1i_-FCbAmAKBeel4YanymxoCvyQ5Ype-FlGsbmfweyf7_Q3wqS_M9_ygyAJIFIugfUKlL65mYmrHyk8u-ZkXq4U-gT3sYp5eHKFyxE5PaPMvUPtOqhJaeWEDdoCbiOBlJj_Dm92CqUaF4o3gWTWY/s320/obitrecap2023.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>It's the last day of the year. A chance to add one more posting to my count for the year, making the total 106, a tie with last year's total.<div><br /></div><div>Anyone who reads the tribute obits in the <b><i>NYT </i></b>knows that the obit editor, William McDonald, will write a year-end <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2023/12/28/obituaries/obituaries-deaths-2023.html?searchResultPosition=1">recap</a> of the lives that were lived and passed away in 2023. It's always a neatly worded elegy, picking out the highlights of the well known, and not so well known who have passed away. Would you remember the name of Joe the Plumber if not for a <b><i>NYT</i></b> obit? Bill reminds us.</div><div><br /></div><div>This year's recap picks up the theme of the very long lives of some of the notables who passed away. Many are over 100; a lot between 90 and 100.</div><div><br /></div><div>Interesting in Bill's piece, he uses an out quote from one of his former obit writers Margalit Fox. She's the only obit writer quoted in his piece. Margalit was the closest writer to the now long departed, but always missed, Robert McG. Thomas Jr. She could capture in a lede an entire life.</div><div><br /></div><div>Margalit has left the paper to write books, but I know the obit writers on slow days are given ne assignment of updating advance obits that are in the "morgue," or starting new advance obits on the famous who might be near the grave. You know President Jimmy Carter's obit keeps getting updated, but has yet to makes its way out of the morgue as he will, and all of us, eventually head into it.</div><div><br /></div><div>In one of my October Vermont visits I would always stop by the Northshire bookstore in Manchester and buy a Warren Kimble calendar for the coming new year. When I presented the calendar to the cashier, the older owner of the bookstore, I asked, "how high do the numbers go?" As I'm now found of saying: How bad can the year have been if you're alive at the end of it?</div><div><br /></div><div>He didn't immediately understand the question, but then took in the calendar's year, maybe 2016, and understood. I'm more than a little surprised that I've made this far into the 21st century, being born just before the half century mark of the 20th. </div><div><br /></div><div>And anyone who reads <b><i>NYT</i></b> obits as regularly as myself knows that when a Robert McFadden obit appears the subject will probably be a nonagenarian, or older. McFadden himself is a Pulitzer winning reporter whose ledes are pure poetry.</div><div><br /></div><div>I think he's still active with the paper, being somewhere in his 70s. Anything by McFadden is a delight to read, and Bill's recap for 2023 made me ask: "how many McFadden obits are in the vault waiting to rise to a day's edition?"</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_wDwuVi-HRc4FUhTPmKQVRF82xdR2vGcFzmSrbfywMAQZj9Hm_JVGQxKelIO3KSnIx93hQ34ZnxsRP9EE3GLJqPjG3HfjMpZ24EaJxeQKYjzB04ImDXgiC01z8kMwYH7sNSLMvtGyuGFbXYnvdXWjgbBovWadGvYbr-3Cp8Kin6no7rm7ejUYavJroLg/s327/DeadBeatbook.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="327" data-original-width="204" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_wDwuVi-HRc4FUhTPmKQVRF82xdR2vGcFzmSrbfywMAQZj9Hm_JVGQxKelIO3KSnIx93hQ34ZnxsRP9EE3GLJqPjG3HfjMpZ24EaJxeQKYjzB04ImDXgiC01z8kMwYH7sNSLMvtGyuGFbXYnvdXWjgbBovWadGvYbr-3Cp8Kin6no7rm7ejUYavJroLg/w155-h249/DeadBeatbook.jpeg" width="155" /></a></div>Even when eventually Mr. McFadden passes away here might still be a few left in the vault. When the subject passes away <b><i>after</i></b> the obit writer, Marilyn Johnson who wrote the valentine to obits, "The Dead Beat: Lost Souls, Lucky Stiffs and the Perverse Pleasures of Obituaries," would tell us these are called "double downs" by the pros.</div><div><br /></div><div>When this happens, the editor usually adds a note to the obit that so-and-so passed away before the subject, lest someone start to think the writer has risen from the dead.</div><div><br /></div><div>Obit writers might pass away, but they never leave us.</div><div><br /></div><div>http://www.onofframp.blogpsot.com</div><div><br /></div>John D.http://www.blogger.com/profile/01139189131396901685noreply@blogger.com0