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Perfection....by Bob Sanders

 

Los Angeles, perhaps this country's most self-important community, has always been on an aggressive search for perfection.  It's as though the city, having overcome a prior description by Dorothy Parker who suggested L.A. was "72 suburbs in search of a city," expects perfection because it is so deserving.

My old boss, Hugh Hefner, has a somewhat beguiling theory about L.A.'s reputation for having a population of beautiful people perhaps not exceeded by any other of the world's cities.  The not exactly world-traveled Playboy founder believes Los Angeleans are noted for their beauty because something like five generations of attractive people have settled in Southern California with the intention of getting into the movies.  When Hef begins such beguiles, faint strains of Cole Porter can be heard along with the realization that he moved from Chicago to L.A. for many reasons, among them a surfeit of beautiful women.

One of Hefner's long-running friends was Barbie Benton, a UCLA premed freshman when she met him in 1968 on the set of "Playboy After Dark," a TV series I promoted when Screen Gems took a hike from responsibilities accepted on a handshake basis.  The pleasant, bug cute, and intelligent Barbie and I hit it off when we met poolside at Miami Beach's Playboy Plaza Hotel late in 1970.  Hefner, taking momentary leave of us, returned quickly accompanied by an unbecoming grumpiness about our somewhat intense chatter.  Asking her to come with him, Barbie refused, saying: "I will when I get through talking with Bob."  Hefner, decidedly a perfectionist, eventually determined that Barbie, certainly one of the girls next door, wasn't perfect although three pectoral pictorials were impressive.  Never a Playmate, Barbie appeared three times on the magazine's cover.

Benton hasn't been the only Barbie involved in nudity.  It doesn't seem possible but nearly 10 years have passed since the El Segundo-based Mattel Inc., then the world's largest toymaker, sued a Utah artist who used nude Barbie dolls in some of his photographic work.  That Barbie was regarded by many as perfection goodness knows and Mattel alleged that Thomas Forsythe's use of the doll infringed on its copyrights and trademarks.  The media never reported a reaction from Ken nor is there record of a Hefner response.

The humorless Mattel was stunned when a San Fancisco appeals court ruled that use of the doll's image was a parody and protected under the First Amendment.

There can be no doubt that greater Los Angeles is obsessed by beauty running from Botox to buttocks.  Further, going under the knife is now as common as sand on the beach at Santa Monica.  Fleshing out details is a tawdry business but we could start with Dr. Michael Niccole who began surgical improvements on two daughters beginning at age 10.  It all started with a much-improved belly button thanks to the critical eye of the refurbishment doctor.  Other family members, including a wife and two sons, have undergone cosmetic enhancement in the search for, among other features, the perfect nose.  Perkier and bigger breasts are part of perfection's pursuit and so it was that an 83-year-old grandmother recently acquired them, perhaps inspired by the terribly plastic Joan Rivers whose face these days is as tight as skins were on Gene Krupa's drums.  Granny is now hopefully at the beach attracting admiring glances if not conversation. 

As this is written, Granny may even be at Muscle Beach, one of this country's great freak shows now located in Venice although, judging from her age, might pay her respects at what what used to be the original site located on the south side of the Santa Monica Pier.  Officially closed there in 1959, Muscle Beach goes back to the '30s when Vic Tanny and Jack LaLanne sought body perfection later achieved by such celebrities as Arnold Schwartzenegger who made it to the movies and the governor's mansion in Sacramento before attracting the attention of checkout counter publications.

When the subject of baseball comes up, the sport's perfection is generally referenced by pitching performances in which but 27 hitters come to the plate in fruitless attempts to get a hit.  There have been 22 of them in the major leagues with the lone Los Angeles effort achieved by Sandy Koufax who did it in 1965 when he beat the Cubs, 1-0.  The Brooklyn-born lefty had a total of four no-hitters but only one was perfect.

Beauty, as we know, is in the eye of the beholder and so it was that what has been described as an eagerly anticipated environmental sculpture has been unveiled at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art.  Titled "Levitated Mass," the work is by Michael Heizer who, apparently, was out to find the perfect rock, all 340 tons of it thus making possible a megalith in a megapolis.  If big is beautiful, then "Levitated Mass" is your cup of granite.

Moving the sculpture's center piece rock from its point of discoveery in a quarry near Riverside was not easy and required a circuitous, 105-mile path through four counties and 22 suburbs.  A huge transporter 200 feet long was used.

There's a stark quality about "Levitated Mass" and it might be its empty field location and a channel of polished concrete that cuts 456 feet across it.  The channel descends to a depth of 15 feet becoming a two-rail pedestal for the rock meaning that visitors can stand below ground level and see a rock from a vantage point never before possible.  At present there are no signs suggesting skateboarders should refrain from performing Gingersnaps and Godzilla Flips on the $10 million project, walking around money when compared to what it costs today to buy an election.  Everything considered, the location, immediately adjacent to the La Brea Tar Pits, is perfect and doubtless will  produce stories about the ghosts of dinosaurs being aroused by the new Paleolithic rock now located in the prehistoric resting place.

It was a good week for rocks.  We learned that not only could one of 680,000 pounds be moved in Southern California but, also, how the enigmatic stone heads (some weighing 90 tones) of Easter Island were transported from their quarry points of origination.  It's one thing to move the "Levitated Mass" by means of gasoline and a huge transporter with 88 pairs of wheels, but quite another to have mysteriously transfered nearly 900 smiley faces in those Polynesian halcyon days that preceded a devastating "ecocide" climaxed by the island's population descending into cannibalism and barbarity.  A July National Geographic  magazine story includes details of an experiment conducted in Hawaii in which a smiley face replica was rock and rolled down a road by three teams using very strong ropes.  Lost in all that rock and rolling was the weight of the fake stone head: five tons, 1/18th that of the real thing.  The mystery, in many ways perfect, may not have been solved.  

Moving an isolated big rock 105 miles across a suburban sprawl to the heart of a city the size of Los Angeles is a bit complex in the business of getting the public's attention.  Sometimes inspiration of an unusual nature comes into play as in Carhenge of Alliance, Nebraska where a replica of Stonehenge awaits the next owner.  The asking price is $300,000 and the gray spray-painted 38 cars, jammed in the ground in 1987 in the perfectly arresting symmetry of the British original built between 2500 and 2000 BC, is, according to owner Jim Reinders, "slightly used."    

Drawing eyes of the curious to Alexandria, Indiana is the world's largest ball of paint whose creator was an amateur baseball player who saw a ball accidentally fall into some paint.  Fascinated, Michael Carmichael began a program of dipping and painting with the ball eventually becoming the size and shape of a football whose lack of perfection may have caused him to donate it to the Indiana Soldiers' and Sailors' Children's Home Museum in nearby Knightstown where it can be seen today.

Carmichael had bigger things in mind.  It was on January 1, 1977 that he had his three-year-old son paint another baseball.  The only rule observed by father and son: each new coat must be a different color from the preceding one.  Today's paint ball is strung up in a backyard shed and has more than 20,000 coats with wife Glenda responsible for 8,000 of them.  Families that paint together are quaint together.  Something of a fanatic about paint, Carmichael currently performs 10 coats on dry days although he once called it quits for nearly a year only to return to his obsession.  Some of those dry days are longer than others; once a month Carmichael paints a neighbor's lawn employing a different theme each time.  One of the obvious aspects of the situation is that Glenda never questions her husband's whereabouts.  And, yes, the world's largest ball of paint perfection has been recognized by the Guinness Book of Records.

Some cities attract visitors simply by being strange and two come immediately to mind.  One is Manshiyat Naser, a suburb of Cairo.  Also known as Garbage City, Manshiyat Naser is one big dump whose most significnt citizens are the Zabbaleen, Coptic Christians much envied by Waste Management.  While western collectors of garbage recycle between 20 and 25% of litter, the Zabbaleen regularly register a fingers-to-nostrils 80%.  That's not perfection as garbage collecting goes, but it is impressive.

Another odd place is Miyake-Jima, an island off the coast of Japan.  Its special allure is to those enormously attracted by volcanos.  Sitting on top of a chain of them is Mount Oyama where 17,500 earthquakes occurred in less than a month in 2000.  Lovers of volcanic destruction can take tours that include abandoned houses and flattened cars.  Visitors and locals are required to wear gas masks, a necessity that for all we know may be called "OyamaCare" and not a bad idea for those Christian folks near Cairo.

Realists realize that crowd-gathering curiosities can achieve success quite simply.  San Luis Obisbo, California has Bubblegum Alley where you can affix a chaw of your very own while the World's Largest Hockey Stick is in Duncsan, British Columbia.  It's in Duncan and not Yazoo City, Mississippi because British Columbia is in Canada whose relationship to hockey is something like Green Bay to football only more so.  Canada also claims the World's Largest Egg measuring 3,000 lbs in its fourth reincarnation.  Other wonders include The World's Largest Thermometor in Baker, California while Rock City, Tennessee pays homage to miniature golf where it all began.

Having spent far too many days this year in hospitals, I'll probably be inclined to turn down an inviation, should one be extended, to The Clinic, a bar in Singapore.  Morbidly chic and located in the trendy Clarke Quay area, The Clinic brings a medical atmosphere to booze matters including such comforts as gold plated wheelchairs while drinks are served in syringes and vials by nurses dressed in scrubs.  Their wheelside manners are reputed to be perfect.

Perfection is not easy to find in thoroughly laid back Bellingham, Washington where I live although lovers of rain, moss and bad soil take pride in those daily confrontations believing such challenges are what define and isolate us.  If so, perhaps it's time to get serious, like Los Angeles, and create an attention-getting attraction that will create a new us.

Two possibilities come to mind.  One, providing homage to our past association with Georgia Pacific, would be the erection of the world's largest roll of toilet paper, a monument easily constructed of stone being used in what will be a failed attempt by Regal Cinemas to build a 16-screen Cineplex at Barkley Square.  The last "tissue" of the perfectly enormous 10-story monument would be an enormous American flag whose snapping in the breeze will keep awake all 'hamsters living within a five-mile radius.

A much cheaper Plan B possibility would be an empty store, a perfect and significant sign of our times.

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Missing Jesper....by Bob Sanders

 

I miss Jesper Parnevik.

That's not easy to do considering his claim to fame as a touring golf professional: wearing clothes that strongly suggest the designer is the same guy who dresses the polka bands of Cleveland.  Among Parnevik's other eccentricities is eating volcanic dust as a dietary supplement and, yes, pleading guilty to introducing Tiger Woods to Elin Nordegren, an event that preceded Woods' entanglement with a fire hydrant and a reported golf-club-in-hand pursuit of Woods by the lovely Swede, now an ex-wife.

Following revelations of Woods' womanizing brought about by a phalanx of phallic conquests, the golfing world pretty much lined up lockstep behind the man capable of doubling TV ratings by qualifying for weekend play.  Parnevik, who was Nordegren's employer at the time of the introduction, took exception to her choice of clubs suggesting: "I hope she uses a driver next instead of a 3-iron."

The sartorially-challenged Parnevik, also from Sweden, won four times on the European Tour joining the PGA ramble in the mid-90s winning five events while making three Ryder Cup appearances.  Aware of the golfer's flamboyant sense of fashion set off by a decidedly gauche flip of his golf hat, the manufacturer of the Ryder Club cap attached the event's logo on the bottom of the bill instead of the front so that it could be seen.  Parnevik's explanation for the bill flip: he wants to make sure he gets his face tanned, a reasoning that would make sense only if his golfing was limited to the Eskimo Open, the Arctic Circle Closed or the general area of Bellingham, WA.

