Sidebars

Of Cheap Land & Sanford Jarrell....by Bob Sanders

It was while watching the magnificent Lawrence of Arabia the other day that I began thinking about desert land and the world’s extraordinary abundance of it.  Reasonably observant but not entirely sure of my facts, it would appear there is more sand in Lawrence than snow in Dr. Zhivago.  Maybe that’s one for trivia buffs? 

Interestingly, while many of us tend to think of our country becoming increasingly crowded, the truth is there is an enormous amount of land that, while habitable, has little or no present value.  Take Bent County, Colorado, a four-hour drive southeast of Denver.  The most recent census figures show 6,000 people living in Bent County--half of them in Las Animas, hard by the Arkansas River and just west of where the Purgatory River flows into the Arkansas.  It’s easy to imagine developers, wishing to push east, expressing chagrin over the river’s name and finding it difficult to envision intrinsic curb appeal for realtors to extol as in: “Just think.  You can live on the edge of Purgatory.”  A realtor hawking property without curb appeal is like a pitcher lacking a curve ball.         

 Each year I receive a tax notice from Alta Mae Brown, Bent County Treasurer.  The annual assessment for what I understand are 80 arid acres  in Tax District 25 amounts to $10.69 and each year I send a check to Alta Mae.  I even have the option of making payments every six months but I resist on the basis of wanting to appear magnanimous about it.   Although I’ve never visited my inherited property, I find there’s something reassuring about paying 10 bucks and change each of every 20 years to retain my legal possession of 80 acres.  In addition, paying my Bent County taxes enables me to vent even greater anger over politicians, bankers and CEOs who forget to pay theirs. 

The land became mine when Mickey, my second wife, died.  A couple of years later, I called Alta Mae wondering if I should do something about placing the land in my possession. The Bent County Treasurer was casually agreeable and my tax notices began coming to Mary Jarrell Sheridan  c/o Robert H. Sanders.  I guess that’s progress.

Things haven’t been as one-sided as they might appear, Bent County-wise.  I’ve twice been the beneficiary of what turned out to be failed attempts to find oil beneath the land.  The rental has added up to something approaching four times the 20-year total of my annual chump change payments.  It’s also good to get reminders each year that my money is being distributed to such worthy causes as School District RE-2, the Hasty McClave Fire Department and the Bent Prowers Cemetery.  The cemetery is getting 32 cents from me this year and it seems reasonable.  Getting up there in years, I may investigate more serious aspects of the big sleep opportunities there whose confines, to make W.C. Fieldsian jest, might very well pale by comparison to Philadelphia.

My land was originally purchased by Mickey’s father Arch Jarrell.  A rather well-known mid-western editor, Arch was press secretary to Alf Landon during one of those Republican failures achieved running against Franklyn D. Roosevelt.  Being beaten in 1936 by Roosevelt (FDR won all but Maine and Vermont) was the political equivalent of being a member of heavyweight champ Joe Louis’s Bum of the Month Club. 

Arch was one of three brothers--all of them journalists.  Jack Jarrell, a long-time Washington bureau chief of the Omaha World-Herald, spent 50 years in the business, then eased into  something of a second career: acting in movies, TV series and commercials.

Then there was Sanford, the reportorial reprobate of the family who gained more fame of sorts than the others.  Employed by the New York Herald Tribune, Sanford Jarrell titillated readers in August, 1924 with a series of front page reports about a fabulous gambling ship off Fire Island beyond the 12-mile limit.  The ship, the Friedrich der Grosse, came complete with ladies of the evening who danced on tables amid Niagaras of liquor.  Sanford’s only clue concerning the veracity of the series came from a red-headed flapper who reportedly shouted an unlikely line: “This is an epic lark.”

The story was a series of falsehoods originating in Jarrell’s fervid imagination.  He had phoned all of it in--mostly from a bar not far from the paper.  He lost his job, became an itinerant newsman, and died in a fire caused by his cigarette.  Time magazine’s obituary included a picture of the Herald Tribune’s play of Sanford’s entertaining deceit.  His call-in coverage had produced a headline reading: “Wine, Women, Jazz and Revelry Turn Night to Day on Mystery Ship.”  Those were Prohibition days when thirsts were parched by illegal booze.

