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Too Many Nickels....by Bob Sanders

 

Wrestling with a coin operated newspaper dispenser is an odd way to begin a Sunday, but there I was shoving, pounding and cursing a Seattle Times circulation department beauty at 6:45 a.m.  It was the culmination of a month of searches for the Sunday paper.

My Sunday mornings normally include a swim at the Bellingham Athletic Club's Meridian St. location (there's another downtown) and the purchase of the Seattle Times.  Although a Bellingham newspaper exists, anyone who has experienced big city efforts over the years cannot accept the Herald.  It is simply inadequate and let's let it go at that.

I arrived four weeks ago at Walgreen's at Meridian & Bakerview to pick up my paper.  Timing was the usual 8:45 a.m. and I entered the store, a stop light away from the swimming pool.  There were no copies of the Times.  "It's the coupons," reported the employee at the front door checkout.  "People are buying three and four copies.  "It's the coupons."

Racing to a Starbucks on West Bakerview, I found the last copy in an outdoor machine at a place that used to sell copies inside.  Unaware of whatever maneuvering subtleties have been taking place between the local business community and the newspaper located 100 miles south, I reflected upon what has become evident during the past three years or so.  The "foreign" newspaper has been kicked around by the locals, led, in all likelihood, by the Herald.  Circulation departments of newspapers have always been highly aggressive; we're talking violence to compare with the Sunday afternoon variety practiced by NFL teams.  Those circulation wars were preceded by a period in which it was relatively common practice for editors to carry guns.

Aware of a vending machine close to my Cordata home, I found a copy at Madrona Medical the next Sunday and fed it eight quarters my wife had placed in a jar.  Other than a few pennies, I had no coins of my own in this credit card society; indeed, the penny has become such a non-entity that rumors, like elimination of Saturday delivery of the mail, persist that its years are numbered.

My pursuit, begun an hour earlier the following Sunday, found me shut out at Madrona and Starbucks machines, but I got lucky at Walgreen's.  Being blanked at Madrona at 7:45 a.m. was a bit maddening but I figured the Times machine probably had no more than three or four papers for Cordatans to fight over.  There was, however, a clue to the Cordata scramble for the Sunday paper: usually driving sans traffic at such an early hour, I noticed more and more of the enemy furtively prowling Bellingham streets in search of newspapers and coupons whose monetary value can vastly exceed cost of the publication.

This past Sunday at 6:45 a.m., I approached the Madrona machine with pockets jingling and hope peaking.  I had found a jar of wife Jan's nickels which, coupled with my quarter and four dimes, would enable me to purchase a paper.  With fingers flying in joyful anticipation of another victory over the forces that wanted to deny me Seattle's journalistic efforts, I neared the end of my transaction.  Suddenly, the coins were being rejected by the machine whose antipathy toward my efforts was pronounced.  The machine was on overload and I was being denied the opportunity to buy a newspaper whose suppliers were unable to properly manage the ingestion of x number of nickels rather than y number of quarters.

Furious that I was unable to come up with a conspiracy theory, I did manage sympathy and understanding for others out there possibly loaded with nickels and facing similar torments.  Was this, perhaps, a reflection not so much of America's economic foundering, but, rather, an inability to determine just when nickel-loaded machines need emptying.  Has our ineptitude reached such an inglorious point?  Then, there's the Nickel Jar Factor.  How many husbands are raiding the nickel jars of wives having ravished quarter jars to buy lottery tickets?

It was as though the machine, like one of those hot dog contestants--unable to swallow one more--had suddenly coughed up a couple of nickels and I grasped the dispenser and shook it--largely in anger.  Soon, I was rocking the reluctant beast of some 150 lbs. back and forth, then side to side, but to no avail.  Racing off to Walgreen's at such an early hour, I was pleased to find many copies of the Times--doubtless representing an increased order due to the coupon demand.

Subsequent study of the coupon phenomenon reveals Bellingham is most mannerly when it comes to what is now being called "extreme couponing."  Newspapers have reported some people are resorting to thefts of papers from outside racks and recycling centers.  From New Jersey, a state that seems to have unique approaches to just about everything involving so-called reality including TV shows, come reports of dumpster divers attempting to find returned newspaper copies.  Four women were recently observed dumpster diving in Asbury Park, the kind of community that challenges writers of Chamber of Commerce copy.

Then, there are the notorious double-stuffers who take coupon sections from one paper and put them in another as well as sometimes snatching more than one paper while paying for only one.  Bellingham, the City of Subdued Excitement, thus far has resisted such criminality.  

Extreme couponing, goosed by a struggling economy, has become so popular that tales of remarkable success have become folklore.  One woman reportedly scored $555.44 worth of food for $5.97.  Such success may very well be the shopping equivalent of Joe DiMaggio's 56-game hitting streak, a baseball record very unlikely to be broken.

So popular is couponing that The Learning Channel (TLC) is currently offering a weekly show whose stories are not entirely ones of greed.  Nathan Engels, described as a "genial Kentucky cartographer & clipping celeb," recently bought 1,000 boxes of cereal for $150.  The clipping celeb donated all of it to a food bank.   

"Krazy Coupon Ladies" is a TogiNet radio program presided over by KCLers Heather Wheeler and Joanie Demer.  Their success followed appearances on "Today," "The Early Show," "Nate Berkus," and "Fox & Friends," to name a few.  Recent TogiNet outings find them teaching the audience how to: earn money shopping; avoid coupon fraud; get things for free; organize coupons; plus such basics as how to choose the best stores, and where to find superior printable coupons.

My extreme pursuit of extreme couponers came up with J'Aime Kirlew whose webpage indicates she is some sort of agent for Denny's Restaurants.  Kirlew offers something called Denny's Bobo Coupon as part of the organization's promotion Tour of America with State of Washington residents eligible for a free menu item good August 3-8.  Guess I'm too late.

According to at least one marketing survey, 94 percent of consumers used at least one coupon last year with $2 billion in sales rung up so far in 2011.  That percentage increase is up 14.7 from pre-recession levels.

There are those who believe that the kind of couponing that can produce a "purchase" of 93 bottles of hot sauce is particularly appealing to hoarders and those who seek the thrill of the chase.  As couponers buy such items as 10 years worth of toilet paper while the American home decreases in size, one can see the storage industry becoming a darling of Wall Street.

Newspaper sales, having plunged during recent years, are  getting partial resuscitation albeit from a method of severe contrast to the golden days of journalism.  Back then, before TV, cable, the internet, and all the rest, a sales bump occurred when a new investigative series was begun, a doctor murdered his wife or a new war declared.      

Actually, it's a mixed bag for the newspaper business.  The Bellingham approach to couponing means additional sales for the Fourth Estate.  Asbury Park, where papers are stolen and dumpsters eyeballed, is quite different.  It appears that songwriter Cole Porter was on the money with a question about the New Jersey city when he wrote "At Long Last Love" that included the line: "Is it Granada I see, or merely Asbury Park?"

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Vox Pocks....by Bob Sanders

Florence Foster Jenkins was one of those decidedly strange people who get more than their 15 minutes worth of fame and, with their notoriety, beg a lot of questions.  Born Narcissa Florence Foster in 1868 in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, she received an early musical education, then told her parents she wanted to go to Europe for further study.  Her wealthy father refused, thereby proving to be one of the few honest people in the Jenkins saga.