While it's tempting to suggest no sad songs should be sung for him in view of his tour winnings of more than $15 million, it is also true he is recovering from hip surgery and continuing back problems, the most recent being a broken lumbar vertebrae.  Those downers were followed by a severe injury to Parnevik's right hand suffered when he got too close to a motor boat engine blade.  Any golfing for money the injury-prone one does this year will be while on a Medical Extension whose challenges are severe: he has to earn $620,087 in his first 12 starts to retain status as a touring pro.  Jesper can handle that one by winning one event and have enough walking around money to buy a round of drinks for all attendees plus members of the host club.

Getting a tee-off time at the U.S. Open was a lot easier at the first one held in 1895 at the nine-hole Newport (R.I.) Country Club.  Literally a sideshow to the U.S. Amateur (both tournaments were conducted at the Newport club), the events originally were scheduled for September, then moved back to not interfere with America's Cup.  The Open's field of nine split a $335 pot with winner Horace Rawlins taking home $150.

Last week's U.S. Open Championship, won in highly impressive fashion by Webb Simpson, also featured the rather dramatic return to a major event by Casey Martin, now a 40-year-old college coach (University of Oregon) whose presence at the 1998 Open gave followers of the game a further peek into just how traditional and narrow of mind the stalwarts of the game can be.  Martin, who suffers from Klippel-Trenauney-Weber Syndrome of the right leg, is forced to ride a cart, a means of transportation that shocked, yes, shocked the sport's reigning nobility including Jack Nicklaus and Arnold Palmer.  It was not one of golf's finer moments and the Supreme Court produced further embarrassment when it ruled in Martin's favor.  Despite playing little serious golf these days, Martin was back for another go round having won a tournament qualifier.  With the passing years has come respect for Martin from those who run the sport that prides itself on being the only competition in which players call penalties on themselves, something Jack and Arnie should have had the good sense to do.  Martin's nine over 159 did not qualify for weekend play but the hope is that, like 17-year-old Beau Hossler, he'll be back.

Hossler, an amateur who gained entry by winning a regional qualifier, was the surprise of the tournanment for shooting three over par for three rounds.  Very much in contention, Hossler faded on the last day--humbled like all the field, including the winner, by the Olympic Club's Lake Course.  It took a 68 on Sunday for Simpson to finish one over.

I hope I'm wrong but it does seem that we are seeing an increase in the number of logos being worn by this year's Open participants.  We've reached the point where the most successful of the touring pros know a year in advance what they will wear each day of major tournaments.  Logos are to golf what product placement is to the motion picture and television industries whose creators are more than willing to place bottles of Coca-Cola and Budweiser (logos in full view) as boy meets girl.

People who know about such things suggest a logo festooned Polo shirt can kick sales up 10% as a result of exposure during those exciting final holes, presentation of a trophy and the how-it-all-came-together interview.  With nine holes to go, the eventual winner was one of many being captured by TV's ever-curious cameras.  At the end, he was a jumble of tight shots.  The shirt people, scout's honor, would much rather have as a winner Adam Scott than the supremely lumpy Kevin Stadler whose father, Craig ("The Walrus") Stadler, was even more so.

Monetarily speaking, a cap logo is a lot more important than shirts and golf bags although the sponsor's name is much larger on a bag whose view is often shielded by camera-unaware caddies.  A top 25 player can make a much as $200,000 for a cap logo and $50,000 buys shirt and bag exposure.  Ryan Moore became the rebel without a logo when he won the Wyndham Championship in 2009, collected $918,000, then announced he would continue to forego sponsorships and endorsements, a policy begun a year earlier.  His relatively brief and rare fling with golfing Puritanism ended the next year when he became part owner of Scratch Golf sporting the firm's logo while playing.  Later that year he scratched Scratch, moved to Adams Golf, then switched to Shift4 and a contract calling for a logo on his left chest thus raising a question (at least for me) concerning the availability of a manly right chest.  That's why we have lawyers who write such problems, then solve them.   

There was a time when golf pros were delighted to be gifted with a box of free clothes that did not include T shirts until Clark Gable made them acceptable in 1934's "It Happened One Night."  One of the game's early clothes horses was Jimmy Demaret who never saw a stripe he couldn't mix with a plaid.  He eventually hooked up with a Fifth Avenue tailor who made Demaret a vision in electric blue, bottle green, canary yellow and vermillion.  A decade earlier the great Walter Hagen was much more traditional.  Having remarkable credentials in drinking and womanizing, Hagen was known to arrive at the first tee attired in a rumpled tuxedo, evidence of overnight carousing.

Protocol, one of those most respected aspects of golf, was momentarily forgotten when Phil Mickelson's caddy once showed up at The Masters wearing the same shirt as the offended Charles Howell III, who was playing in the Mickelson group.  The faux pas of Emily Postian significance was solved and word floated that a majority of club members were of the opinion that the late Masters "Chairman in Memorium" Clifford Roberts would have had a tizzy had he been around.  The golfing equivalent of unmitigated hell can break loose when a golfer decides the hat or shoes worn during a hot round the day before surely must be lucky omens pointing toward a fond embrace involving a trophy.

Idiosyncrasies are major tour story lines in the drama that is golf fashion.  Rickie Fowler always is totally bedecked in orange on Sundays.  That's because he attended Oklahoma State University where he played on the Cowboy's golf team.  The color green is anathema to Tiger Woods who also refuses to wear white pants.  On the other hand, Bubba Watson, this year's Masters champ, has been dressed during recent weeks in nothing but white as he earns $300 each time he drives 300 yards.  His driver is a riveting azalea pink and the money, paid by sponsor PING, goes to a series of Southern California charities while the clothing, produced by Travis Mathew Apparel, can be purchased by anyone regardless of handicap.  Play with a 24 and look like Bubba.

Not to underline the point but the hope among many golf intimates is that logos on the golfing body don't become more common than insignias on NASCAR equipment including the uniforms worn by the contestants.  With 75 million fans and enormous TV eposure, it costs underwriters anywhere from $500,000 to $20 million to get in the game.

It was while working for public relations firm Field Enterprises in Chicago in the 70s that I found myself making phone calls that, if successful, would help put corporate America's logos on the racing cars of Ted Field.  Ted came into play because his father, Marshall Field IV, had first produced Marshall Field V--unfortunate timing for the younger brother who had visions of becoming a motion picture mogul.  He eventually did just that producing, among others, "Cocktail," "Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure," "The Hand That Rocks the Cradle" and "Mr. Holland's Opus."  First, Ted had to get the money to make them.

The Field Enterprises staff began seeing quite a bit of the kid brother and word suddenly was bruited about that he had met the age requirement of his father's will (Marshall Field IV's death was a suicide) for a big payoff.  This was slightly before the demise of the Chicago Daily News in 1978.  Meanwhile, Ted had become something of a pest asking that the PR department sell the logo project to any contacts including past employers with lines like "Playboy's a natural" and "how about TV Guide?" tossed my way.  We went through the motions and I have to confess most of them were slow if at all.  The thought of Walter Annenberg seeing his TV Guide logo on a car's hood was beyond amusing and abject failure was mine.   

It may have been NASCAR or golf logos that inspired Jason Sadler; then, again, it may have been Russian ladies, newly arrived in this country sans English skills, who wander around public markets wearing confusing, nasty or worse messages on T shirts.  Sadler, 26 when he founded IWearYourShirt in 2009, sells companies the opporunity for him to wear their company's shirt for a day.  His story has been picked up by "Today," CBS News, CNN, Wall Street Journal, and Forbes.  He charges what he calls "face value" that works out to $1 on January 1 and $365 the last day of the year.

This makes absolutely no sense nor does his selling of monthly sponsorships--good in tandem, he says, for $83,000 a year thus beating the hell out of food stamps.  It might take the mind of a Jesper Parnevik to figure this one out.

If there are possible questions about the availability of other locations for logos beyond shirts, caps and bags, can the human behind be, well, far behind?  Will the day soon dawn when touring pros, anticipating further use of the human body for advertising purposes and the resulting payouts, begin drawing attention to the billboard attractiveness of their very own asses?  Will Kevin Stadler go on a diet?

And, while we're on the subject of goofy possibilities, let us hope the tattoo craze does not become acceptable to professional golf.  On the other hand, think to what degree Jesper Parnevik's forehead, revealed in all its pigmented glory by the bill flip to end all bill flips, might inspire an advertiser?

What a way to sell Coppertone Ultraguard!

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Surveys....by Bob Sanders

 

My relationship with the VIP News folks began unraveling two or three weeks ago.  That was when one of their survey questions produced what we have both known for some time: I don't watch the "Today" show.

VIP News, having determined some two years ago that I am a living, breathing owner of a television set, decided I qualified as a VIP News person and began asking me questions about my viewing habits.  Each session consisted of six to ten simplistic multiple-choice questions, this country's tried but hardly true method of determining knowledge and understanding.  The questions came three or four times a year and I did not stay awake at nights wondering if I was still a member of the "team" during lengthy pauses between contacts.

I must confess acquiring an odd sort of suspicion of VIP News when it became obvious after a couple of questionnaires that the organization is either an arm of NBC or gatherers of information for the network.  Presumption also was theirs because, as information about me became apparent, my answers proved I am a non-network user and one of those people responsible for the precipitous decline in all aspects of what we used to watch exclusively.  I would describe myself as very close to being exclusively a cable viewer whose selection of programming includes little of what we used to rely upon: ABC, CBS, NBC, PBS, and Fox.  A big factor in my turnaround of 20 plus years is the boredom and confusion I associate with commercials.  I put up with them while watching sporting events and my idea of time well-spent is a great commercial-free film viewed by way of the dish or Netflix.

I think my survey answers began to baffle VIP News.  On the surface of things, it appeared I am a heavy viewer of NBC news although the totality of my news selection has been heavily impacted upon by sleep deprivation.  With sleep a problem, I've watched a lot of MSNBC-TV--particularly between 3 and 6 a.m. PST, a time frame coinciding with "Imus in the Morning" (even when that show moved to Fox Business News) and "Morning Joe" where I continue to get many of my political fixes.  Early questions from VIP News were so general that it appeared my allegiance to NBC was more pronounced than actually was the case.

Less than a month ago came a series of questions including one producing my admission that I never watch "Today."  Another set arrived a week ago in which I was asked: "if you watched the Today show today, we'd really like to hear your opinions."  I hadn't and I didn't.  Later I received a heavily-lawyered but brief (now, there's an oxymoron) communique about the VIP News Privacy Policy in which I was warned about posting on websites or other means of distribution.  I also was asked to "promise to maintain the confidentiality of this survey" and "not to post info about it on any blog or other website."  Yes and no boxes accompanied the request.

Curious about VIP News, I found something called Inside Cable News whose reports about the survey group indicates it has been busy determining viewing habits since at least 2006 with one study foreshadowing the debut of "Wake Up" with veteran NBCer Al Roker on The Weather Channel.

The most recent look at VIP News by Inside Cable News suggests many things to me including the likelihood of at least two levels of VIPs, one much more sophisticated as evidenced by questions asked.  Although possible answers in both groupings were limited to strongly agree, somewhat agree, neither, disagree and disagree strongly, the questions suggested one group (let's call them major leaguers) had arrived in the big time by establishing credentials as NBC viewing addicts.  Judging from the general tenor of queries given the obviously addicted, it appears I was destined to be mired in the VIP News equivalent of the Three I League or even worse.  