One of the strangest things about Sanford’s post-Herald Tribune life involved an approach by William Randolph Hearst, an early practitioner of “yellow journalism” whose current approximation would be that of Rupert Murdoch.  Impressed by Sanford’s front-page fiction, Hearst offered the writer a job cranking out scripts at Cosmopolitan Pictures for great good actress friend Marion Davies.  Sanford turned him down, according to family lore.

One evening in 1978 while employed by Field Enterprises, I was having dinner with Stuart Loory and his wife.  Field owned the Chicago Sun-Times and Loory was its managing editor.  A particularly tenacious newspaperman, Loory had a resume that included a gig with Sanford Jarrell’s late and decidedly lamented paper.  Mickey was with me, the conversation turned to great newspaper hoaxes and I made passing reference to his old paper’s deception of the 20’s.

“That was the magnificent hoax of all newspaper hoaxes,” declared Loory who today is a Professor of Magazine Journalism at the Missouri School of Journalism.  “It was pulled off in remarkable fashion by a reporter named Sanford Jarrell.”

Warming to Loory’s chortling enthusiasm, I said: “Stuart, my friend, you are sitting next to the niece of Sanford, the black sheep of the Jarrell family.”  Loory was impressed.  Mickey beamed and we hoisted one to Sanford.  In toasting the juiced journalist, we concluded he had upheld at least half of a once popular publishing dictum: “Liquor is the curse of the Herald Tribune and sex is the bane of the Times.”

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Self-Absorption....by Bob Sanders

Having posted observations since last July, I must confess a nagging uneasiness about the name of what it is I do: blog.  Without putting too much emphasis on my confusion, the word blog, as defined by something called Free Dictionary by Farlex, suggests it is diary-like as in: “I blogged today and told you and the rest of the world about how much weight I’ve already lost this week.  Between that and some awesome clothes I almost bought and this diary being about the most important thing in my life, I’ve been busy, busy, busy.  Seen any good movies lately?”

The Free Dictionary is provided by MSN to whom I am indebted for the magic at my often stumbling fingertips.  I’ve used FD but once for the above and that because I’m a feely sort of communicator who prefers reaching for Webster’s Dictionary, my old standby.  For whatever it’s worth, I find it deliciously ironic that neither Webster’s nor another reliable, Spell Check, recognize the word blog or any of its offshoots.   While the case can be made that such forms of blogging as diaries are democracy in action, my hope is that we can create classifications that will set various approaches to blogging apart.  Not attempting to come off as some kind of Fourth Corner snob (and I submit there is less of that sort of thing in the Pacific Northwest than elsewhere), I have a solution to my quandary.  Because my blogged meanderings tend to be essayistic recollections, from now on all references to them by me will be as blessays.  There, I’ve invented a word.  I trust this isn’t latent self-absorption raising its ugly head.

While the self-absorbed are everywhere, I submit that actors are up there near the top.  That’s probably the biggest motivating factor in their getting into such a crazy business.

A case in point involved the long gone and very great Frank Fay whose personal life was a continuing meltdown compared to his success on stage.  You missed something if you didn’t see him in Harvey.  He made Jimmy Stewart look like a road show version.

Once upon a tumultuous time for Fay, the actor had been hauled into court on a serious matter and his attorney, knowing the judge’s feelings about Fay’s lack of respect for the law and his monumental vanity, warned the actor to play down his egocentricity.  “When he questions you, give him simple answers and don’t embellish a thing,” pleaded the attorney.  Asked by the judge for his name and livelihood, Fay replied.  “I am Frank Fay, the world’s greatest entertainer.”

After justice had been administered (Fay thought unfairly), his attorney asked him why he had behaved in such boorish fashion?

“Well,” offered the actor, “I was under oath.”