Charles Dorence Foster's decision proved he had an ear for what doesn't make musical sense.  Daughter Florence dropped the Narcissa when she married Frank Thornton Jenkins, a doctor.  That was in 1885 and the marriage lasted 17 years.  Gigs as a teacher and pianist were followed by her invitation to an actor, whose sonorous name was St. Clair Bayfield, to move in with her.  Florence Foster Jenkins led a relatively dreary life until it turned eventful in 1909.

That was when her keen-eared father died leaving Jenkins a very large sum of money.  He also carried some musical knowledge to his grave; he knew something his daughter either couldn't or wouldn't admit.  She was sensationally un-musical.

If only she had stayed at the piano, Jenkins would not have become one of this country's most unusual celebrities.  Unwilling to accept the opinion of her father and an ex-husband, she bought her way into the musical life of first Philadelphia, then New York.  Philadelphia is a town tough on talent as anyone can attest who has observed Phillies' left fielders in their extremely shaky relationships with bleacher inhabitants.

While there are no known instances of Jenkins singing "Take Me Out to the Ball Game," her repertoire was heavy on Mozart, Verdi and Johann Strauss.  As misplaced as Danny DeVito playing Rhett Butler, Jenkins offered such encore as Valverde's "Clavelitos" ("Little Carnations") and songs either composed by her or her accompanist, the stunningly named Mr. Cosme' McMoon who made faces at Jenkins while she lurched musically as audiences both squirmed and laughed.  Costuming was a key factor in her performances; gowns often were designed by her, and a Jenkins touch increasingly found her throwing flowers into the audience.  Following each performance, the ever-loyal Cosme' McMoon collected the flowers for the next opportunity to offend an audience.

One of the great Jenkins stories involved a 1943 taxicab crash that she swore produced "a higher F than ever before."  The taxicab escaped a lawsuit and Jenkins sent the driver a box of very expensive cigars.  Apparently so bad she was good, Jenkins recorded much of her material including an unforgettable album titled "Murder on the High C's" complete with audiences giggling in the background.  She died in 1944, one month after a sell-out performance at Carnegie Hall.  Jenkins never gave a single indication that she was anything other than a legitimate diva.

It's natural to presume that all singers vocalize around the house and one has to wonder about those 36 years St. Clair Bayfield lived with the diva.  If not deaf, it's likely he spent most of his time at home hiding in a bathroom.

While Jenkins stands alone in the annals of the singing voice in terms of what can be accomplished with a bad one, there are women on radio and television these days who cause impressive numbers of listeners and viewers to reach for what in the old days my father used to call "the knob of oblivion."  The old man, a close approximation of Darren McGavin's portrayal of Old Man Parker in The Christmas Story, had his own listening quirks including a fondness for Father Coughlin, the Rush Limbaugh of the '30s.  As Joe E. Brown once observed, "Well, nobody's perfect."

Today's mistresses of malice have achieved their stature in spite of having rather good voices.  It is their anger, often directed in error-prone fashion, that does them in.  Perhaps the most aggressive is Ann Coulter, author of eight books full of inaccuracies and a particular darling of the right wing.  It was Rolling Stone writer Matt Taibbi who once blogged: "When you read Ann Coulter, you know you're reading someone who would fuck a hippopotamus if she thought it would boost her Q rating."

Goofy author Coulter comes off as even more ridiculous during TV appearances where her crazed appearance (eyes reminiscent of the recent Michell Bachmann Newsweek cover) strongly suggests the woman needs some psychiatric attention.  She is one nasty number although there is something oddly phony about her loony performance art.  This is a woman who delights in being angry and it may be that she spends too much time with hippopotami.

Another bizarre one is Michelle Malkin who early on attached herself to the teabaggers.  Whenever Malkin appears on TV, I think of "Terry and the Pirates" and The Dragon Lady, the famous female Chinese pirate of the comic strip.  Malkin, a Filipino, is a thoroughly noxious ninny complete with a voice layered with resentment, petulance and churlish bitchiness.   

Then, we have Laura Ingraham who has matured since her days as editor-in-chief of The Dartmouth Review where she wrote of her extreme anti-homosexual views that inspired avoidance of a local restaurant where she feared the waiters were homosexual and might touch her silverware or spit on her food, exposing her to AIDS.  She later recanted her views after witnessing "the dignity, fidelity and courage" with which her gay brother and his late companion coped with AIDS."  Often a guest on FOX, particularly Bill O'Reilly's show, she is the official guest host of The Factor.  Among her jobs of the relatively distant past was clerking for the question-less U.S. Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas.  Another voice to avoid, Ingaham is more snide than anything else while being far more accurate than Malkin and Coulter.

Bellingham, where I have lived the past seven years, is often called "The City of Subdued Excitement," but there is nothing subdued about Patti Brooks who co-hosts "The Joe & Patti Show" on KGMI radio.  Brooks has a peculiar kind of voice problem.  There is nothing wrong with it except when she gets agitated and you have never heard such agitation made on, fortunately for her, friendly turf.  Of conservative stripes, KGMI offers the usual: Sean Hannity, Glenn Beck, Mark Levin and Limbaugh.  The latter immediately follows Joe & Patti.  Featuring phone-ins, it's safe to say Joe & Patty are the warm-up for the man who, more than anyone else, is responsible for hate radio.

Brooks' voice is quite pleasant in her normal register--particularly while greeting Joe with an, apparently, set in stone, "hey, Joe, it's a happy (fill in the day of the week)."  You could even call her chops "dulcet."  That momentary sweetness ends when she recalls an outrage--usually perpetrated by the government, people who fall short of her definition of personal responsibility, or left wing destruction of all things held near and dear by the narrow of mind.  Yes, the Constitution and misinterpretations of it are part of Patti's shtick.  While the late Peruvian singer Yma Sumac had more than a four octave range and the contemporary Mariah Carey reportedly able to go a notch higher, my money would be on an angry Patti Brooks were a competition possible.

Brooks' wild vocal gyrations, often coming on the heels of the words "but wait, but, wait, but wait," are reminiscent of tornadoes that begin as tiny swirls in the Oklahoma panhandle, then gain swift momentum building to vast destruction as they bounce, roughly eastward.  Brooks' largely unchecked anger acquires herky-jerky manifestations with one syllable words like "brain," as in "that's how my pea brain works," somehow winding up with three.

Through it all, co-host Joe Teehan manages to keep his composure in spite of boorishness by Patti whose debate arsenal is heavy with gratuitous remarks.  We recently learned, as a result of a discussion about tobacco companies filing a lawsuit against a government that wants to reduce consumption through graphic labels, "half of Hollywood smokes."  Another favorite Patti line, good for just about any occasion, is "watch the taxes go up."  In the entire annals of broadcasting, Joe Teehan, the house liberal, has to be one of the most long-suffering voices in a business rife with such pairings.  Having worked with Brooks but three years, Teehan may very well believe he got lucky when Brooks replaced her predecessor of greater years (Debby Somebody) about whom many of the knowledgeable continue to believe was even worse than Brooks except for the unprecedented screech to end all screeches.