Questions to me have been of a basic nature along the lines of: do you find watching Today helpful in your everyday life?  I soon learned that the VIP News people are so close to "Today" that quotation marks are never used in references to the program.  Another VIP News verity: a much greater sense of sophistication in questions asked of the major leaguers as opposed to those of lesser NBC enthusiasm.  For example, the use of Maria Bartiromo on a CNBC program sponsored by the Wall Street Journal is, quite obviously, being examined probably because 2012 is the year a Wall Street Journal/CNBC deal is supposed to expire.

It goes deeper than that since WSJ is owned by Rupert Murdoch who also owns Fox properties and something like a third of the rest of the sometimes civilized world.  Other questions regarding l-affaire Bartiromo (rarely does she throw anything but softballs) could intimate curiosity regarding her acceptance by the audience and, if disappointing, the possibility of moving Dylan Ratigan (throwing in the mid-90s) over from MSNBC.  Things got really confusing last weekend when the New York Times reported Ratigan was leaving MSNBC at month's end.  It would be astonishing if Bartiromo were to leave CNBC.  If a trade is being made, this is certainly a strange way to pull it off.  Ratigan's recent book, Greedy Bastards, takes a lot of shots at Wall Street; his will not be the only strident broadcast voice to be muffled these very strange days.

Of more than passing fascination were questions asked by VIP News about viewer attitudes toward the Wall Street Journal including one wondering if "the Journal's  bad reputation is warranted" and another concerning the "perceived view" of the publication in the Nation's economy.  Take that, Rupert!

The last questions dealt with the WSJ television program format while attempting to determine the validity of such subjects as Richard Branson's proposed trip to the moon, what Warren Buffett has in his portfolio and the legitimacy of billionaire interviews.

There was a time when television programming was entirely controlled by the networks with bare bones audience numbers determining the sheer popularity of individual programs.  The make or break giant remains the Nielsen TV ratings that have been around since 1950 and remain in place because it's the only game in town.  Few feel comfortable with the ratings largely because the numbers reflect samplings taken from People Meters that sit atop, under, beside or behind the sets.  A small remote control tells Nielsen which family member is watching.  There are about 50,000 Nielsen viewers in 20,000 homes.  Each family member has his/her own watching button.  In the old days, the only numbers worth anything were those dealing with total audience.  Now, the advertisers couldn't care less.  They are interested only in how many people are watching their ads.  Intensity of interest is one of those mysteries perhaps one day to be determined.  

I worked for TV Guide from 1954-67 moving eight times while earning the nickname "Peripatetic Bob."  The magazine was very fortunate to have as editor, Merrill Panitt, a man who realized very early on that the magazine's strength was being a Dutch uncle to the TV industry.  Thanks to the brilliant and tough Panitt, we were that in spades; anyone checking out today's version of the publication (three owners later) would find comparisons to the original quite laughable.  We took great pride in not being a fan magazine.  What mattered was what was on at 9 p.m.   Stations supplying inaccurate program information were told listings would be dropped if the problem wasn't solved.  We were firm, yet friendly.

Panitt had early problems with the all-powerful ratings that could make or break a given show.  Rare were programs  like "I Love Lucy" and "You'll Never Get Rich" that took some time to click with audiences.  I vividly recall the editor confessing at a yearly convention that we had been wrong about antipathy toward ratings; he had spent a lot of time with the Nielsen people and had become convinced that ratings were, indeed, valid.

Pre-cable days bore little resemblance to today's availability of hundreds of channels.  The most popular show when the '70s rolled around was "All in the Family," a winner each year from 1971-76.  "Gunsmoke" finished first four times (1957-61) while "Bonanza" (1964-67) and "I Love Lucy" (1952-55) each won three times.  The biggest factor: limited selection.  It would be nice to suggest these best of the best would make it big today but who knows?  "Lucy" might but it would likely be as an "actuality" program--shades of the PBS Loud family in "An American Family"--focused on Lucy and Desi's volatile marriage.

In spite of all the competition today, the all-time yearly winner (six times) is "American Idol" whose remrkable 17.6 kicked things off in 2005-06.  Although an announcement has yet to be made, the broadcast winner for 2011-12 appears to be "America's Got Talent" whose audience last week was less than one-third that of the first NBA finals game Tuesday between Miami and Oklahoma City.  Network television had the opportunity a long time ago to take the programming high road and rejected the thought.  The result in terms of programming quality today is all too apparent and, unfortunately, based upon an appeal to the lowest common denominator.

It's a bit bizarre now to look at old TV commercials although a story worth telling concerns Camel cigarettes eventually sponsoring what was originally called "You'll Never Get Rich."  Later re-titled "The Phil Silvers Show," it starred Silvers as the ever-conniving Sgt. Bilko and ran sponsor-less the first six times out.  The reason: it was slotted opposite Milton Berle.  In a plot development reminiscent of today's "Mad Men," the Camels account executive (William Esty Advertising was the agency) gained admittance to the vault where CBS had stashed the first six shows, grabbed the pilot, and took off for Winston-Salem, N.C. and R.J. Reynolds.  Shown the film, those nasty people who killed so many of us, suddenly became sponsors of what became a runaway hit so popular that even more of us perished.

Another story, perhaps apocryphal, made the rounds a couple of years later when the Camels AE offered a strange explanation of the decision to pull all its advertising from the Silvers show.  His quote: "half the money I spend on advertising is wasted; the trouble is I don't know which half."  The highly quotable phrasing was first uttered by either merchant prince John Wanamaker or William Hesketh Lever (Lever Bros.) more than 100 years ago, then credited in yet another version to George Washington Hill who, oddly enough, was president of American Tobacco Co.  With "Mad Men" having just completed a fifth season, perhaps it's time to seek out "The Hucksters," a 1947 film about the advertising business and radio.  Sidney Greenstreet is magnificent as the head of a soap company, a role everyone on Madison Avenue knew was patterned after Hill.

Oh, yes.  I got another message from VIP News this past Tuesday.  They wanted to know if I watched Today without the quote marks last Friday?  Also, I was reminded not to share any vital VIP News information with anyone else.  Such a plot development calls for a very faded phrase:

Mum's the word.   

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Distractions....by Bob Sanders

 

I learned the other day that wife, Jan, was once a legal distraction.  That's according to her daughter Nancy who told me the story of Jan's being summoned for jury duty back in the days when she was living another life in Thousand Oaks, California.

Jan was a blonde bombshell when I met her in 1987 in Chicago and I'm sure she was even more so in her California days.  Attorneys for both defendants found Jan acceptable as a member of the jury and the case was barely underway when the judge determined that too many people in the courtroom were paying more attention to Jan than courtroom proceedings.  He ruled Jan off that legal turf for being a distraction.

We appear to be inundated by distractions these days.  The matter of this country's policy toward Cuba has been given scrutiny in this space on a prior occasion and there can be no doubt that Miami's Little Havana has become one enormous distraction.  While the fingerprints of the Bush brothers were all over this one in that prior decade of our official relationship with Cuba, there are new players in the game including Sen. Mark Rubio who, along with his family, has re-written their family history to conform to political correctness.  To fiddle with Vince Lombardi's best-known quote, winning elections is the only thing.

With the rest of the country finally aware of Little Havana's insidious clout, it appeared for awhile that a neighborhood state-of-the-art, tax-funded major league stadium costing the city $2 billion might achieve something beyond distraction status.  At least that was the best hope for Jeffrey Loria, Miami Marlins owner who hired (surprise, surprise) a Cuban, Ozzie Guillen, to manage the Marlins.  It looked like win/win for everyone since Guillan's former employer, the Chicago White Sox, were delighted to be rid of the highly vocal-but-makes-little-sense manager who had worn out his welcome in the Windy City.

With the team a couple of days from the home opener, Guillen, always a master of timing and obviously knowledgeable about foreign relations, decided to express his love and respect for Fidel Castro.  It was the kind of distraction, continuing as this is written, that makes for poor relations between the community and the Marlins.  Fortunately, the Marlins are battling for first place, another strong suggestion that all can be well in love, war and baseball with good pitching and timely hitting as significant as efficient drones.

Just as Olsen & Johnson used the running gag in such shows as "Hellzappin," so can an effective writer employ the running distraction.  A case in point would be Ariel Levy's incisive look in The New Yorker at Her Serene Highness the Principessa Rita Boncompagni Ludovisi.  Published November 28 last year, the article contained nine references to Playboy for which Her Serene Highness disrobed twice.  Full-circling the Principessa with that many allusions to the magazine was fair game since before revealing her serene nakedness she was the former Texas twang-speaking Rita Jenrette, perhaps best known for having had sex on the Capitol steps with then South Carolina congressman/husband John Jenrette. 

Defense of such distractions is hardly necessary and there are those who believe Playboy is, in itself, just one big one.  Her Serene Highness, who authored a memoir, My Capitol Secrets, is behaving herself these days while living in a 40,000 square-foot Roman palazzo.  To date, she has not been observed having sex on the nearby Spanish Steps nor, for that matter, in any public places.

Speaking of Rome, there's the decidedly ill-timed Vatican attitude toward an American nun who had the double dare audacity to write a book about faith and sexuality, pretty popular subjects.  Published in 2006 and ranked No. 142,982 on Amazon.com's best-selling list, Just Love: A Framework for Christian Sexual Ethics was going nowhere as a minor distraction to Pope Benedict XVI who, along with an intimate circle of advisors, suddenly forgot two of the cardinal rules of public relations: all press is good press and let well enough alone.

It was on Monday that The Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, the church's official orthodoxy office, produced a statement of criticism about Sister Margaret Farley's book referring to it as a "defective understanding" of Catholic theology and not fit for the eyes of Roman Catholics.  Farley is an award-winning ethicist now retired from Yale Divinity School.  In the general category of defective thinking, one pope's distriction might also be an opportunity to take some heat off what appears to be the essence of a Shakespearian plot whose "Vatileaks" corruption scandal features the valet of a weak pope supplying documents, in all likelihood, to help the pope oust his nefarious right-hand man, Cardinal Tarcisio Bertone.  Yes, the butler did it.  Key player Bertone should stay away from cameras.  His appearance is such that he would have been rejected by creators of "The Sopranos" for being too authentic and, therefore, a distraction.

How could we possibly forget politics in any commentary about distractions--particularly in this momentous year of the run for the White House.  The Republican primary has been so remarkably odd that comparisons with any preceding competition simply can't be made.  In fact, "odd" falls short of accurately describing our witnessing a Texas governor (Rick Perry) outdoing his predecessor, George W. Bush, in mangling what passes for his native tongue while appearing to be either stoned or drunk at the podium.

And, yes, let's invoke the word "bizarre" in any examination of the campaign waged by Herman Cain, the former pizza executive whose greatest triumphs appear to have been conducted in the back seats of cars, his preferred location for selling stimulus packages to female colleagues.  However, it was the unforgettable Perry who came off as the biggest dummy of all with stunning gaffes.  Cain's able execution of jive  resulted in his being named successor just the other day to veteran conservative radio host Neal Boortz.