One evening in the southwest, I observed the kind of self-centeredness I’m sure Sigmund Freud would have found fascinating.  You may recall Dr. Freud as the man who inspired the term “Freudian slip” which is what results when a person says one thing and means a mother.

Enter Barbara Nichols, perhaps best remembered for her portrayal of Mildred, Jack Benny’s TV girl friend.  In 1955, TV Guide purchased a successful Oklahoma City programming publication and I was dispatched to train an editor, play big brother to an infantile manager, and create a state-wide weekly of programming accuracy. 

We chose the Skirvin Hotel in Oklahoma City for a party and bought booze in Texas--Oklahoma then a dry state.  As an extra added attraction, as the vernacular went in those days, Nichols was invited for photo op purposes.  TV Guide’s home office in Philadelphia (later suburban Radnor) was represented by circulation director Dwight Yellen and other members of the company including my first boss, Art Shulman, who later co-authored How Sweet It Was--a nostalgic look at TV including lots of pictures, some of which I supplied.

Somehow, I wound up having dinner with Nichols the evening before the party.  I have a vague memory of picking her up at the airport and heading for an Italian restaurant.

Barbara Nichols, born in Queens, New York, got into reasonably dignified forms of show business by way of men’s magazines where her magnificent body graced page after page.  As sex symbols go, Nichols was easily an 11.  I won’t go so far as to suggest she made Marilyn Monroe look like a boy, but you get the idea.  Today, we would say Barbara is exceedingly hot.

Dinner progressed very nicely when, quite suddenly, Nichols exclaimed: “Oh, my goodness, there I am,” and pointed to a brick wall some 15 feet away.  The wall had an oddly mottled look.  With that, she pulled me out of my chair for a closer inspection.  Our examination revealed the more interesting pieces of female anatomy had been cut from magazines, pasted on the wall, then shellacked.

“Look, there’s one of my boobs,” she exclaimed.  Who would know better than the possessor of it or them?  Later on, dinner cooling, her thoroughgoing inspection produced a derriere claimed as her own although, in her self-absorbed exuberance, she didn’t call it that.

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This Dog's Life....by Bob Sanders

Sidebars    This Dog’s Life….By Bob Sanders

I want to come off as neither a snob nor a whistle blower, but I guess my observations are significant enough to warrant those risks.  I figure you deserve to know what goes on behind the scenes at the recently concluded Westminster Kennel Club event at Madison Square Garden.  Oh, yes.  I know about these things. I’m a dog.

Not just any dog.  My name is Gemstone Spoiled to Perfection but my best friends call me Pixie.  I was one of five Bichon Frises invited to participate in the 133rd competition of that American rarity, an unsullied sport.  With New York Yankee Alex Rodriguez admitting the use of steroids, I’m proud to point out that the Westminster Kennel Club Show has yet to be disgraced by charges of steroid use although rumors persist regarding how two years ago a judge was smitten by the Botox lips of a standard French poodle from Santa Barbara.  We often refer to her as the Angelina Jolie of the canine world.          

It may be that you are relatively unaware of the Bichon Frise.  We are a proud breed of Mediterranean ancestry whose origins predate the birth of Christ.  The dog you see today is the Tenerife Bichon named after one of the Canary Islands.  We are happy, playful and mischievous. 

It’s not easy being a show dog.  Unless one achieves the kind of stardom possible at Madison Square Garden, it’s something like being a model at a Milan style show.  There are big bucks involved and the dog business is a $43 billion industry.  We competitors are there for various reasons and getting you to buy a dog that looks like one of us goes paw in paw with what we’re about.  You probably think we’re a spoiled lot having nibbles tossed at us while we’re strutting about, but think again.  Some of the judges are really weird and grope us unmercifully.     

Further, there’s the matter of fitness.  We’re all on strict diets and I wish I could say the same for the handlers, some of whom look like they’ve been dining exclusively on Krispy Kreme doughnuts for at least 10 years.  Oh, what I’d give to put my incisors into just one Krispy Kreme.