With pop music in such awful creative shape, maybe there's a future for Brooks as the lead talker in a verbal a capella group that would tell us about all those areas of human endeavor in need of conservative crap.  Various rhythms could be developed with something jazzy, reminiscent of FreddieGreen's guitar work for Count Basie, utilized in racial rants uttered in Karl Rovian code.

A music-less choral approach to bigotry.  Let's call them The Anger Mismanagements.

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Gigs for Glenn....by Bob Sanders

He has been called "Satan's mentally challenged younger brother" (Stephen King), "a guy who says what people who aren't thinking are thinking" (Jon Stewart), and a fellow with "Nazi Tourette's (Lewis Black).  Glenn Beck, as announced the other day by Fox News, has joined the ranks of this country's un-employed, but let's not hold a fund-raiser for him.  Instead, let's find him work.

Internet references to Beck generally identify him as a radio/TV talk show host but that's something like calling Ted Bundy a criminal.  One of the most seen and listened to blatherers currently on the scene, the messianic delusionist (I'm of the Sarah Palin School of Word Creation) made $32 million last year through various ventures including authorship of books.  According to Forbes magazine, but $2 million came from Fox.

It came as no surprise when Fox told him he had ranted enough on the channel that's "fair and balanced" and where undetermined minds can be told what to think.  Fox made the call after weighing the pros and cons of Beck's presence.  Aware that there is nothing more embarrassing in broadcasting than seeing a former employee succeed somewhere else, Fox made it clear that they have first dibs on Beck's next venture.  Beck is partnered with a former Fox employee in an unannounced current project.

There is something rather off putting about Beck's ability to be more persuasive on radio than television.  Maybe it's the strange distractions--chalk boards, an often frantic staggering around his stage, sudden bursts of crying, and the facial tics and leers that reduce his effectiveness.  Try the TV blindfold test sometime.  Keep your eyes averted for five minutes while attempting to make some sense of his "message."  While you probably won't run into the backyard and begin digging a bomb shelter, you will likely better understand Beck's appeal.

This column, always cognizant of public sensitivities and mindful that people like Beck and Palin are among the improbable leaders of thought in this country, also realizes that their efforts on a good day effectively reach a right wing hard core of about 20 percent of voters.  Throw into the mix Rush Limbaugh, Bill O'Reilly and presidential hopefuls including Mike Huckabee, Michelle Bachmann and Donald Trump and their collective appeal shows little expansion.  The possible exception is Trump whose bizarre birther shouts from the stump have more than a touch of the evangelical.  The Donald apparently feels anyone who can sell a hotel room can pull all God's children into the GOP tent.  

All this leaves the Republican Party in difficult straits.  Will it deny the recently announced Mitt Romney the nomination on the basis of his being a Mormon and an ex-governor of a state whose highly successful handling of a health care plan is the basis for what critics call "ObamaCare."  Then, there's his past support of abortion rights.

Perhaps Beck, momentarily shut out of TV, will throw his hat in the presidential ring currently containing what looks suspiciously like the funny fedoras of the Keystone Kops.  In these particularly tumultuous political seas, running for office is such an uncertain oyster that Beck would be wise to clam up and allow the more politically adroit to duel for the White House.

That leaves broadcasting where Beck is a seminal figure capable of drawing people together who have difficulty trying to figure what it's all about.  Infamous Beck quotes suggest series possibilities built around them.  As an example, he should give serious thought to a show to be called "Scumbags Re-visited."  Who can forget Beck's Katrina observations including: "The only (Katrina victims) we're seeing on television are the scumbags."  With enough money to start his own cable network, Beck could create Bigot Broadcasting, do a pilot show set in New Orleans and kick malevolence into high gear.  Beck could then move on to other cities like dreary Detroit and let's not forget Madison, Wisconsin and those wealthy union scumbag teachers.  By taking the show on the road, Beck could very well bring back memories of Charles Kurault whose splendid work was a bit of CBS brilliance not since equalled.

Then, there's the Andy Solution.  Andy Rooney of CBS' "60 Minutes" has been off camera a lot recently and, at 92, is successful at convincing viewers that crankiness is loveable.  If CBS has the stomach, it's easy to picture Glenn Beck doing "end of show" segments picking up where Rooney has tilled so much ground: homosexuals, Hispanics, Native Americans, and Kurt Cobain.  Maybe, just maybe, it's time for Andy's old office to be rearranged.  Throw out the books, memorabilia and awards and make ready for a lot of blackboards full of misspelled words reminding viewers of past glories.

Speaking of books, Rooney has written 15 of them proving that he and Beck have something in common.  The Prince of Persecution's paranoia-based works also number 15 although, to be perfectly accurate, his total includes a comic book.

Films are another possibility.  Turner Classic Movies host Robert Osborne also is showing some wear these days and now is aided by guest hosts.  How about Glenn Beck introducing films with paranoia as the major theme?  How about such classics as Psycho, Blow Up, Klute, Invasion of the Body Snatchers, Catch 22 (picture Beck explaining Youssarian), and Parallax View?  All are splendid dramas about attempts to curb the disturbed and let's not forget to give "Glenn Beck's Paranoia Corner" opportunity for a few laughs with High Anxiety.  Mel Brooks will love it.

Even more fun might be a series titled "America, the Ugly" or "Apocalypse How?" in which Beck defames Father Damien, the Saint Damien of Molokai, and all-around leprosy expert.  Right down the Proselytizer of Prevarications alley would be his warning the world of the devastating spread of leprosy whose only cure is joining the Tea Party.  This will give Dana Millbank an opportunity to count the number of times the word "leprosy" is used in Beck-hosted programs.  Millbank's Tears of a Clown details Beck claims made during the first 14 months of his Fox show regarding fascist influences in America.  According to the Washington Post  columnist, host Beck and guests made 172 references to fascism, 134 to Nazis, 115 to Hitler, and 58 to the Holocaust while Joseph Goebbels was acknowledged eight times.  Can leprosy be far behind with so many colonies located in China, Egypt, Nepal, Somalia, Liberia and India where there are 1,000.

Beck's inclination to cry produced a revealing comment on November 6, 2006 when he came up with: "You know, we all have our inner demons.  I, for one--I can't speak for you, but I'm on the verge of moral collapse at any time.  It can happen by the end of the show."  What we have here is "Crying Fame" in which Beck searches for people who cry profusely under real-life circumstances, including divorce, that test our ordinary lives.  Such losers as those having altar falters of at least five times, lottery millionaires who lost it all, and Cubs fans who would compete in various categories.  The latter would determine who can cry the loudest with the finals held in Wrigley Field's right field bleachers.  Beck, the self-professed "rodeo clown," would look great in a Cubs home uniform.

Beck's moral compass was a bit skewed on September 9, 2005 when he took issue with victims of this country's worst catastrophe, singling out those impacted by 9/11.  "When I see a 9/11 victim family on television, or whatever, I'm just like, 'Oh, shut up.'  I'm so sick of them because they're always complaining."  "The Complainers" is a decent working title but there are sensitivity issues that, while challenging, could be dealt with in Beck's own inimitable fashion on a particularly good day by the Professor of Psychosis.