Oh, and let's not forget that sensational sleazebag, Newt Gingrich, who somehow managed to attack Beltway politics while being a constant reminder that he's a classic example of a politician who moved from a power base (Speaker of the House) to become a wheedling, conniving, money-grubbing lobbyist so successful that he ran up a $500,000 tab at Tiffany's.  Also worthy of a quick dismissal were other oddities including Tea Party favorite Rick Santorum, Michelle Bachmann, Jon Huntsman (he didn't belong in this rag tag bunch) and Ron Paul, today's version of Harold Stassen who ran for the Presidency 12 times.  This Preposterous Group of Eight were thoroughly hopeless, so much so that Joe Scarborough, a former GOP congressman now host of MSNBC's "Morning Joe," called them "total idiots" on his show.  It was a conclusion reached following 27 TV debates.  One is inclined to wonder how GOP loyalists could suffer so many fools gladly?

While still in the general area of politics, there's the nauseous case of Donald Trump whose roaring ego has brought him ever closer to being a pol player.  The Donald, quite obviously, is unaware that his involvement on behalf of George Romney carries with it the same distraction factor that Bush provides the man whose job creation record as governor of Massachusetts was 47th best.  Romney, the awkward flip-flopper, will learn there are people who can do you no good in a Presidential race and Bush and Trump are two of them.

The Donald's ability to distract is not limited to politics.  Comes word from director Oliver Stone that Trump's cameo in "Wall Street 2" was cut out because of an obvious presence in his pants.  Timing is everything and it appears the hotelier was still in a Cialis four-hour time frame when the camera rolled.  The Donald's inability to stifle a stiffie resulted in his scene being cut.  Insiders say the deleted drama is being restored for the DVD.

Another political distraction is Jeremiah Wright who, one way or another, simply will not go away in spite of his words and presumed ministrations provided Barack Obama 20 years ago.  It doesn't take the political savvy of Karl Rove to suggest that Romney would be wise to back away from Wright just as Obama should forget about the dog on the roof of Romney's car.  Petty persiflage is, well, petty and distracting.

One person's distraction is another's call to action--particularly if the problem is in the classroom.  While it's common knowledge that distractions are a main enemy of a good education, teachers are continually coming up with ways to deal with problems that interfere with communications.  Our failure in the classroom is a matter of agonizing record in this era of addiction to technology; staying focused is not easy with student texting and cell phoning among the distractions.  Multi-tasking is in such pronounced use that students often find it difficult to concentrate on one thing: a teacher attempting to teach in a classroom.  There was a time when a distraction in a schoolroom was almost always a beautiful woman or a good-looking guy.

Beautiful people is what Hollywood used to all about but evidence has been emerging for some time that leading actors are more inclined to look like real people.  Unfortunately, the search for reality has ended there.  Very inclined to create product appealing to kids, the film business has embraced a philosophy for success that combines noise, monsters from far away places, vampires from closer to home, plus simplistic dialogue and plot developments that defy anything vaguely logical.  Unfortunately, distraction in the form of 3D is now with us boding ill for those who wish for intelligent dialogue and story lines offering some semblance of sense.

Back to politics and what may or may not be a minor distraction called Wisconsin.  Obama may not have figured out the state's importance as he maneuvers for those 270 electoral votes required to return him to the White House.  The  distraction was an attempt led by unions to nullify Gov. Scott Walker's 19-month old victory.  Having won Wisconsin by 14 points in the 2008 election, Obama ducked involvement while convincing himself that all politics are local with no connection between a Midwest gubernatorial recall and the run for all the Badger marbles in the fall.

Figuring Wisconsin as a minor distraction, Obama made no attempt to meet a 7-1 out-of-state GOP money avalanche, so he sent Bill Clinton whose messages were, to put it kindly, mixed.  Gov. Walker won by six points and, significantly, the voter turnout greatly exceeded what got him into office in the first place. 

It is one thing to complain about the Supreme Court's making possible the rigging of an election through unlimited amounts of money.  It iwas quite another to not match the Koch brothers, et al. when the money was there.  It was another example of Obama evidencing timidity and aloofness.

Stand-up comics have observed more than once that "everybody's got to be somewhere" and so it was that Obama, having personally ducked Wisconsin, headed instead for Hollywood and fund-raisers.

Setting priorities can be tricky.  Let's hope it doesn't turn out that Wisconsin was more than a minor distraction.

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Where Are You, Magic Christian?....by Bob Sanders

 

There was a natural sort of progression in my thinking the other day and that, by itself, was a bit unusual.  The subject was satire and I began wondering what percentage of us has an appreciation of the art form.  There has been all manner of commentary about the use of ridicule, sarcasm and irony to make observations about foolishness with, perhaps, the most cogent uttered by George S. Kaufman.  The playwright, no slouch in the utilization of satire, once observed in cautionary fashion that "it's what closes on Saturday night."

Little heed was paid Kaufman by Terry Southern when the brilliant satirist began concentrating on film writing.  His subjects: the military (Dr. Strangelove); the funeral business (The Loved One); alienated youth (Easy Rider); and the corrupting effects of money (The Magic Christian) were dark and absurdest.  Tom Wolfe insists Southern invented New Journalism.

While Strangelove, written with director Stanley Kubrick and Peter George, is probably the greatest film putdown of war, the original script was a straight political thriller based upon George's Red Alert.  It was Southern who turned it into a devastating masterpiece of satire.  Peter Sellers, originally cast to play four characters (he performed three), had put Southern in touch with Kubrick by sending him a copy of The Magic Christian, Southern's first novel.

The Magic Christian (Guy Grand, played by Sellers in the film version) is a very uneven black comedy about how some people will do anything for money.  The book is much, much better largely because the Britcom places too much emphasis on getting everyone vaguely associated with comedy into it.  Such diversities as Rachel Welch, Ringo Starr, Lawrence Harvey, and Roman Polanski are among them.  The result is a series of practical jokes played on venal people who, because of the money, resist realization of the obvious: the game is rigged.  Go for the book.

The Magic Christian, were he around, would have fun with Bellingham.  Right off the bat he would seize upon the disaster awaiting Regal Cinemas as it builds a 16-screen operation immediately west of Barkley Square ignoring completely the hard times confronting Subdued City in addition to the rising costs of a night out; film tickets are now approaching 10 bucks here and then there are those home screens not getting any smaller as they receive streamed product whose one month cost is about that of one Regal ticket.  Those nights out often include dinner, popcorn and the noisy kids seated immediately behind who take out their boredom by kicking seats.

The Magic Christian would buy out Regal with his incalculable wealth.  Ah, yes, but what to do with the Barkley screening rooms?  Aware of the importance of education, The Magic Christian would create something much-needed here: The Subdued City School of Sophisticated Social Skills & Other Stuff.  Classrooms, free to all 'hamsters, would be devoted to such subjects as: "The Cell Phone & Other Calamities," "How to Fake Cell Phone Calls for Fun & Profit," "Award-Winning Facebook Comments," "Don't Be An Ordinary Twit," "Perfecting Your Twitter Vocabulary," "Never Litter Your Twitter," "The Affect Those 124 Characters Will Have on Yours," and "JFK Couldn't Spell, Either."  In all likelihood, deprived and depraved Bellingham will warm to such additional classes as "I've Grown Accustomed to the Moss," "How Green Is My Valley of Moss," "Moss: A Forgone Confusion," and "Moss is Boss, So Get Used to It."  

The Magic Christian, in an early assessment of Bellingham, doubtless would take note of the many eccentric and rude drivers in our fair city and include in the Social School a much-needed classroom devoted to The Control & Execution of the Left-Hand Turn.  While relieving drivers of excessive timidity through preparation for challenges at intersections including Sunset & Orleans, Lakeway& Woburn and Harris & Finnegan Way, such education would instill the kind of confidence prompting advancement to big-time left-hand turn locations, Guide Meridian & Bakerview among them.

The left-turn is not the only challenge facing 'hamster drivers as proven by the remarkably low percentage of red-lighted right hand turns granted by earliest arrivals at such corners.  Typical major intersection lights provide left hand arrow turn lanes plus two offering drivers a choice; the very reasonable know right hand lanes represent the red light right turn escape from disasters like Guide Meridian.  "Such considerations are not comparable to mastering Sanskrit or successfully twisting Rubik's Cube," according to Dr. I.B. Spacey, Bellingham's world-renowned master of all that is technical and then some.

According to Spacey, Subdued City drivers lacking the ability, while facing heavy oncoming traffic, to inch up on green lights "have little in common with right turn blockers other than stupidity.  It's one of those left/right brain things."  Warming to his subject, the eminent scientist and all-around smart ass opined that left/right turning challenges might be dealt with successfully in a Magic Christian Subdued City School for Sophisticated Social Skills & Other Stuff.  Admission would be free with attendees paid bonuses for perfect attendance.

Speaking of making turns, sometimes a restaurant makes a questionable one in terms of a marketing strategy erroneously based upon assumption rather than reality.  The Magic Christian would make certain that The Hearthfire at 7 Bellwether Way, gets a makeover so that profit may be maximized.  While it is no secret that the best pizza in town is served at The Hearthfire's outstanding 3:30-6:30 p.m. happy hour (Beefeater martinis are $5 and personal pizzas $6), it is becoming more clear with each passing rainstorm that the restaurant's full potential is not being realized.

The Magic Christian to the rescue.  Employing munificent minions, he would distribute $100 bills to incoming diners with instructions that all who accept the money can keep the change if they order pizza and only pizza.  Beefeater martinis would be legal.  Such a public relations gesture, typical of The Magic Christian, would quickly turn The Hearthfire into probably the world's most magnificent pizza parlor compete with glorious views of boats, the setting sun beyond the San Juan Islands and a waterfront never to be completed.    

Also of considerable consequnce to the Social School would be instruction in The Art of Throwing the Finger in such a way that the kind of overt gesticulation presently offered by 'hamsters would be reduced in the name of good taste.  With so many of foreign extraction moving to the Fourth Corner, perhaps it's time to create a new means of expressing unhappiness.  Because digitus impudicus is so universal yet often misunderstood, The Magic Christian would devise a signature movement whose inspiration might very well be Britney Spears, she of the one finger salute that peaked 10 years ago in Mexico.  The singer (or whatever it is she is?) has always had difficulty explaining that her birds in flight (often made airborne while in convertibles) were really attempts to touch her nose as the hated paparazzi, largely responsible for her success, fired away.

Inspiration comes in many forms and it's easy to imagine The Magic Christian's Spearsian ruminations producing a new obscene gesture call The Britney.  Bellingham and the world need a non-threatening use of body language and the touching of one's nose is almost exclusively associated with Santa Claus who, according to Clement Clarke Moore's A Visit from St. Nicholas, always plants a finger on his proboscis before going up the chimney.  Such a nose gesture, certainly non-threatening, might produce misinterpretations making Italians and Jews feel ethnically singled out but we'll let The Magic Christian deal with that one. 

There is so much obscenity being flung one way or another from so many 'hamster cars these days that we owe it to ourselves to blaze new trails in the lessening of obscene gestures.  It was 15 years ago when a U.S. News & World Report cover story revealed that one-third of a focus group admitted using hostile gestures while in the car.  That fraction, if applied here, undoubtedly would be increased esponentially today as civic leaders continue to proclaim a long-term vision to become The Santa Barbara of the North.

As with all communications, there is a decided need for improvement.  Call it a venom reduction as we adopt The Britney and throw fingers in wise and reasonable fashion.  Unfortunately, we always seem to be stroking, rubbing or tapping some form of quick communications often producing severe fumbling when it comes to such multi-tasking in cars.  Flashing The Britney will not result in complete understanding, but it will be an improvement.  Indeed, there are increasing numbers of people from foreign lands who do not necessarily understand what all this flailing about really means.  The Magic Christian Social School will make certain that Britney finger throwing will be done in a chaste fashion easily understood by foreigners eager to become part of the Bellingham experience.  Perhaps, there will one day be an Epicene School of the Obscene with limp wrists a qualifying factor.  This is an ever-changing world.