I know a lot of you are puzzled by the handlers and their appearance.  It is absolutely untrue that many of the women’s clothes are designed by the same guy who did pioneer dresses for the Mormon women found last year in the Yearning for Zion Ranch in Texas.  The truth is that the Westminster is all about dogs and not people.  Paris Hilton would be a distraction and decidedly less than de rigueur.  The same goes for men who run around panting in tuxedos from college days.  I swear one judge wears something that looks very much like what baseball umpires wore 75 years ago.  

Strange things happened when I was handled by an amateur at a charity event.  Some genius decided I should be paired with one of Hugh Hefner’s “Girls Next Door.”  It was a disaster.  First, she draped a garish chained Playboy logo around my neck and walked me around Hefner’s swimming pool.  The next I knew, she had me in a bikini, then tossed me in the pool.  Thank goodness I’m a good swimmer.  Oh, yes.  While in Southern California, the big canine buzz indicated Disney is considering filming a feature whose working title is “Desperate Housedogs.”

At the Big Apple event, we dogs stay at the Hotel Pennsylvania where they have a doggie concierge.  I understand the Glenn Miller Orchestra used to play gigs there with great regularity back in the 30s and 40s.  One of the Miller instrumentals was a catchy tune called “Pennsylvania 6-5000,” the hotel’s phone number.  Those days and that phone number are gone forever.

In truth, I don’t enjoy staying in one of the Hotel Pennsylvania’s 1,700 rooms although it’s certainly convenient to Madison Square Garden.  Sometimes I fantasize about checking into The Plaza where Eloise used to live.  Boy, would I have fun at The Plaza!  I can see myself checking out the Oak Room, one of New York’s great bars where CEOs and bankers hang out, perhaps searching for moral compasses.    Oh, look!  There’s Bernard Madoff, the Ponzi schemer still at large.  I’ll just sidle up and pee all over his Pradas--maybe get some on his Brioni trousers.

Another of my beefs is with the name of the category in which all Bichon-Frises must compete.  It’s called Non-Sporting and the name is a joke well-understood by the dog world.  It’s a catch-all category and the very fact that such dissimilar breeds as the bulldog and the Dalmatian compete against each other is proof enough.  On the other hand, it could be a break since the most obvious place for us would be in the Terrier Group.  The trouble is that terriers have won the Westminster 44 times in 133 years.

Speaking of the Terrier Group, did you catch the judge doing that impression of Donald Duck?  Apparently an attempt to determine canine calmness in the face of strange noises (he also whistled, gurgled and chortled), it’s a cheap shot in my opinion.  Maybe the judge was auditioning for the David Letterman show?  Can U-Tube be far behind?

Only one Bichon has won Westminster’s top prize.  That was J.R. in 2001.  In the run-up to his victory was an accumulation of 158 Non-Sporting wins on the road in 2000, the most by any dog ever.  He lost but nine times that year and was named Best in Show 77 times.  J.R. has a fantastic personality and I think I’m in love with him.

The Westminster Kennel Dog Show is certainly the canine world’s premier event and it was good to see Madison Square Garden sold out.  As you may know, this is the time of year when the New York Knicks play even worse basketball than earlier in their pathetic seasons.  I guess there are dogs and then there are dogs.

Oh, yes.  I finished fourth in Non-Sporting, a hickey on my ear not helping.  Wait ‘til next year.

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Future Press: The Wonderful World of Blago...by Bob Sanders

It's always fascinating to wonder about the future meanderings of people who have impacted this remarkable world.  In its never-ceasing attempts to bring further understanding to matters great and small, Future Press again presents a look at what might very well happen since what we have already witnessed is, well, staggering.  

New York Feb 13, 2011…Capping a remarkable comeback, megastar Ron Blagojevich has won the Big Four Grammy Awards including one for his unique album, “Kipling Really Rocks.”  Set to music recorded in 1993 by Kurt Cobain and discovered last year in an orange crate believed to be among the late musician’s last living room furniture, the epic Kipling poems enabled the former Illinois governor to further cement his hold on a world gone Blago mad. 