Another possibility for Beck might again get him into the heady atmosphere of architecture by way of Rockefeller Plaza's exterior design.  It was Beck's chronic douchebaggery about Rock Center (NBC headquarters) that endeared him to those who see sinister connections between communism and hammers and sickles depicted on the building's facade.  Let's not tell Beck that the hammer and sickle was a symbol of agriculture and labor long before the communists picked up on the idea.  Such frightening symbols probably exist elsewhere in labor-intensive and down-ized Ohio communities including Youngstown, Toledo, Cleveland and Warren.  The problem with those places is there isn't much that's labor intensive anymore.

Maybe Beck could search for libraries featuring terrifying fascist facades whose origins go back to good old GOP administrations of Calvin Coolidge and Herbert Hoover?

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Moontunes....by Bob Sanders

I guess I could blame it on the moon.

Like most people, I'm inclined to take celestial matters with a grain of exotic particles or whatever it is that floats up there.  Too much is going on down here including the nuclear problems in Japan, the war in Libya, an Africa that never seems to get a break, the world's economy, cancer and other threats that could end this, otherwise, best of no host parties.

Immediately prior to last Saturday I had felt a bit guilty about not paying reasonable attention to a moon that was about to come closer than anytime in the past 18 years.  At a distance of 221,566 miles, it would be 17,291 miles closer than the 338,857 average as it apogees much like an old "Rip" Sewell Blooper Pitch.  Further, it would be 30% brighter and appear nearly 15% larger.

A very unusual thing happened shortly after 3 a.m. as the moon neared its greatest brilliance.  I'll call it both strange and wondrous and it happened after I had taken a look at the moon having awakened for who knows why?  It may have been Costco's Minh pork and vegetable egg rolls.  Without question, what followed easily qualifies as the most unusual thing to ever happen to me and I've been around the track more than a couple times.

First, you should know that I'm a frustrated non-musician.  By that, I mean I can't read music while firmly believing that I should have pursued such a career.   When you've been around nearly 85 years, you get to understand yourself.

People who know me are inclined to be impressed by the amount of popular music and lyrics I can hum and quote.  I won't bore you with for instances, but take my word.  I guess the most impressive thing musically I can tell you about myself is that I fathered an outstanding musician, tenor saxophonist Brian Sanders, good enough to play in the bands of Woody Herman and Glenn Miller.  Maybe something of me rubbed off? 

At any rate, I looked at the moon's impressive grandeur, then went back to bed.  I couldn't sleep, a common occurrence, then fell back on the tried and true: running music through my head.  Very often, I find quiescent success through the artistry of Duke Ellington with a heavy emphasis on his brilliant co-creator, Billy Strayhorn.  Among my favorites are "Chelsea Bridge," "Lotus Blossom," "Day Dream," "Passion Flower," and any of the suites written with Ellington including The Queen's Suite, The Far East Suite, and Such Sweet Thunder.  Working almost 30 years in near-anonymity as Ellington's collaborator, Strayhorn, who died in 1964, is now being recognized as one of the great figures of jazz.

It was David Hajdu who, in 1996, published the definitive book about Strayhorn.  Titled Lush Life, it's the story of Ellington's relationship with him, the young man's difficulties involving being gay, and his long-running love affair with singer Lena Horne.  It's sad, yet full of triumphs.  When Strayhorn died, Ellington said: "Billy Strayhorn was my right arm, my left arm, all the eyes in the back of my head, my brainwaves in his head, and his in mine."

Continuing my attempt to return to slumber, I went straight to a lesser composition, "Something to Live For," a tune Strayhorn submitted to Ellington shortly after meeting him in 1938 and five years after he had begun its writing.  Ellington hired him on the basis of it.  Recalling Dick Hieronymus, a San Juan Island musician friend who eight years ago based a relatively short and gorgeous piece on the chords of J. Fred Coots' "You Go to My Head," I determined to explore "Something to Live For" to see what I could "compose" using the tune as a musical canvas.  My goal was to turn it into something classical.  What followed I can only describe as an experience of another world.  I was astonished to hear a remarkable series of variations first on the seven title notes plus the next 11 assembled gems.  What was startling was the flow of it all totaling three movements, the third beginning as a pizzicato that involved far more violins than Frank Sinatra ever dreamed demanding of Tommy Dorsey when the singer realized he was selling more tickets than the trombone-playing bandleader.

The three movements totaled something like 30 minutes and were better than damn good.  While composition ideas were expanded upon, there were no repeats.  It just went on and on in a kind of seamless Strayhorn-going-for-Debussy fashion.  While my recollections of past recordings have almost always been note-for-note (a good example would be Dave Lambert and Buddy Stewart's "What's This?" with the Gene Krupa band), my prior musical adventures had largely been a matter of "copying" rather than "writing" original material.  My overwhelming challenge in "hearing/composing" original stuff is that it would last for, maybe, a half-minute or so only to lapse into something that had already been written.

Eerily, and this is important, the music quickly produced the overwhelming feeling that this wasn't "my" music nor was I anything more than the recipient of it.  I simply let it wash over me figuring I had to have been gifted by someone or some thing that far exceeded anything I could accomplish even blessed with the kind of composition smarts I don't have.  Had the classically-trained Billy Strayhorn ever expanded upon "Something to Live For" calling upon knowledge first gained at the Pittsburgh Musical Institute?  Maybe he did after the tune was recorded in 1939 by what is considered the greatest of Ellington bands, an accolade of near unanimity by jazz aficionados.  The major factors: outstanding musicians and the elegance Strayhorn brought to the orchestra.

If this was something defying logic, why had I been singled out?  As a kid I used to search for Ellington records in a black-owned record shop in Cleveland.  Then, while majoring in journalism at Ohio University, I had used Duke's "Take the A Train" (written by Strayhorn) as a theme on my WOUN jazz record show called "Swing Express."  Could those facts and a great love over the years for Ellington's music been enough?  How did the moon and my look at it figure into what, obviously, was paranormal?

Mankind has always been fascinated by the moon and songwriters have taken their shots through various uses of the lovely lunar.  The brilliant but brittle Dorothy Parker came up with lyrics to "I Wished on the Moon" for the film, Big Broadcast of 1936 while Johnny Mercer and Henry Mancini's "Moon River" was nearly excised from Breakfast at Tiffany's by a tone deaf Paramount Pictures president.  Chevy Chase, always going for a laugh, whistled Mercer's tune while having his rectum examined in Fletch (1985).  "Moon River" by the way, was originally titled "Blue River."  There's a river outlet near Mercer's home in Savannah, Goergia.  It's now named after the song.     

The moon has been declared looney ("Oh, You Crazy Moon"), invasive ("The Moon Got in My Eyes"), voodooish ("Old Devil Moon"), and a means of offering contrast (Moon Over Buffalo).  The latter is a very funny Ken Ludwig play starring Carol Burnett.  The play's title suggests Buffalo is hardly Miami as in "Moon Over Miami" and, it's logical to question, can chicken wings possibly be compared to flamingos?  Two song writers, Fred Ahlert and Leslie Edgar, even declared "The Moon Was Yellow" and you are under firm orders to catch up with Ethel Ennis' 1963 recording of that one.

