Remembrances of Things Past

Reading the 'The Man Who Never Returned,' by Peter Quinn doesn't require you to be of a certain age and a native New Yorker. It does help, however.

Mr. Quinn is of a certain age, is a native New Yorker, grew up in a political atmosphere, worked in one as an adult, and has been forever fascinated by the disappearance of Judge Joseph Force Crater since sometime between birth and learning the multiplication tables.

So, if you’re old enough to remember Automats, Schrafft’s, the Savoy Plaza, the Third Avenue El, and of course Penn Station (pictured above) before it was torn down and replaced by what still makes some people cry, then there is good likelihood that the fictionalized account of solving New York’s longest running missing persons case is for you.

It is 1955 and Fintan Dunne, Peter Quinn’s free-lance detective has been retained by a media mogul to solve the Crater case, just in time for the 25th anniversary of the Judge’s permanent disappearance that will neatly coincide with a magazine launch by media mogul’s publishing empire. The Judge has been missing since August 6,1930, after hailing a cab (not yellow) upon leaving a restaurant on West 45th Street after having dinner with some people. He was actually unheard from for a month before anyone officially notified anyone that perhaps something happened to him. And he had friends. And a wife.

The Judge Crater case is a true story. The Judge has been missing for 80 years. This is longer than Jimmy Hoffa, and just as unexplained. No doubt someone’s speculation is true. But which one?

Mr. Quinn’s detective, Fintan Dunne, through logic, interviews, old police contacts, favors and speculation of his own, solves the case. Or, does he?

Of course we know, however, that Judge Crater is still considered missing, and the circumstances unexplained. But after reading the book you do accept that the Judge is still missing. Yes, but should he be?

As Mr Quinn observes, if the interest of the living brings some comfort to the dead, then whatever the circumstances of the Judge's demise, he's resting more than comfortably somewhere.

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Septembers

September 11, 2001
September 16, 2002
Forever linked.

The dates on the stones let you measure the time
Of the lives that lived in between.
The bracketed years reveal to the current
The joys and the troubles they've seen.

On any given day a person is born
You can record the date of their birth.
And on any given day a person can die
And you can record that they've left this earth.

And the morning we made our dusty descent,
An accomplishment undiminished,
We learned of the others and their bracketed date,
And our own, that remained unfinished.

So it is incredible to believe the end can be met
At the hands of someone we knew.
He put an end to life, he put an end to himself,
But he didn't put an end to you.

No one ever dies
Who lives in hearts
Left behind.

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You Had Me At

Michael Burn, 97, Writer and Adventurer

I was probably going to read this obituary just based on the individual's age. Being 97 in 2010 puts you way back there. And there's little I like to do more than think about all that went on in a life that spanned nearly 100 years. But the fine tuned lead by William Grimes clinched it:

Michael Burn, a British journalist and author whose eventful life included an early flirtation with Nazism: a daring commando raid on the fortified port of St. Nazaire, France; an imprisonment in Colditz Castle; a love affair with the British spy Guy Burgess; and a timely intervention in the aftermath of World War II that saved Audrey Hepburn's life, died September 3 at his home in North Wales. He was 97.

Routine stuff. Until the Audrey Hepburn part.

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The Nose Knows

I only read about the recent race call at Monmouth race track where two horses, one named Mywifenosevrything and the other named Thewifedoesntknow were battling each other down the stretch, vying for the lead. The legendary Monmouth announcer, Larry Collmus was not about to let a once-in-a-lifetime moment pass and accurately made the call, literally and symbolically..."Mywifenosevrything, Thewifedoesntknow...they're one-two...of course they are!"

The horses continued toward the finish line, with Mywifenosevrything prevailing with a two length victory. Thewifedoesntknow finished second, creating a $29.40 exacta.

Giving horses cute, smashed together names is not common, but there's a bit more of it than they're ever used to be. A quick look at either name and it seems completely unpronounceable, foreign. Finalists at some European match, in almost any sport. A closer look reveals that the letters represent words, with no spaces separating them. The Jockey Club, controls the naming of horses and sets a basic length rule that the name cannot be more than 18 characters, including spaces. There are other considerations applied to weed out sexual innuendos, politics, religion, and other taboo topics that might inflame someone.

Thus, the words 'my wife knows everything' get a bit of a Twitter condensation to make the phrase conform to the space rules. 'The wife doesn't know' just sheds the apostrophe.

When playing exactas, it is common when selecting two horses to "box" the order of finish. This means two bets, one for each outcome. It's a hedge, but not one everyone uses. Some people will just make the bet a "straight" proposition, with no hedge.

Given the names of the horses, it's hard to imagine that anyone felt they needed to hedge the bet with a "box." The names should, and this time did, create a predictable order of finish that didn't need a bet being wasted going the other way.

But true to this country's use of replay and rematch, the two horses are again meeting in a race tomorrow. There are other horses in the field, and the order of finish is not really pre-determined. Cute names or not, it is not however uncommon for a one-two finish to be repeated the next time out.

Time will tell. It always does. You can bet on it.