Were The Magic Christian to work his wonders on Bellingham, a likely project would honor the famous people most associated with Subdued City and it won't be easy.  The inglorious fact is that no one of any consequence, once you get past actress Hilary Swank plus three or four musicians and comedians not recognized beyond Sedro-Woolley, has come from Bellingham.

The really major people, who once called 'hamsterland home, were page one killers with the good sense to dine often at The Waterfront Tavern where the modestly-priced fish and chips remain the best in town.  For the unaware, Ted Bundy, Kenneth Bianchi (one of two Hillside Stranglers) and Beltway Sniper John Allen Muhammad were all 'hamsters at one time.  We weren't always the City of Subdued Excitement.

The Magic Christian, aware that Christ the King Church, blessed with a very large congregation yet functioning in something physically less than The National Cathedral or Notre Dame, needs new digs.  With wealth beyond that of Mark Zuckerberg, The Magic Christian could build a cathedral of such magnificence that Bill Maher might feel compelled to speak kindly of it in the New Rules segment of his HBO show.  Further, the church's tag line, written by The Magic Christian and running along the lines of: "It's Sunday, So Let's Hear It for Ted Bundy," is likely to attract attention.  That line may offend the deeply religious and require a little re-working.

Cross-dressing in a blue collar town is rarely popular.  However, The Magic Christian, ever wily and aware that 'hamster shortcomings go beyond the challenges of left and right-hand traffic turns, might use baseball as a means of bringing a social phenomena to the Fourth Corner.  By purchasing the Bellingham Bells from the current owner for probably no more than $675 and $500 worth of Monday shopping at a Bellis Fair store of choice, The Magic Christian could change the name of the team to Bellingham Belles and introduce a box office enhancing cross-dressing threat to the social norm.  Don't miss Sensational Strumpets of the Sometimes Sterling Silver Screen Night when it plays at the ballpark near you.

As public services, The Magic Christian might very well install enormous umbrellas for each of Bellingham's 25 rain-besotted neighborhoods, take all the noise out of Boundary Bay Brewery & Bistro, and rid our community of tattoos.  Just as the Supreme Court has made it possible to buy elections in the name of freedom of speech, so it would be with The Magic Christian who would pay large amounts of money to rid ourselves of epidermis graffiti in the name of freedom of sight.

Even larger sums of money could be utilized to eliminate nose rings and piercing paraphernalia in more specific locations of Subdued City disfigurement.  Way to go, Magic Christian.

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Pizza Adventures....by Bob Sanders

I'm not sure where or when I had my first pizza.  My best guess is that it was in Tulsa in the early '60s and definitely in a Pizza Hut.  This would figure since the chain was begun in 1958 by a couple of students at Wichita University--something like 130 miles north of Tulsa.

Pizza Hut was a reasonable beginning and it wasn't until 1968 that matters got serious when I moved from Los Angeles to Chicago to work for Playboy Enterprises.  L.A. was essentially pizza-deprived back then although Sam and Joe Martorano had established Casa Bianca at 1955 Colorado Blvd., a couple of field goals from the Rose Bowl.  The Martoranos had worked at Tony's Pizza in the Windy City but their approach bore little resemblance to the deep dish Chicago product; the crust, I'm told, was light and the toppings slight by comparison.  The California approach to cooking was underway and the pizza obsessive under-served.

I don't recall any L.A. pizza places largely because my dining was pretty much limited to West Hollywood and environs running to the ocean.  With an office at 9255 Sunset Blvd, my favorite places tended to be within walking distance and included: the Cock & Bull across the street; Hamburger Hamlet, eventually a chain created by the still with us Harry and Marilyn Lewis who started at the corner of Sunset & Hilldale; and Frascati, a casual yet classy place with outdoor dining at the rear.  Oh, yes, there was Musso & Frank Grill, still there since 1919.

My discovery of Chicago pizza was made possible by a convention at The Drake Hotel that forced me to stay at the St. Clair on Ohio Street.  The Drake, immediately across the street from the Playboy Building, was the logical place for me but timing, as always, was everything and I was told I could move to The Drake when the convention was over.  We know the importance of timing when we reflect upon Turner Classic Movie's decision to play next Tuesday's (May 29) Irving Thalberg tribute show at 6 a.m. EST.

I didn't need The Drake.  I had settled in at the St. Clair, a place complete with a large contingent of raffish folks from the entertainment industry.  On the top floor was the Chicago Press Club and down the street Ike Sewell's uncommnly popular restaurants, Pizzeria Uno and Due.  I soon found myself eating a fair amount of deep dish that contrasted enormously with prior culinary adventures of the Italian genre.

Sewell, having served in Italy during World War II, had become a regional vice president of Fleishmann's Distilling Corp. and wanted something more exciting.  He found it when he teamed up with pal Ricc Riccardo, an established restaurateur who in in 1935 had turned a former speakeasy into Riccardo Restaurant and Gallery.  A Texan, Sewell wanted to specialize in Mexican food but fate, in the form of a very bad enchilada in a test dinner played a significant role in cuisine history.  Riccardo became so sick that Mexican food was out of the question so he suggested pizza.  Like Sewell, Riccardo had encountered the food while serving in Italy; both were of a mind that the real thing was little more than an appetizer, and they set about inventing something more substantial.  What evolved was a meal-sized pizza with a thick crust and lots of cheese. 

Business did not flourish immediately at the corner of Ohio and Wabash and Sewell soon gave orders to his bartenders to provide free sample slices to customers.  Fortunately for Sewell (Riccardo by then was concentrating on his own restaurant up the street at Rush and Hubbard Streets), Pizzaria Uno's clientele were heavy drinkers and the pizza eventually caught on.  More about the remarkable Riccardo and son Ric, Jr. at a later date.

I lived at the St. Clair for a month, then moved into an apartment on Division Street between State St. and Lake Michigan.  As things turned out, Betty and the kids did not join me in Chicago until August of that year.  It wasn't all bad since Hugh Hefner's home was two blocks away and I had an open invitation to parties that, seemingly, had no end.

The true origins of pizza are difficult to pin down.  People inclined toward conspiracy theories tend to believe that Marco Polo brought back more than spaghetti when he returned from China although such claims are tenuous at best.  We are told the Greeks had a vegetable pizza in ancient times and the Italians improved the product with a variety of fillings before baking.  We do know that Virgil, who lived in the lst Century BC, had the good sense to write a pizza recipe for posterity.

It is generally conceded that the first pizzeria in this country was opened in New York City in 1905 thus planting the city's incestuous family tree.  Like Sewell's experience 50 years later, it was slow to catch on.  It took World War II and a taste acquired by GIs to create a fondness for the food.  Today there are more than 70,000 pizzerias in this country producing an average of 46 slices or 23 lbs. a year for every man, woman and child.  Deep dish pizza, still served at Uno and Due, has run afoul of criticism during recent years for a calorie count of 2,310.  Pizza Hut is out of contention in that league with a modest 9-inch Triple Meat Heliano of 1,280 calories.  And you wonder how this nation got to be one of big butts?

Not credited with a national sense of humor, South Korea spoofed itself when the country's artery-clogged Mr. Pizza unit produced a YouTube pizza story suggesting that Marco Polo stole the pizza recipe not from China but from Korea.  The send up was produced by Gumshoe Pictures and is worth viewing.

In 1990, wife Jan and I moved to the Pacific Northwest and San Juan Island's Friday Harbor where nary a pizza could be found until an expanded gas station started cranking out product geared for those of decidedly limited dining experience.  Even the availability of the mainland 60 minutes away by ferry was of pizza disappointment.  Alas, the exquisite pizza and the magnificent hamburger are rarities of the Pacific Northwest.  We eventually discovered, thanks to then banker Brian Brown, an approximation of hamburger heaven on Commercial Avenue in Anacortes.  The Brown Lantern is a burger discovery that resurrected fond memories of Charlie Beinlich's in Northbrook north of Chicago.  Mainland mainstay Bob's (nine locations--three in Bellingham) knows what to put in a bun; by all means, hit the bar in the Barkley Village location for a genuine pub feeling.

Each of us has had memorable dining experiences.  One of mine occurred in 1992 when Jan and I were guests in Barcelona of Antonio Susquellas Escala, whose employment as presidente of EniChem Iberica, S.A. put him in the midst of the Olympic Games.  Tony had been an exchange student in Thousand Oaks, California living with Jan and her family.  Our six weeks with Tony was his "thank you" and included a highly impressive number of event tickets including opening and closing ceremonies.

It was while strolling down Barcelona's impressive La Ramblas that Jan and I, accompanied by my brother John and his wife, Terry, decided to have lunch at the Hotel Royal's Cafeteria La Poma.  Curious about whatever Barcelona's approach to the pizza might be, I ordered a thin-crusted beauty whose intriguing ingredients included walnuts and blue cheese positioned in the pie's center--about a four-inch circle.  Outside of a delicate winner consumed at, of all places, a short-lived Two Illinois Center restaurant developed by Arnold Morton (he built steak house giant Morton's), my experience with the light version had been limited.

The Barcelona product was remarkably good and here I am, 20 years later, recalling its virtues.  I was so caught up in the pizza that I paid little attention to Magic Johnson, a member of the U.S.A. Dream Team, unquestionably the greatest basketball squad ever.  Magic was seated nearby dining while a circus-like scene developed outside in front of a huge hotel window where a human pyramid of kids had materialized.  Mesmerized, the kids were shouting "Ma-jeek, Ma-jeek."  Completing his meal, the basketball star vanished out a back door and the kids disassembled.  Pronounced evidence of the departed youngsters was left behind on the window; the glass was heavily befogged by human vapors.

Pizza satisfaction is a personal thing and my problem with the Fourth Corner version can be summed up in one word: pepperoni.  Enthusiasts of the pepperoni experience are inclined to believe that pepperoni pizza is to the Pacific Northwest what the Packers are to Green Bay.  A current television commercial extolling the glories of Pizza Hut is, I find, a stomach churner of prodigious success.  While an imaginatively constructed pizza heavy on vegetables can mirror the exultant beauty of a Joan Miro work, the Pizza Hut TV effort features a very large pie whose disgusting topping consists of nothing but a slathering of pepperoni that appears to have been sitting for a week under a scorching Arizona desert sun.  It is beyond ugly made even more so by bread sticks of almost equal repulsion.

Reaching pizza nirvana is not easy although there is a greater variety available today than, say, 30 years ago.  Now a $38 billion industry, pizza is available in chains dominated by Pizza Hut, Dominos, and Papa John who claim 21% of the pizzeria total.  With hard times upon us, pizzeria prices have come down--partly because of the frozen variety competition whose costs are appealing.  Papa Murphy's, whose come-on is take-and-bake, is a highly interesting game plan.  A warning: do not deviate fromn Papa's instructions.  Among other things, bake within a hour of pickup and make sure you don't get a product that's been sitting around.