Lyricist Lorenz Hart had a different color in mind when he wrote "Blue Moon," a song with four lives.  Based in Hollywood, Hart and Richard Rodgers experienced the tune stricken from two films.  The second was Manhattan Melodrama (1934) when what eventually became "Blue Moon" was called "It's Just that Kind of Play."  Re-worked, the song then became "The Bad in Every Man" and was sung by Shirley Ross in blackface.  A deserved failure, the song was dismissed, then rescued by MGM executive Jack Robbins who licensed the song to "Hollywood Hotel," a popular radio show.  Hart was talked into writing a fourth set of lyrics and that's how "Blue Moon, I saw you standing alone" finally came to be.

All of the above is exactly how it happend in its "Twilight Zone" way.  Just what produced my momentary "possession" of what I am convinced is Billy Strayhorn's extended development of "Something to Live For" is for greater minds than mine.  Perhaps music is something that never dies even after all the sheet music, vinyl records, tapes, CDs, DVDs, YouTubes, I-Pods, and whatever else is down the road no longer exist.  Maybe it will always be out there waiting for someone fortunate enough to hear it.

Oh, yes.  Thanks, Billy, for your gift.  I hope there's a next time.

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Synergy....by Bob Sanders

Living more than 20 years and 2,000 miles from Chicago, I sometimes wonder if working at the Chicago Tribune today is as strange as I figure it must be.  A lot has happened since I retired from the newspaper in 1989 with little of it a good thing.  As you can see, I'm a big fan of Martha Stewart and for some time have been looking for an appropriate opportunity to work in one of Martha's favorite lines.

In spite of problems that include a Chapter 11 environment being experienced by all Tribune Company holdings, I hope that editorial staffers are back to referencing what it is they do as "journalism" rather than "synergy."  While synergy was not in my vocabulary when I worked there, it certainly became a lexicon mainstay of Charles Brumback who arrived from the Orlando Sentinel in 1981 to become president of the Tribune  eventually succeeding Stanton Cook as CEO of Tribune Company (1990-95)

Synergy and public trust were among several themes addressed by media critic Ken Auletta in his excellent and scaryBackstory, published in 2003.  Most of Auletta's material previously appeared in the author's "Annals of Communication" in the New Yorker.  His "Synergy City" piece painted Brumback as a humorless technology evangelist.  Getting his corporate training in Florida, Brumback had gained cachet first as a penny-pinching accountant.

According to Auletta's now nearly decade old examination of the newspaper,  journalism at the turn of the century was a word rarely heard in the Trib's newsroom.  "Its editors blather endlessly about synergy, brand, brand extension, contest, branded content, information provider, partnering."   At that time the walls between news and business, once considered impregnable, were being lowered as Tribune Company properties numbered 13 papers in addition to 27 stations.   

If the newly-arrived Brumback had any charm, it certainly wasn't on display in 1981 at the Beck Awards held each year a couple of weeks prior to Christmas.  The Becks, an advertising department extravaganza, that year had Oprah Winfrey as a guest speaker and she nearly stood us up arriving 90 minutes late.  I'm not sure why I was present other than I got invited to just about everything thanks to Bill Jones, a highly significant managing editor who was instrumental in my moving to the Tribune  from Field Enterprises where much of my time was on behalf of the Sun-Times.

Brumback seized upon the moment in an auditorium setting pulling that old fear-inducing Corporate America chestnut in which the company's troops are asked to look at the people seated immediately adjacent.  "Take a good look, because one of those four won't be here next year."  I was seated next to editorial cartoonist Jeff MacNelly, winner of three Pulitzer Prizes, who shot back: "And a Merry Christmas to you, too, Charlie."

Brumback was curious about my work at the newspaper.  While working for the Sun-Times, I had attracted an impressive amount of attention to Mirage, a 25-part series about what it was like to own a bar in Chicago.  The series, engagingly written by reporter Zay Smith, told of daily shakedowns from city employees and others plus tales of the neighborhood and the bar's regulars.  It was pure Chicago with photographers, hiding in a loft, capturing transgressions.  Done in concert with with the Better Government Association, the series featured stories gathered by barmaid Pam Zekman, now with WBBM-TV, and bartender Bill Recktenwald of the BGA.  Recktenwald became so interested in reporting that he went to work at the Tribune and later taught journalism at Southern Illinois University.

Getting Mirage-connected media placements of reporters and editors was like shooting fish in the proverbial barrel.  I had more than 100 successes including Mike Wallace and "60 Minutes" plus the "Today" show.  One of the delights in New York was running into Ingrid Bergman's daughter, Pia Lindstrom, anchor of a local NBC newscast.  I pitched her immediately after Jane Pauley did the "Today" interview and she agreed.

When Cook took Tribune Company public in 1983, what had been largely a family holding soon became flush with money.  The logical next step was the purchase of other communications entities including Renaissance Communications' six TV stations for $1.1 billion.  Wall Street's perception that Tribune was too dependent upon print was additionally lessened with an investment in the then new WB TV network.  In early 2000 Tribune Company bought Times Mirror adding seven papers including the Los Angeles Times.  By then, Brumback was gone but his game plan very much in play.

That plan had included an early and failed end-around of staggering intent.  Among my belongings are minutes of a meeting between Brumback and Tribune editors, writers and reporters.  Those minutes represent what surely must be one of the boldest attempts by management to impair journalism.  With the bottom line of prime importance (public service was totally foreign to him), Brumback proposed that the paper could rid itself of a great many editorial employees by helping "fill space" with stories written by City News Bureau staffers.  The Bureau, a proud tradition, was in place to train such budding journalists as Mike Royko, Kurt Vonnegut, Seymour Hersh, and cartoonist Herblock.  Brumback's idea was as outrageous as having a good high school team represent the Chicago Bears.  Nothing came of it.

Chicago's City New Bureau is no more, the victim of journalistic euthanasia.  It lives on, sort of, as STNG, a wire service owned by the Sun-Times.  I hope someone saved a sign that used to hang over the heads of all who toiled in the old Bureau that was right out of The Front Page.  It read: "If your Mother tells you she loves you, check it out."

During my eight years with the Tribune concluded by retirement in 1989, I was responsible for nearly 25,000 media bookings of the newspaper's editorial talent.  About 15 percent of the appearances were on sister entities WGN-TV and radio.  That was true synergy, a word that implies working across group lines.  Whether Brumback, as first the leading Tribune executive and later head of Tribune Company, expanded upon my use of the WGN stations is anybody's guess.  I think he did.  I'd feel better if he hadn't.

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A Fine Kettle of Fish....by Bob Sanders

One of the inescapable truths about television advertising has been the overt re-discovery of the irritation factor that brings attention to products, otherwise, likely ignored.  This re-working has come nearly 70 years after the irritation factor was crafted by the advertising industry’s George Washington Hill who, among other things, first inspired a book, “The Hucksters,” by Frederic Wakeman, then a film of the same name starring Clark Gable.

“Sidebars” is grateful to WikiLeaks and Julian Assange for making possible the following word-for-word conversation that took place in the offices of “Mockery, Sham, Spurious & Specious.”  The firm, a Madison Avenue legend, is best-known for a highly successful advertising campaign for Pogo Cream, a ground-breaking method of creating home-made ice cream by substituting the pogo stick for electricity.