In addition to his Album of the Year victory, Blagojevich won Grammys, awarded by the National Academy of Recording Arts and Sciences, for Record of the Year, Song of the Year (a surprise win for “A Lunge at Grunge”) and Best New Artist Who Had Never Ever Recorded Before--a first time achievement in the 53-year history of the event. 

For Blago, as he is affectionately known, it was the culmination of media stardom attained while currently serving 18 months of a 10-year prison sentence at Illinois Stateville Correctional Prison.  In accepting the award (Spoken Category) for “Kipling Really Rocks,” Blogo recognized the role played by Shelby “Groove” Shellak, describing him as a “recording industry giant.”  According to the once-reviled former governor, it was Shellak who made recordings of Blago’s readings of the long-revered but dated British poet later matching the outpourings with Cobain’s artistry.  According to Shellak, “we added a whole bunch of drums in that salute to Kipling--a sound  greater than a Hawaiian band interpreting the music of Samoa.”

It was Blago who also revealed while accepting his awards that a major motion picture is in the early planning stage when he emerges from prison--as early as three months.  It’s working title: “Doing Time and Loving It.”  Consideration, according to cinematic insiders, is being given Alaska Gov. Sarah Palin who has tested for the key role of a madcap flutist who has trouble determining whether she wants to concentrate on music, continue her governorship,  or run for the Presidency of the U.S.   Early word on the script is that it is heavy on psychology and the value judgments and challenging decisions made each day by state governors.  

Initially shunned by prospective employers while awaiting trial on felony charges, the scandal-tainted Democrat had built name recognition keyed to 187 TV interviews conducted in five whirlwind days of January, 2009.  The massive publicity campaign, dependent solely upon the spoken word and terminated by what the Mayo Clinic described as a severe case of  “non- tetanus” lockjaw, was characterized by late-night TV’s David Letterman as “consisting of more words than the combined total of all the filibusters conducted in the U.S. Senate since the devious parliamentary device was created in 1841.”

In retrospect, the Letterman appearance was the highlight of Blago’s campaign to right what he described as “just one big misunderstanding.”  Commenting about three former Illinois governors with corruption convictions, Letterman joshed: “Is this just part of the oath of office that you guys take?”  Replied Blagojevich: “Unlike those, I’ll be vindicated,’ as the audience broke up. 

Blagojevich is believed to be the only person achieving redemption while in prison by way of acclaim as a recording star.  Further atonement has been achieved by Blagojevich’s wife Patti, famed for her colorful vocabulary as she joined her husband in a taped attempt to strong-arm the Chicago Tribune into firing unfriendly editorial writers.  In a touching Emmy moment  available on U-Tube as this is written, Blago is shown in his Emmy acceptance speech making reference to his wife’s rehabilitation made possible by coaching TV anchors, reporters and commercial actresses all too often cast because of their looks.    “Not long after the trial, I began realizing that far too many people on TV have shi….I mean really bad voices and I decided to do something about it.”  A rumor suggests that voice coach Patti Blagojevich has been working with TV pitchman Billy Mays in what is, apparently, a failed attempt to take some of the irritation out of his voice.

Underscoring the Blago story is that Americans have a particular fondness for the rehabilitation of fallen heroes.  New York marketing genius Charlie Tubthumper is quick to liken Blago’s success to homemaking diva Martha Stewart whose insider trading resulted in a prison term and who has successfully resumed her career.   “The idea of a governor, convicted of attempting to sell the former Senate seat of a newly elected President and then achieving redemption by winning four Grammys, is breathtaking.”

Blago’s tremendous Grammy victories are considered possible preludes to such additionally significant awards later this year as the Pulitzer and the Nobel Peace Prizes, a subject paramount in Katie Couric’s recent report, dropped with apparent indifference, into Hugh Hefner’s “The Girls Next Door” on the E Channel.

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