Store-bought frozen product is challenging with Freschetta, Red Baron, DeGiorno, Paul Newman, California and the rest battling it out to see who has the least amount of cardboard taste.  The boredom of pepperoni pizza has dominated Fourth Corner freezers and I had all but given up until three weeks ago when I encountered what I immediately determined as homage to Chicago: sausage and mushroom pizza.  It was at Fred Meyer and, indeed, produced by Kroger, owner of FM.  Further, a rather stunning picture of the pizza was on the black oblong box and within an hour I had achieved a blessedness never imagined from a frozen product.  The crust was thin and flaky but not overly so and the toppings more substantial and decidedly tastier than all others experienced.  At present, there are four Private Selection pizzas (11-14 oz.) that sell for $4.50 each.  The mushrooms used are portobella and shitake and the sausage Italian.  There's some jive on the box about the baking having been done on a marble hearth.

This column, always inclined to recognize superior marketing, believes Private Selection deserves recognition for realizing all frozen pizza boxes are the same shape.  Simply by creating an oblong pizza has the firm given the product recognition in a highly competitive environment.

And, frankly, I don't care if Private Selection pizza is baked on Aunt Tilly's breakfast table.  Now, go get yourself some sausage and mushroom pizza and think Cubs; that is, if you can stand the thought.

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Florida....by Bob Sanders

 

Mike Royko was easily the most entertaining and evocative columnist I've yet to read and I'd rank Jimmy Breslin second probably because I lived in Chicago for 22 years.  The Chicago wonder has been gone two weeks more than 15 years and I continue to miss his incisiveness and wit.  The wonder of it all was that he wrote his column five times a week--a staggering output.  He knew Chicago better than the back of his hand and he could spot a phony by way of uncommon insight.

Royko had a lot of targets.  Writing for first the Daily News, then the Sun-Times and, finally, the Tribune, the columnist went after the Mayors Daley, aldermen on the take, cops with more than character flaws, the Cubs when they were playing badly (and that was most of the time), Hollywood's latest darlings, and adjacent states including Indiana.

Were he still among us, I think Royko would have been absolutely captivated by Florida, that skinny Texas of extraordinary confusion.

It's difficult to know where to begin with something as curious as Florida.  There are the people past including: railway magnet Henry Flagler; the fabulous Mizner brothers who became the rogues of the 1920s Florida Land Boom and whose raffish personalities gave further understanding of the affinity New Yorkers have for Florida; Meyer Lansky, otherwise known as the "Mob's Accountant," and Hank Meyer, a public relations whiz so persuasive that he talked Second Corner weathermen into never crediting Miami Beach with temperatures higher than 89.  They do today, but Meyer is no longer among us.

Let us leap immediately into the contemporary Florida now recognized as the fraud capital of the U.S., a reputation well-established long before Bernie  ripped off so many friends and relatives in Palm Beach, easily his favorite hunting ground.  Florida led the nation last year with 130,449 complaints while also grabbing the top spot in home foreclosures and identity theft.  The Bermuda Triangle of the latter is the Miami metropolitan area where 51 percent of the state's complaints originated last year.  Way to go, Miami, whose numbers were nearly double those of the next-highest U.S. metro area.

While best known for 114 hurricanes (37 major) since 1851, dead beat Florida also has impressive credit card debt records with four cities in the top 25.

In the dumper job-wise, Florida will have to wait at least another year to realize all the magnificence inherent in a mega-casino bill pulled from consideration the other day by House sponsor Erik Fresen when it became clear passage was not possible.  Not even a statewide TV advertising campaign, in addition to glitzy architectural renderings we've come to expect from the Sunshine State, could make possible three $2 billion mega casinos in Miami-Dade and Broward Counties.  Las Vegas-style gambling in South Florida can yet be a reality.  After all, like corporations, casinos are people.

As if living in Florida isn't difficult enough, The National Transportation Safety Board tells us the state is on its list of those needing the most improvement in highway safety.  The problem involves an out-of-touch legislature unwilling to pass a single distracted driving law.  While more than 70 percent of Florida voters support a ban on text messaging while driving, the legislature has been turning down safety bills since 2006 when the problem was timidly referred to as "hands free."

The concerned have statistics to back up their contention tht keeping legal outrageous driving is not acceptable.  During the first 10 months of 2011, electronic distractions led to 2,218 vehicle accidents in the state with 145 linked to texting and drivingl.  The big year for messaging bills that never made it out of committee was 2008 when in e met such a fate.  Of little help is Gov. Rick Scott, a conservative Republican (thought I'd never get there, did you?) who vetoed a bill in 2011 that would have required education about the dangers of electronic distracted driving.  What a flippant thought.

Sometimes referred to as the Persistent Vegetative State, voters not long ago passed a law making the wearing of baggy pants a criminal offense that can cost the offender up to $150 and 60 days in jail.  Ah, priorities where in Florida baggy pants are more important than electronic distraction while driving.

Oh, yes.  Did you know that Orlando, where Mickey Mouse is king, is the kiddie porn capital of this here country?  That's according to a Men's Health Magazine study based upon such factors as hard core DVD purchases, rentals, and streams.  Florida is so salacious that Las Vegas finished second with New York coming in 77th out of 100.

It may have been the butterfly ballot of 2000 that first brought our attention to Florida in terms of how corrupt and screwed up it is.  The hanging chad became one of those infamous terms forever associated with America's only stolen election although Jack Kennedy's win in 1958 is a reasonable Republican response.  The brilliant punch card design was on its way out with but 37.3% of voters using the system in 1996.  Socioeconomics determined which counties would keep punch card voting and Palm Beach County was considered disadvantaged without funds to buy voting machines.

What set up confusion in Palm Beach County was the state's 1998 gubernatorial election in which Jeb Bush beat incumbent governor Lawton Chiles.  Had George W. Bush's brother lost in Florida, Gore would have won in 2000 because of a first position on the ballot.  The 1996 election found Republican Bob Dole second on the ballot because Chiles was in office so Dole got all the ruined ballots.  With Jeb Bush Governor, Gore got second place on the ballot and lost the election.  It was those error-prone folks in Palm Beach County who determined the election along with a lot of help from the U.S. Supreme Court.  Proof that Bush was unfairly awarded the Presidency is every one of Pat Buchanan's 3,407 Palm Beach County votes.  The total represented 19.6% of votes cast, a highly suspect number since the Reform Party candidate pulled but 5.4% of the total in 1996.  There were 336 registered Reform Party members in 2000.  Once Bush was in office, he made certain that the lede paragraph of his obituary will make mention of his war criminality rather than the flukiness of the 2000 election.

Speaking of criminals, there's a burgeoning number of Floridians who will steal anything not nailed down.  Among them is a guy who concentrates on ripping off large amounts of medical equipment.  His specialty: heart monitors unhooked from their owners.

Floridians are often challenged by a lack of awareness as evidenced by the flight trainer who didn't find it unusual shortly before 9/11 when he was told by a cash-paying aviation "student" to forget about landing instructions and "just teach me to fly it around."

Key West, where weirdness might peak, is worth mentioning if only because of the German doctor who fell in love with a young tuberculosis patient.  She eventually died and he tried to restore her to life after stealing her from her tomb.  In a plot twist Tim Burton probably wouldn't touch, the doctor had sexual relations with her corpse quite possibly proving, once again, that a good bedside manner can go a long way.

Let's make it encore, Key West, where in 1984 the entire police department was declared an illegal enterprise under the RICO laws--usually used to shut down mobsters.  One witness testified to delivering bags of coke to city hall on a regular basis.

Of much more recent vintage has been the Trayvon Martin shooting by George Zimmerman in which Florida's short-sighted stand your ground law is being questioned now by even the fools in government who came up with such an un-civilized law.  It's always interesting to learn what adjoining states are doing and, to little surprise, Georgia, South Carolina and Alabama have similar laws.  Yahoo states do as Yahoo states are.

A town with an innate ability to insult a celebrity is Lauderhill that once invited actor James Earl Jones to speak at a Martin Luther King, Jr. celebration and receive a plaque to commemorate the occasion.  Everything went according to plan until the presentation of the plaque.  It was inscribed to James Earl Ray, the man who assassinated King.

Enormously funny author Carl Hiassen has kicked the state around while living in South Florida.  It was during a Steve Kroft interview on "60 Minutes" that Hiassen revealed a lot of his plot developments are based upon actual people including the heroine of Skinny Dip who was flung off the stern of a cruise ship, only to be saved by a floating bale of marijuana.  Other characters include a professional wheelchair thief, a school board candidate whose legal residence was a tool shed, and a U.S. attorney who bit a stripper during a table dance.  Oh, and let's not forget a South Florida mayor who tried to employ city hall workers to kill her husband.

One of the verities of Florida, sometimes referred to as "America's Penis," is the vast number of retirees living in places like The Villages whose TV advertising budget is probably exceeded only by that of Super PAC Restore Our Future.  The Villages residents, as might be expected, resort to print advertising including the following under the heading: Long Term Commitment: Recent widow who has just burned fourth husband, and am looking for someone to round out a six-unit plot.  Dizziness, fainting, shortness of breath not a problem.  It would appear it's possible to have a sense of humor in the Alligator State despite living conditions on the challenging side.

Adding to Florida's uniqueness is the topography.  The lowest high point of any state is Britton Hill at 345 ft.  To no one's surprise, there are theorists fully convinced a great day is coming when a really significant tsunami will do what Floridians have been unable to do thus far: put the state out of its misery.

And, as the saying goes, there's much, much more not touched upon in this sally including the continuing role of Miami's Little Havana in our Cuban policy and the laugh-out-loud rewriting of Senator Marco Rubio's family history; the unusual death 10 years ago of a Joe Scarborough ("Morning Joe") employee in Walton Beach; the odd case of Terry Schiavo kept alive for six years in a vegetative state for political purposes; and Jeb Bush's request for an Orlando court-appointed guardian for the fetus of a mentally disabled rape victim.  He was refused.

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Fourth Corner Mayberry....by Bob Sanders

Readers of this space know of my intense perturbation regarding the media's "selling" of Bellingham, the Fourth Corner community I call home.  The remarkable amount of publicity suggesting people move here has become a very real problem.

My thinking is not original.  I first heard such observations from a San Juan Island neighbor, author Ernie Gann, who refused to tell the media where he lived.  The adventure novelist (The High and the Mighty among his triumphs) was convinced the less the rest of the world knew about the island, the better off islanders would be.

It was nearly three years ago that I began undertaking efforts to debunk Bellingham utilizing a campaign that would paint for public consumption a joyless picture of the city.  In my role as the Picasso of PR, that pursuance has included changing our current unofficial motto, "City of Subdued Excitement," to something a bit more pretentious like "City of Sublimely Subdued Subjective Excitement," or even "Tony Soprano's Kinda Town."

Just why 'hamsters are lethargic, indifferent and depressed was examined a couple of years ago by way of an interview with Dr. I.B. Spacey.  It was Spacey, Bellingham's world-renowned master of medical world stuff and all-around smart ass, who targeted vitamin D deficiency as the community's dirty little secret.  Spacey's pioneering efforts produced the intriguing information that more than 90 percent of blood tests here reveal deplorable vitamin D deficiencies.  Interestingly enough, the vitamin D story is now on the back burner because of superior opportunities to inform about the real Bellingham.

Chances are pretty good you don't know that whooping cough in Whatcom County has reached epidemic proportions and is on pace to soon number 3,000 cases.  The county ranks fifth in the state and is first among the 10 largest with populations of more than 150,000.  The reason for Whatcom/Bellingham's record is the increased rejection of the pertussis vaccine.  The past 12 years have seen the rejection figure double so spread the word that there are an awful lot of stupid 'hamsters you wouldn't want living next door to you should a move here be considered.