This exclusive reportage was made possible when Wiki-Leaks wired a common fruit fly (let’s call it the Ointment Fly) who, rumor has it, was enticed to stay in the firm’s board room by a WikiLeaks ally who insisted he be served a series of Pineapple-Banana Motherfuckers, a Mad Ave. alcoholic request quite common according to the diligently-researched “Mad Men,” a current TV show heavily invested in by MSS&S..  We also are indebted to the first fly on the wall reporter and the WikiLeaks technicians who wired one of the Ointment Fly’s antenna located between the eyes.  The writer is sharing this exclusive with the New York Daily News, going to press as this is posted while featuring an 88-pt. New Times- Roman headline: FLYGATE.  

Spurious:                    “Let me sum up why we’re here.  We’re being beaten in the game for which we’re famous: irritating the hell out of audiences to bring attention to sponsors’ products.  Any ideas and please don’t bring up Flo and those Progressive Insurance ads.  Talk about stealing our thunder.”

Mockery:                    “Maybe we could lure her and some of that cast of silly saps that make Progressive spots easily the most irritating today while being among the most highly successful.”

Sham:                        “Maybe, we ought to do a little thinking outside the box.  Maybe, we ought to hire non-actors?”

Specious:                   “Whojahaveinmind?”

Sham:                         “I’m thinking….just a wild thought….but how about Sarah Palin?”

Mockery:                    “Interesting.  No question she’s irritating and we could play off of some of those goofy “Sarah Palin’s Alaska” scenes.”

Specious:                   “Tell us more.”

Mockery:                    “I’m thinking a Palin-endorsed laptop.  After all, she’s a writer and one who talks from her own studio to Bill O’Reilly.  Also, she e-mails O’Reilly, Fox’s voice of reason.  Anyone who can communicate with O’Reilly brings a lot of the old gusto to the table.”

Specious:                   “But we never saw her use the computer.”

Sham:                         “It doesn’t matter.  The public has a short memory.  The only thing that matters is that she communicates with O’Reilly who adds his own irritation quotient.”

Specious:                   “Gentlemen.  We’re getting carried away and risking what Oliver Hardy used to call getting ourselves into a fine kettle of fish.  Palin’s political negatives are insurmountable.  End of story.”

Mockery:                    “Wait a minute.  You mentioned fish.  How about we think Chicken of the Sea and an undersea Palin talking with a cartoon fish?  We’ll put her in diving gear and no one will recognize her.”

Sham:                         “Wait a minute.  If we disguise her, then her brand awareness goes into the toilet.”

Specious:                   “Sounds like a fine commode of fish.”

Mockery:                    “Hold on.  We’ll hide her awesomely awful voice by using dialogue bubbles in the commercials—she can write the copy—then create a Holy Mackerel! Contest by asking viewers to determine the identity of what will be by then the most irritating commercial star.  Maybe even bigger than Flo.”

Spurious:                    “Holy Mackerel!  I love it.”

Mockery:                    “Yes, and when we reveal it’s Palin, we’ll do print and TV promo shots of her accompanied by a heavenly glow behind her as she reaches skyward while straddling all the Chicken of the Sea products: clams, salmon, tuna, sardines, whatever, over a gloriously simply headline: “Holy Mackerel!”

Sham:                         “Hold the phone.  Wasn’t “holy mackerel!” a punch line used by the Kingfish in “Amos & Andy” and didn’t the NAACP chase the TV version off the small screen?”

Specious:                   “Now, that’s a fine kettle of fish….in spades.”

Spurious:                    “But what if we can’t get Palin?”

Mockery:                    “Interesting you should ask.  Our tracking people tell us there’s someone showing inspired irritation promise and could even surpass Palin.  Patti Somebody does a morning show for KGMI, a Bellingham, Washington radio station.  Her noxious numbers are through the roof and her antagonistic amps off the charts.  She is so irritating that Limbaugh, who follows her show, is pissed that her ratings are threatening his.  And, she has an intensely whining voice that, comparatively speaking, makes Joan Rivers sound like Julia Roberts.”

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 A fine kettle of Fish….by Bob Sanders

 

One of the inescapable truths about television advertising has been the overt re-discovery of the irritation factor that brings attention to products, otherwise, likely ignored.  This re-working has come nearly 70 years after the irritation factor was crafted by the advertising industry’s George Washington Hill who, among other things, first inspired a book, “The Hucksters,” by Frederic Wakeman, then a film of the same name starring Clark Gable.

 

“Sidebars” is grateful to WikiLeaks and Julian Assange for making possible the following word-for-word conversation that took place in the offices of “Mockery, Sham, Spurious & Specious.”  The firm, a Madison Avenue legend, is best-known for a highly successful advertising campaign for Pogo Cream, a ground-breaking method of creating home-made ice cream by substituting the pogo stick for electricity.

 

This exclusive reportage was made possible when Wiki-Leaks wired a common fruit fly (let’s call it the Ointment Fly) who, rumor has it, was enticed to stay in the firm’s board room by a WikiLeaks ally who insisted he be served a series of Pineapple-Banana Motherfuckers, a Mad Ave. alcoholic request quite common according to the diligently-researched “Mad Men,” a current TV show heavily invested in by MSS&S..  We also are indebted to the first fly on the wall reporter and the WikiLeaks technicians who wired one of the Ointment Fly’s antenna located between the eyes.  The writer is sharing this exclusive with the New York Daily News, going to press as this is posted while featuring an 88-pt. New Times- Roman headline: FLYGATE.  

 

 

Spurious:                    “Let me sum up why we’re here.  We’re being beaten in the game for which we’re famous: irritating the hell out of audiences to bring attention to sponsors’ products.  Any ideas and please don’t bring up Flo and those Progressive Insurance ads.  Talk about stealing our thunder.”

 

Mockery:                    “Maybe we could lure her and some of that cast of silly saps that make Progressive spots easily the most irritating today while being among the most highly successful.”

 

 Sham:                        “Maybe, we ought to do a little thinking outside the box.  Maybe, we ought to hire non-actors?”

 

Specious:                   “Whojahaveinmind?”

 

Sham:                         “I’m thinking….just a wild thought….but how about Sarah Palin?”

 

 

Mockery:                    “Interesting.  No question she’s irritating and we could play off of some of those goofy “Sarah Palin’s Alaska” scenes.”

 

Specious:                   “Tell us more.”

 

Mockery:                    “I’m thinking a Palin-endorsed laptop.  After all, she’s a writer and one who talks from her own studio to Bill O’Reilly.  Also, she e-mails O’Reilly, Fox’s voice of reason.  Anyone who can communicate with O’Reilly brings a lot of the old gusto to the table.”

 

Specious:                   “But we never saw her use the computer.”

 

Sham:                         “It doesn’t matter.  The public has a short memory.  The only thing that matters is that she communicates with O’Reilly who adds his own irritation quotient.”

 

Specious:                   “Gentlemen.  We’re getting carried away and risking what Oliver Hardy used to call getting ourselves into a fine kettle of fish.  Palin’s political negatives are insurmountable.  End of story.”

 

Mockery:                    “Wait a minute.  You mentioned fish.  How about we think Chicken of the Sea and an undersea Palin talking with a cartoon fish?  We’ll put her in diving gear and no one will recognize her.”

 

Sham:                         “Wait a minute.  If we disguise her, then her brand awareness goes into the toilet.”

 

Specious:                   “Sounds like a fine commode of fish.”