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Just in Case

My funny bone has been tickled a bit lately. I'd like to think the editors at the WSJ are giving Stephen Miller a little more leash with his obituary writing lately. It's just the playful little boy in me with a frog in his pocket.

How else can you explain that Mr. Miller got away with referring to the recently departed host of the PBS show 'Star Gazer,' Jack Horkheimer, as a "slightly cracked character." It's a great obit about someone I knew nothing of, and now wish I had. I think I might have enjoyed looking up and bumping into Jack on TV, pulling in his take on "naked eye" astronomy. Who even knew that looking up at the sky could be described as "naked eye astronomy?"

And today's obit, on a legendary creator of knives, Bob Loveless, who lived to be 81, chain smoking his way without a tooth in his head, who wore a ".45 sidearm strapped to his belt." as he worked alone, often to midnight, turning out high end hunting knives.

Mr. Loveless apparently became interested in knives when he faked his age at 15 and joined the Merchant Marines, witnessing a few knife fights in foreign ports.

It's not in the obit, but you can bet it crossed Mr. Miller's mind to somehow work in that Bob Loveless was so well prepared in his work that even in his own workshop he brought a gun, just in case a knife fight broke out.

An editor probably got in the way.

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All Is Not Lost

Casual attire is in. It has been that way for some time now. It's everywhere, and perhaps it's not where you want it to be, but it's made great inroads and has wide acceptance.

It wasn't all that long ago I remember reading a story about Al Hirschfeld, the famous illustrator who drew so many well-liked caricatures of theater people. Mr. Hirschfeld, by virtue of an extremely long and active-duty life, was able to compare many decades of theater life and the look of the people who attended the theater.

Sometime in the 1990s he commented on how it was not at all unusual to see people attend Broadway shows in shorts, collarless shirts, and other forms of dress-down that were in stark contrast to to the tuxedoed days of his earlier life. Which of course would have started sometime in the 1920s.

My friend's father, who had been a booking agent for Loew's Theaters, and later a producer for CBS television, would often attend opening nights on Broadway in the 1960s decked out in a tuxedo. And he wasn't the only one. Women of course wore gowns. It was always the Oscars.

Tuxedos gave way to at least suits, and always ties. And certainly nicely dressed women. This was the world I entered into. A few decades of sporadic theater attendance and my wife and I noticed what Mr. Hirschfeld was commenting on. And it wasn't only Broadway. In Toronto in the year 2000 I distinctly remember a male and female radio personality duo commenting on how they couldn't believe how people were dressing to go to the theater. Well, believe it, I muttered to myself.

So, it was with some happiness that I read that the erosion of dress wasn't completely down to underwear.

A return from a slightly upstate destination always leaves me with something to remember the place by. Usually this occurs from something I read in the local paper. Only this time, it wasn't obituary in source.

It seems a story was coming out of Fairhaven, Massachusetts about a "well-dressed thief" who knocked over a gas station, and was likely the same "remarkably well attired" gent who earlier in the week had done the same to a vitamin store. Apparently the guy stood out. He didn't blend into the crowd.

At the vitamin store robbery he was described as someone who wore a yellow shirt and light-colored slacks. The gas station fellow was described as someone who had on a green shirt and black slacks. No weapon was shown, and no one was hurt.

The polce sergeant said it was unusual for someone to wear his "Sunday best" when pulling these types of jobs.

I was not in Massachusetts at any point during my vacation.

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Does A Bear **** In the Woods?

You betcha! And in several other places as well.

Civilization encroaching on the wilderness, and those in the wilderness needing alternatives when nature throws it a curve, all contribute to bears wandering into spots they’re not really welcome. Like homes. Like cars. Like lots of places. It seems this has become a particular problem in Nevada.

Today's WSJ carries an A-Head piece on Bubba the Bear, a particularly large and nettlesome creature who is apparently creating a fair amount of havoc in the Lake Tahoe region of Nevada. It seems when someone is big, threatening, horny or hungry, and has a heartbeat, they are nicknamed Bubba.

Since 2007 Bubba has apparently proved to be elusive, and perhaps bullet-proof. He has broken into homes, cars, and churches. He has consumed 20 jars of peanut butter (smooth, or chunky not divulged) from a Presbyterian church that was going to hand the jars out to the needy last Thanksgiving.

A homeowner claims to have plugged him between the eyes with a Magnum .44 (the most powerful handgun in the world) only to have the shots bounce off him. In this regard Bubba resembles Superman. No one has yet found the Kryptonite, either.

Bubba has his own Lt. Gerard, who has been trying to get Bubba, as he says,"to go out of the population." This is the college educated way of saying Bubba needs to be whacked.

So far it hasn't happened. Bubba apparently has his own M.O. and leaves basketball-size bonbons behind, no doubt caused by a penchant for donated peanut butter.

Which of course brings us to the Academy Awards show of years ago when Jack Palance on receiving an Oscar for the Best Supporting Actor for his role in the movie 'City Slickers,' told his co-star and show host, Billy Crystal, that he, Jack, ****s bigger than he is.

Jack is no longer with us. But Bubba is.

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