The challenges of life in Bellingham in addition to the major vitamin deficiency and whooping cough, have been reduced in priority by the Hammer the 'hamsters Committee devoted to reducing our population.  The HHC has chosen to inundate the world's media with information about the community's immature leadership during recent years.  In the committee's sights are: the firing of the city's parks & recreation director for failure to properly reconfigure a golf course pond; the sliding past an asleep-at-the-switch City Council of a hidden camera scheme that led to the mayor's re-election defeat; and the thoroughly bizarre story of two Port Commissioners (there are three) who forced the resignation of the Executive Director in what recalled the Machiavellian maneuvers intrinsic to many of the plot twists of television's "Mayberry RFD."

The firing late in 2010 of veteran and highly-regarded Parks & Recreation Director Paul Leuthold had unusual beginnings.  Upkeep of Padden Lake Golf Course is the city's responsibility and it was mayor Dan Pike who, while checking out the course, made a critical comment to Leuthold about a pond located between the 13th and 15th fairways.  It needed work alternately described as silt removal or drainage and Leuthold, aware of the importance of cost-saving, put friend/city engineer Mark Handzlik to work.  Handzlik, a golfer, was "paid" with free golf.  It was win win for the city.  According to Handzlik, both his boss and the city manager knew of the arrangement.

Suddenly, everything went Mayberry and got either Gooberized or Gomerized to death depending upon one's point of view.  Charges of conflict of interest, violating policies on moonlighting, using city computers, and being on the city's clock while working on the project were bruited about.  The mayor, normally placid (some say right out of "Murder She Wrote") turned nasty levying a sentence that hardly fit the "crime." Result: Leuthold and Handzlik were fired.  As things turned out, the firings were a factor leading to Pike's re-election failure last November.

Another factor was the hidden cameras fiasco, additional proof that you simply stay away from Bellingham unless you want to experience fools gladly as they attempt to myopically claim Subdued City as the Santa Barbara of the North.

It was mayor Pike who signed a contract with something called ATS that would have placed red-light cameras at four intersections in addition to speed snappers in two school zones.  The signing followed a Council closed-to-the-public 6-1 vote that approved the deal.  Earlier, the Council had voted unanimously to encourage public expression.  Subdued City rose up in a wrath most righteous, got an initiative on last November's ballot and there went the traffic cameras.  Pike was defeated, but wait a minute.  The state Supreme Court ruled the initiative against the cameras was invalid.

There was, of course, money involved and Bellingham's plan was to write at least two traffic tickets per location per day to equal a yearly cost of  $28,500 per camera.  Those tickets were to cost $124 at the intersections and $250 at the school zones.  This was in stark contrast to Mukilteo's approach to matters.  Mukilteo, for the geographically-deprived, is halfway to Seattle and set costs at $20 while enabling the public to vote.

The slumbering City Council in March of this year voted to pay ATS $100,000 by June 1 to end all the foolishness.  There is a chilling history of money spent here on surveys, advanced planning documents and architectural renderings plus the disheartening waste of time offered in the name of public good by committees and public commentary.

Another story to pass along to friends and relatives considering a move to Subdued City is a real classic involving the Port of Bellingham whose inability to get things done is legendary.  Turf warfare is what a lot of it is all about and savage infighting has characterized the Port Commission's inability to work with the City Council whose shortcomings are hardly breaking news.

For something like 18 months, Charlie Sheldon worked effectively as Port of Bellingham Executive Director having been hired by Commissioners who couldn't come up with a choice during a first round of interviews.  Sheldon, with an excellent record in a similar position in Seattle, eventually was chosen and did work that pleased everyone including Commissioner Scott Walker who eventually changed his mind.  Meanwhile, former Commissioners, ex-mayors and others of political bent came to believe Sheldon was the real deal.  That is everyone but Walker.

On March 30, the three port commissioners held an executive meeting.  It was closed to the public with only invited staff and counsel also in attendance to discuss "personnel."  The discussion was about Sheldon with Walker unable to convince fellow commissioner Jim Jorgensen to ask for Sheldon's resignation.  According to witnesses, Walker would not elaborate on his disappointment with Sheldon.

It was at this point that an illegal weekend meeting between Walker and Jorgensen was held.  Jorgensen eventually caved and Sheldon was forced to resign.  Walker and Jorgensen had engaged in a "serial meeting" in which two commissioners talked through an intermediary from the Port staff.  It was a violation of the Open Meetings Act of Washington State.

In one of those journalistic embarrassments underlining the Bellingham Herald's lack of responsibility to its readers, the reporter who normally covers the Port for the paper was out of town.  No one stepped in for him and the paper was beaten for two days by John Servais who publishes the on-line Northwest Citizen.  Originally from Green Bay, Wisconsin, Servais was the principal force behind The Independent, now defunct.  Servais, highly sensitive about such matters as inept leadership and lazy journalism, has called for a public response.  One option is to recall Walker and elect a replacement this fall.  The other is to expand the commission to five members, a move that would produce better Port decisions and lessen the possibility of further outrages.  An open to the public Port meeting, at which a problem-solving expansion can be accomplished, will be held Monday (May 14).  No one is holding their breath.

One month after Sheldon left office, Walker's indignation was finally explained by something called the Pacific Maritime Online.  Sheldon had taken a busines trip to the Caribbean and Walker was miffed for his not informing the board.  According to many, Walker's idea of travel exotica might involve a visit to nearby Marietta whose resemblance to Dismal Seepage of "Vic & Sade" is striking.

At this writing, 'hamsters can affix their names to a petition calling for an expansion of Port commissioners from three to five.  Needed are 6,915 valid signatures, a number that amounts to 10 percent of last November's voters.

No way do you want to move to Bellingham.  No way, that is, unless you yearn for a real life version of "Mayberry RFD."

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All Alone....by Bob Sanders

 

I've always loved a good mystery but studies suggesting we are becoming increasingly lonely flies in the face of all the instant communications available to us.  What is going on?

Actually, it's more than a mystery.  It's a paradox impossible to ignore in coffee shops, libraries, public transportation, baseball games, the beach, the car, you name it.  Choose your site and it's there.  Heads down, everyone.  Let's ignore each other while pretending to be friendly as we further tailor our personas by way of the often badly-written word and retouched photo.  We haven't had this much fun since the last phony resume.

Who would have thought that a song written nearly eighty years ago would best describe the solitude suggested by studies.  It was Irving Berlin who wrote "All Alone" whose point of view was that a lot of lonely people were waiting by the telephone.  In those days, the coin-operated version offered communications a wondrous mobility of sorts.  We've traded the phone booth for the cell phone--a more convenient means of communication yet lacking the romantic effort it often took to hoof it to the phone and set up a meet at the Oyster Bar, under the clock, or at Ricarrdo.  One wonders how many among us practice a self-con suggesting that a multiplicity of fast communications can replace the reality of a face-to-face relationship.  How many among us upon hearing an "alone" song (there must be at least two dozen) immediately think: "hey, they're playing my song."

The loneliness studies today are impressively scary.  One done in 2010 by AARP found that 35 percent of adults more than 45 were chronically lonely--up from 20 percent a decade earlier.  That suggests Facebook (launched by Mark Zuckerberg in 2004) isn't doing what it is supposed to be doing: making us giddy with the understanding we have so many friends.  Further, another study suggests 20 percent of Americans (60 milion) are unhappy with their lives because of loneliness.

I once tested loneliness' first cousin, isolation, at Wrigley Field, a pretty noisy place--particularly if you normally sat in the bleachers where, as Bill Veeck observed: "Here, the beer is colder, the fans much smarter and you can see better."  Retired from the Chicago Tribune, I was invited more than once to watch the Cubs from the firm's sky box high above third base.  I finally accepted the offer trading banter with the Bleacher Preacher and other habitues of the then cheap seats for the air conditioned comfort and free booze of the corporate digs.  It's pretty rare of me to pass up gratis sauce and I managed three innings, then left never to return.  It was awful; there was no noise other than that emanating from the TV while the occupants provided the kind of un-knowledgeable commentary also available at any World Series game.

One has to wonder about such things as touching each other to convey feelings.  While there are no statistics thus far, it does seem that our intense desire for digital connection is going too far when we spend much more time in isolation touching and feeling a tiny screen rather than each other.  Fingers that once walked through phone books now glide over i-pod touch as we don head phones to make certain we're not sharing the experience while our ears are assaulted by noise accompanied by lyrics either repetitive or boring.  Ah, but what control is ours.

A case can be made that limiting each Twitter to 140 characters is working a remarkable hardship on both our language and the people who use it.  With class warfare a reality as we gird ourselves for six more months of the White House Marathon, is it possible that further class warfare is developing between the Facebookers, the Tweeters and the Bloggers?  As a member of the Blogging class, I'm in what is probably a second tier aristocracy of computer communications bearing in mind the significance of Pulitzer-winning Huffington Post, Politico, the Daily Beast and others of the upper echelon.  On the other hand, the often misinformed and misguided production by Tweeters and Facebookers is staggering and we won't even discuss the tearing asunder of our language largely through laziness.

Since this is an era in which we place almost all screw-ups at the feet of the President, I think it quite likely that John F. Kennedy bears some responsibility for all that is going wrong with fast communications spelling although his sentence structure was, largely, exemplary with a good sense of rhythm.  Kennedy, as we have learned, was a terrible speller and purposely wrote illegibly when he couldn't come up with correct spelling.  Let us now refer to all lack of legibility as a Kennedystroke.

Online dating, of which Kennedy had no need had there been such a thing more than 50 years ago, is a strange term since the socializing is done offline.  It is, perhaps, best exemplified by eHarmony whose television commercials promise tomorrow's nirvana through "matching algorithms."  For a fee, eHarmony and other pimps of the communications skyways collect information about you, crunch the numbers, then pair you with someone "prescreened for deep compatibility across 29 dimensions."  As Ohio University professor of economics William Fenzel once told me: "garbage in, garbage out."

The dubious science of matchmaking is getting a lot of criticism these days.  Eli J. Finkel, an associate professor of social psychology at Northwestern University and Benjamin R. Karney, whose professorship is at the University of California, Los Angeles, have just published a critical article in the journal Psychological Science in the Public Interest.  The study they and three others in the field produced suggests that 80 years of what makes people romantically compatible runs counter to the claims made by the eHarmonies.

Predicting compatibility is at best shaky made even more so since the sites fail to collect, according to the authors, some highly crucial information including job loss, financial strain, infertility and illness.  Research indicates people tend to have difficult romantic relationships if they are emotionally volatile, were mistreated as children or abuse drugs or alcohol.  The romantic brokers say dating pool eliminations are made (four marriages and you're out) but, once gain, garbage in, garbage out if lies are told.

The matchmaking people may have an even larger problem.  With Twitter and Facebook achieving such enormous use, are people simply forgoing the sometimes awkward adventures made possible by the eHarmonies and doing end runs around the panderers?

Knowing there is nothing quite as absorbing as a boy meets girl story and curious about how quick communications might be utilized, I chanced upon what writers of film scripts would be inclined to regard as a likely Woody Allen plot.

Author, public speaker and CEO of something called Buyosphere, Tara (last name Hunt) began showing up all over the Internet a few years ago as Miss Rogue.  I learned this through due diligence that also produced Carlos (last name Pacheco), a character whose perfect realization could be achieved in a delicious Latin fashion by Woody Allen, now a bit long in the tooth for the part but, hey, Woody likes young women.