 

Mockery:                    “Hold on.  We’ll hide her awesomely awful voice by using dialogue bubbles in the commercials—she can write the copy—then create a Holy Mackerel! Contest by asking viewers to determine the identity of what will be by then the most irritating commercial star.  Maybe even bigger than Flo.”

 

Spurious:                    “Holy Mackerel!  I love it.”

 

Mockery:                    “Yes, and when we reveal it’s Palin, we’ll do print and TV promo shots of her accompanied by a heavenly glow behind her as she reaches skyward while straddling all the Chicken of the Sea products: clams, salmon, tuna, sardines, whatever, over a gloriously simply headline: “Holy Mackerel!”

 

Sham:                         “Hold the phone.  Wasn’t “holy mackerel!” a punch line used by the Kingfish in “Amos & Andy” and didn’t the NAACP chase the TV version off the small screen?”

 

Specious:                   “Now, that’s a fine kettle of fish….in spades.”

 

Spurious:                    “But what if we can’t get Palin?”

 

Mockery:                    “Interesting you should ask.  Our tracking people tell us there’s someone showing inspired irritation promise and could even surpass Palin.  Patti Somebody does a morning show for KGMI, a Bellingham, Washington radio station.  Her noxious numbers are through the roof and her antagonistic amps off the charts.  She is so irritating that Limbaugh, who follows her show, is pissed that her ratings are threatening his.  And, she has an intensely whining voice that, comparatively speaking, makes Joan Rivers sound like Julia Roberts.”

‘  

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Tucson Reflections....by Bob Sanders

I've never spent any time in Tucson, don't know anyone who lives there and over a lifetime have probably thought more about Yazoo City, Mississippi than the Arizona community.  That was until events of the past two weeks.

I think by now it has been firmly established that neither Sarah Palin nor Rush Limbaugh communicated in any direct way with the nut who killed six people while wounding 14.  Yes, Arizona has a chilling lack of gun laws and, yes, there is such an atmosphere of anger permeating this country that we simply have to do something about in a meaningful way.  

There were moments during the past two weeks when I was reminded of the America I once knew.  It was kindly and sensible with a mannerly, even noble way about it if you ignore our horrible treatment of what we then "politely" called Negroes.  Those not so polite used other words and today rationalize such behavior by suggesting that that was then.  Other realities back then, in decided contrast to today's, included: bankers who made reasonable salaries while concentrating on loans rather than putting the world in jeopardy through Ponzi gimmicks; civility in the classroom; and boyhood heroes who signed autograph requests without charging.  Housewives flirted innocently with the neighborhood butcher to get superior cuts of meat and everyone knew the milkman whose arrival was announced by the merry tinkling of bottles.

The scene in Tucson in front of the Safeway moments before insanity erupted was a slice of the sort of America painted by Norman Rockwell and captured on film by Frank Capra.  A member of the U.S. House of Representatives was doing what she liked best: communicating with her constituents.  Rep. Gabrielle Giffords (D-Ariz.) calls it "Congress on Your Corner" and it's the kind of throwback reference that helped remind me of the days when we were capable not only of thinking about the other fellow but communicating with him in civil fashion.

Those assembled near the supermarket entrance included a highly-respected judge who would die, two elderly couples whose marriages would be ended by the assassin's bullets, three alert and particularly brave people (one, a woman) who would wrestle the gunman to the ground and prevent re-loading his Glock-19; and a nine-year-old girl.  Christina-Taylor Green, vibrant and enormously curious, had recently been elected to her school's student council and was among 20 gathered to meet Rep. Giffords.  Before the mayhem, it had been Civics 101, the kind of American apple pie gathering depicted so winningly by Rockwell and Capra.

The little girl died instantly shortly after the gunman opened fire.  His first target was Giffords whose staffers included student intern Daniel Hernandez, 20, and Gabriel Zimmerman, 30, who took a fatal bullet while standing next to Giffords.  Hernandez, a political science junior at the University of Arizona-Tucson, had been on the job five days.  About 30 feet away from the initial shots, Hernandez ran toward the shootings checking the pulses of three or four victims as he rushed to Giffords' side where he provided first-aid.  He probably saved her life by staunching wounds while holding her in a sitting position.

Hernandez is a remarkable young man as evidenced the day of the shooting and during subsequent events during which he took issue with his having been proclaimed a hero.  Seated between retired Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O'Conner and the President at memorial services to honor the fallen, Hernandez became the subject of a great American moment when Obama declared: "We've decided you are a hero."  Determined to pursue a career in public service, it is quite obvious that the highly articulate Hernandez is a very impressive young man whose goal should be realized.  Out of chaos sometimes comes unexpected good and Hernandez is proof.

There are fallout ironies of Hernandez's heroics that provided uneasiness among conservatives--particularly members of the Tea Party who quickly rejected as unfounded any level of involvement in the massacre.  Among them are controversial Westboro Baptist Church pastor Fred Phelps and Sarah Palin.  Phelps, in calling killer Jared Loughner a "soldier hero," suggested not nearly enough people had been slaughtered, then boycotted funeral services for the six slain.  Palin, author of the "reload" gun sights map of 20 political "targets" that included Rep. Giffords, went immediately into denial mode suggesting it is she who has been victimized by the killings. Chief among the ironies is Hernandez who is both Latino and openly gay while living in a congressional district that shares a 114-mile border with Mexico in a state exceedingly conservative.  It has been a very difficult two weeks for that embarrassingly large segment of the increasingly narrow-minded Republican Party.

After nearly two years of what has been a disappointing presidency, Obama may be in the process of turning the corner.  In baseball terms, he has been a good field, no hit President with much criticism coming from his own party.  The first half of his term has found the verbally successful President fielding his position with authority.  At bat, he has had a tough time hitting the curve ball resulting in too many pop ups and ground balls; this failure to get the ball out of the infield is largely an inability to explain just what it is he has done and is doing.  It's called communications and Obama, so successful at it while running for office, has not hit beyond his modest weight until the past month.  His lame duck triumphs plus the Tucson speech have tacked five points to an approval rating with the chances for a quick five more possible as he prepares for a State of the Union address.  He has seized the high ground in our now uneasily enjoined debate about political discourse.  We want to like this President if only because there is goodness about him.  How refreshing.

The challenges of being President in today's complex world make popularity difficult to attain and even harder to maintain.  Sometimes, the public's memory lingers on.  The story is told of a man who approached Eleanor Roosevelt a few years after FDR's death.  The man, asked if he knew the President, said he didn't but that Roosevelt knew him.  The man then added, "I miss the way your husband used to speak to me about my government."

Roosevelt, a man of wealth whose common touch was particularly evident in his radio fireside chats, would have been fascinated by a recent story about a survey whose full results will be published later this year.  Conducted at University College London, the study suggests that conservative brains have an abundance of something called "amygdala" that produces an inclination to fear fear itself and that the fear factor is what sets conservatives apart from liberals.

Roosevelt, in his first inaugural speech nearly 80 years ago, was way ahead of those scientists.

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"The Cream in Woods Coffee"....by Bob Sanders

As readers of this space are aware, I have a determined desire to make the rest of the world aware of Bellingham blemishes.  The decision was made a few years ago when this country became awash with media praise suggesting Fourth Corner utopia awaited 15 miles south of the Canadian border.