Carlos began noticing Tara and her triumphs in seemingly anything Montreal or, as he eventually learned, San Francisco, Silicone Valley, New York and, probably, Poughkeepsie.  Tara gets around having spoken at 126 worldwide conferences while traveling more than 476,000 miles.  One of her major Blogging efforts was the unforgettable HorsePigCow and her authorship includes The Wuffie Factor.   As late night TV host Jack Paar used to say: "I kid you not."

In all honesty, there is something voyeuristic about checking out someone like Tara, a very attractive 38-year-old Canadian recently profiled by Joanne Wilson, otherwise known as Gotham Gal.  Photos (found elsewhere) by Eva Blue added to her mystique and Carlos, who lives in Montreal, became intrigued--particularly since Tara had returned there from San Francisco.  One of the Blue photos is partcularly arresting.  It features whipped cream and an interestingly tattooed Tara.

While it's not clear who made the first move, it is certain Tara and Carlos are self-described "slight Tweeters," a term that certainly qualifies as a major oxymoron.  Upping the romantic ante, they first dabbled in Facebook, then consummated some solid back and forth Tweets during which he learned Tara's first major Internet identification was Miss Rogue, not to be confused with Sarah Palin.

Carlos (Woody Allen) was suddenly struck by disaster in the form of his Facebook account being hjacked by co-workers.  The timing, two days prior to Valentine's Day, would have been disastrous except for a fortuitous Twitter sent by Tara and detailed by Carlos in his  Blog of 2012/02/14.  Tara, a party-giver of considerable renown in addition to her other talents, was into the details of a VD party (not what you think) that turned out to be a screening of Casablanca which the cinematically deprived Carlos had never seen.  He did go, however, although he did not speak to the formidable Tara who, according to his highly confessional Blog was simply having pity on him.  True to form, he did not see all of Casablanca but he did like the '20s theater.

According to Carlos, once there I saw her from afar, she was breathtaking (a photo is offered) & surrounded by at least half a dozen friends.  At that point all that courage escaped and my shyness took over.  Also, the last thing I wanted to be was that geeky fanboy from the Internet that showed up alone.  Readers of a bygone era--particularly those who believe Casablanca the greatest movie of all, must be shocked, shocked in the realization that male readers of the Playboy Forum would have handled this one differently.

Aware of Carlos' social shortcomings, good sport Tara invited him to a neighborhood food-discrawl which took on heightened importance as I reminded myself that all this unrequited foolishness was taking place in Montreal, a city where food is as important as women to Hugh Hefner for whom I had toiled more than once in, of all places, Montreal.

Carlos is interesting and may be a split personality who on his Blog describes himself as "a social media voyeur, part-time jogger, reformed hard core gamer, sometimes Blogger and...."  Then, again, he may be putting us on.

We are indebted to Blogger Brad McCarty, managing editor of The Next Web who describes himself as a music and tech junkie living in Nashville and who picked up on what surely had to be the passive Carlos' last shot at Tara.  According to McCarty, Carlos engaged something called the Gowalla Message Service, then planted Gowalla's notes to Tara all over Montreal eventually taking her on a walking date of four hours about which there are no details.  Some of those notes may have been particularly interesting but I guess we'll never know.  Somehow, I can't see Woody Allen doing all that walking.  A series of cab rides makes more sense.

McCarty adds: "The two have stayed together ever since, presently celebrating six months of a relationship together."

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Some afterthoughts about my communications prowl: While "awesome" retains its position as the most over-used word by the lazy, "amazing" is moving up.  The computer and its various family members make it possible for us to be open books.  Frankly, I prefer at least a little mystery.    

Lost and Found....by Bob Sanders

 

It has been a disappointing week.  The Artest (first name Ron) formerly known for rude behavior on NBA basketball courts is back in fetid form under his new and highly inappropriate name, Metta World Peace.  Hardly tranquil was the Los Angeles Lakers small forward's declaration of war on James Harden's head.  Harden's considerable skills are employed by the Oklahoma Thunder and the vicious assault was by way of a World Peace flying elbow.  World Peace claimed it was "accidental" but TV replays suggest otherwise.  For causing a concussion, he got a seven-game suspension, a decided contrast to a 2004 docking of 86.

Joining World Peace as major screw ups were a bunch of Secret Service operatives assigned to protect the President.  Somehow, a number of Columbian hookers wound up at the hotel where President Obama would be staying and, somehow, one of the agents refused to pay for services rendered.  Quicker than you can command room service, hotel management, then the cops were summoned resulting in the mom's apple pie reputation of the Secret Service going in the toilet.  It was the kind of opening scene of inspired lunacy that might have come from the enormously fertile mind of film director/writer Billy Wilder.  The kicker to the scene, of course, is that prostitution is legal in that part of Columbia.  Details, details.

It could very well be that the price-conscious agent has one of those very reactive minds much like head-hunting NFL defensive linemen quite unable to think things through.  As the story develops, it becomes clear that a number of agents will no longer run the risk of taking a bullet for this or any President.

Then, there's the case of GSA official Jeff Neely who became the poster boy for the $830,000 tab run up by his organization at much ado about precious little celebrations in Las Vegas.  What happened in Sin City is not staying there.  Neely had the misfortune to be photographed with two glasses of wine within easy reach while smiling from a hot tub.  Fox News went reliably crazy.

Offering a nice contrast to this country's stupid elite was one of those feel-good stories NBC's "Evening News" likes to sign off with on Fridays.  It's the tale of Misaki Murikami, now aware one prized possession survived the tsunami that destroy his home and community on March 11, 2011.  A football, containing messages of best wishes, was given him in 2005 as a good-bye gift when he transferred to another school.

The ball made it all the way to Alaska where David Baxter, a radar technician from Kasilof, found it while beachcombing on Middleton Island, 70 miles south of the Alaskan mainland.  Baxter and his wife plan to visit Japan next month but will not deliver the ball directly to Murikami.  They don't want to create a fuss.

While on the beachcombing subject, we've been fascinated for a long time by items carried great distances, then found.  People have been putting messages in bottles for something like 2,000 years.  Champion bottle finder appears to be beachcombing Illinoisan Clint Buffington.  A teacher at the University of Kentucky, Buffington is to bottle finding what Art Wall is to the hole-in-one.  Wall, as a touring professional, had 45 plus nine as an amateur.  Californian Norman Manley claims 59 but he wasn't a pro and some of his aces are unattested.  

With bottle-hunting not as popular as golf, statistics are on the rare side.  Buffington claims 38 readable notes in bottles and his pursuit is intense for someone with sand in his shoes.  He once found a Coca-Cola bottle on an island in the Caribbean Sea and got in touch with the daughter of the man who wrote it, perhaps 50 years ago.  The daughter, Paula Pierce of New Hampshire, understandably was impressed: "That gave me the chills.  I feel like they're sending me a message."  Her parents had stayed at the Beachcomber Hotel in Hampton and had placed a note in a bottle promising the finder $150 to be paid by owner Tina.  Dad was, doubtless, a big spender of other people's money.

It was in 2007 on the shoreline of the Turks and Caicos Islands some 550 miles south of Miami that Buffington came upon another bottle tossed in the Atlantic Ocean.  The year was 1999 and the bottle flip a part of a first wedding anniversary celebration by Ed and Carol Meyers in Duck, North Carolina, an outer banks community just a few quacks away from Kitty Hawk.  Interestingly enough, the beach where Buffington found the Meyers' bottle is the same one where he came upon the Pierce container and the note promising $150 to the finder.

A not so far-traveled message in a bottle was one found three years ago by Darin Winkler of the River Run subdivision on the Spokane River.  Walking the banks of the river with his kids, Winkler noticed an old flattened basketball and a bunch of bottles.  One, with an old-fashioned cork stopper, appeared to be of greater vintage than the others.  Carefully extracting a note from the bottle, Winkler noticed the paper was a bit damp, but mostly intact.  A date on it, March 30, 1913, took his breath away.  The note was signed by Emmett Presnell of nearby Rockford.  Research by Winkler suggests the bottle had had a very short trip and very likely spent the better part of nine decades high and dry on a tangle of logs or washed up on a bank making the note so readable after so long.

A postcard can have a lot of travel miles on it and so it was with one received by Vasilia "Vas" Mazzotta last April.  Mazzotta, who now lives in Cromwell, Connecticut, was a bit baffled when she first tried to make sense of it.  Addressed to "Miss Vassoula Sitara" (her maiden name), it was an Easter card, written in Greek and signed by her long-deceased grandfather.  It was dated Athens 20 April 65.  There are no hints of where the postcard had been for nearly 46 years and it remains a mailbox mystery.

Under the right circumstances, balloons can be impressive travelers and so it was when Laura Buxton, 10, released a red balloon ino the air over her home in Stoke-on-Trent in Staffordshire, England.  That was in June, 2001 and on one side of the balloon she had written: "Please return to Laura Buxton," on the other her home address.

About 140 miles away a man in Milton Libourne found the balloon stuck in a hedge on his property.  Noticing Laura Buxton's name and address, the man took the balloon to a neighbor's house showing it to the 10-year-old girl who lived there.  Her name: also Laura Buxton.

From there the story is like something out of the "Twilight Zone."  The second Laura Buxton wrote the first to tell her of the found balloon; the two, thinking the balloon connection extraordinary, decided they had to meet in person.

On meeting day, the two girls wore the same outfit--a pink sweater and jeans.  The girls, both tall for their ages, were the same height, had brown hair wearing it in the same style and even brought their guinea pigs along.  Both  pigs were  the same color and even had duplicate orange markings on their hindquarters.  Both had three-year-old black Labrador Retrievers at home, as well as gray pet rabbits.

The odd events that brought them together have made possible a strong bonding between the two.  They are now 21 and believe their most unusual meeting was too significant to be regarded as mere coincidence.  Can't you just hear Rod Serling introducing the two Laura Buxtons: "You're traveling through another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind; a journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination--next stop, the 'Twilight Zone.'"  Da-da-da-da/da-da-da-da.

Quite a few of our four-footed friends have used a variety of travel means to reappear after unique adventures.  Emily, a one-year-old tabby diappeared from Lesley and Donny McElhiney's home in Appleton, Wisconsin while on her evening prowl.  She soon found herself on a truck headed for Chicago.  Inside a container of paper bales, she was shipped to Belgium, eventually winding up in France where a laminating company's employees found her thin and thirsty.  Wearing tags, she was soon reunited with her family thanks to Continental Airlines.  Emily's across-the-pond adventure totaled 4,500 miles.

It wasn't easy for Troubles, a scout dog, to get back to his First Air Cavalry Division Headquarters during the Vietnam War.  Troubles' handler, William Richardson, was wounded deep in the war zone and the two became separated when Richardson was flown by helicopter to a hospital.  That was a tough break for Troubles who not only lost his handler but was abandoned by the rest of the unit.  Everything was strange about Vietnam but Troubles made it back to headquarters in Anikhe three weeks later.  Troubles, a canine on a mission, wouldn't let anyone near him as he searched tents.  The lengthy search ended when Troubles curled up for a nap after finding a pile of Richardson's clothes to use for a bed.

I wonder if my Joe Sewell glove will ever turn up?  I left it behind when World War II called.  Worn by the Hall of Famer who played for the Cleveland Indians and New York Yqnkees, the glove was given me by Xen Scott, a Cleveland area neighbor and Sewell's coach at the University of Alabama.  That glove would have to travel some 2,000 miles--if it's still in a dusty corner of a basement on Summit Ave. in Lakewood.  That's a long way but you never ever really know about such things.  Da-da-da-da/da-da-da-da.

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