Something had to be done and it had to be more than an extensive use of the city's nickname, The City of Subdued Excitement, to keep hordes of invaders, including Canadians, outside the boundaries of Whatcom County.  Mere name-calling is insufficient as proven by the failure of bumper stickers warning against Californicating our state.

Prior suggestions by your humble scribe have included: the development of a wide open White Neck Riviera north of town, a new motto, Tony Soprano's Kinda Town; and the creation of a first class public relations team whose mission would be to make America aware of, among other failings, Bellingham's excessive mopery based upon a lack of vitamin D due to insufficient sunshine.  We'll get back to that one later.

The remarkable number of Subdued City hosannas sung by the press continues.  Just the other day came word that Bellingham is now ranked seventh among small emerging markets in terms of being attractive to quick service restaurants.  Quick service is restaurant speak for what we used to call fast food until that term fell into disrepute when caloric counts were connected to our national obesity problem.  It grieves me deeply to inform the survey folks that B'ham is already over-crowded with quick service giants.  Two of them, I-HOP and Dairy Queen, recently shut down.

One means of making people think twice about moving here would emphasize the use of pop culture in creating determent.  As with every community, there are sinister forces at work whose detailed presence should be cornerstone of a rallying call of warning.  Personal attack is most effective when used in a humorous vein so let's do parodies about those who screw up our lives in Subdued City.  Popular culture, including books, songs, and film, is a great way to bring attention to people like Sam Crawford.  Chairman of the Whatcom County Council, Sam recently was described by Cascadia Weekly wit Alan Rhodes as the "Developers Homeboy and Mother Nature's Nemesis."

One obvious Crawford put down would be use of the great Budd Schulberg epic, What Makes Sammy Run?  Since many of us know what a barrel of laughs Crawford can be, let's get someone at our Idiom Theater to do a little lampooning titled: What Makes Sammy Fun?  Perhaps a writer of one of the theater's marathons might work in Say It, Again, Sam? with apologies to Bogie, Dooley Wilson, and all the cast member of Casablanca.

Politics and politicians, of course, are logical targets of our program of derision for would-be future Subdued City residents with Bellingham mayor Dan Pike offering particular opportunity.  Let's take a grand old Irish tune and turn it into Danny Oy to be heard from glen to glen and down the mountainside.  This might even make a campaign tune for the mayor should he choose to run again although his recent intransigence toward Paul Leuthold and Parks & Recreation suggest otherwise.  Then, there's impressive satirical potential in Guys & Pols.

How about Trillium Corp., the once mighty firm whose footprints are all over B'ham--particularly the north side?  Not many people today are aware of Groucho Marx's comedic eloquence when he sang "Lydia, the Tattooed Lady" in At the Circus.  Not that "Yip" Harburg's brilliant lyrics could be improved upon but "Oh, Trillium, oh, Trillium, have you seen oh, Trillium?"should work if only to beg the obvious: Where in hell is Trillium these days?  Included in such a shot across the bow of invading hordes is Bellingham's plethora of tattooed ladies.  I'm not sure plethora is really the right word when referencing the plural of such adorned women.  If many lions are a pride and dogs a pack, perhaps a body of tattooed ladies would be more appropriate.

The Bellingham penchant for tattoos, of course, is accompanied by a propensity for body piercing--often in unlikely places.  Think of the attention to be gained by holding both tattoo beauty contests and body piercing competition in the City of Subdued Excitement.  Think of impaled bodies being assessed by well-named judges who could include Pierce Brosnan, Boston Celtic Paul Pierce, or retired Chicago White Sox pitcher Billy Pierce.

For purposes of sheer melodrama, let's call one of our opuses "Brett Bonner Lies Over the Ocean."  This plot might involve the driven former KGMI announcer, a mainland outcast, reduced to broadcasting his messages of conservatism from a boat located beyond the 12-mile limit.  Bonner bears minor league resemblance to Tim Eyman, the initiative-happy Seattleite, and may be recalled as the guy who led the charge to defeat a teen-tiny sales tax increase that resulted in no Sunday bus service for the old and infirm.  Way to go Brett!

Bellingham's lack of sunshine and abundance of rain could be recognized sardonically both in song and book.  "Shady Side of the Street" sings volumes and provides publicity opportunities involving race, always sure-fire.  "Shady Side" is about a professional black basketball player who passes for white in order to further his career.  A guy with his blues on parade, he's a rover who crosses over.  Just as Mark Twain's use of the n word in Huckleberry Finn suggests to some the book's expulsion from libraries, Jimmy McHugh's re-worked original (lyrics by Dorothy Fields) will get even further scrutiny as narrow minds again range from over-reaction to fulmination.

Certainly, our over-abundance of rain-producing moss promises unique means of thwarting teeming invaders.  If the Equality State (Wyoming) can be accorded a book, The Green Grass of Wyoming, then Subdued City should be acknowledged as having The Green Moss of Bellingham.  There is no denying that moss is to Bellingham what rust is to Hawaii or South Georgia, for that matter.

Then, there's the fascinating case of the Bellingham Herald's staff shrinkage and the newspaper's executive editor filling Sunday space with something called "Out and About."  Such titles take one back to journalism's Golden Age, columns like the New Yorker's still-published "Talk of the Town" and even the Leonard Bernstein musical, "On the Town."  According to Bellingham's up and aroundsters who know about such things, there have been precious few sightings of the editor outside her transom-equipped office.  In honor of Julie Shirley's journalistic triumph (admittedly weighted by bake sales), let's create the first media musical.  Call it "Con the Town."

And because the Pacific Northwest is coffee country, we could decry caffeine evils awaiting newcomers by way of a whiz-bang Mt. Baker Theater extravaganza with the catchy tune, "You're the Cream in Woods Coffee."  Sung to a cow by a dairy farmer whose land is being swept away by home developers, "You're the Cream in Woods Coffee" is a likely hit for the show, "Dutch Courage."  The plot involves a Whatcom County first line of defense as Canadians swarm across the border to be met by a gin-swigging Lynden population given the kind of liquid valor provided English soldiers during the Thirty Years' War.

Let the parody games begin.

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Satire & Alan Rhodes....by Bob Sanders

A lot has been written and said about satire with that great American wit, George S. Kaufman, chiming in with, perhaps, the most cogent observation: "Satire is what dies on Saturday night."  Kaufman knew about such things having seen a lot of Broadway shows perish because subtlety is too demanding for far too many.

Popular forms of humor involve little investment by the viewer/reader.  Physical comedy adherents simply wait for the fool to slip on the inevitable banana peel or Moe to slap Larry while less broad approaches are built upon material from the Joe Miller Joke Book ending somewhere around the dynamic jest found on any Jay Leno Show.  As an irresistible aside, Leno continues, in his late night rebirth, to approximate the funniest guy in the Elks Club of Altoona, Pennsylvania.  Trying to figure out Leno’s popularity is an even darker mystery than the charm and substance of Sarah Jessica Parker.

Providing more proof that sarcasm and irony are the twin underpinnings of satire is Bellingham, Washington’s Alan Rhodes who has mastered the craft.  His recently published, “Returning to the Branch,” is a grand collection of pieces written during the past eight years for publications located in what locals often call The City of Subdued Excitement.  While an enthusiast about most things Bellingham, Rhodes is capable of identifying, then bloodying the fools in a town offering more than a touch of inspiration for lampooning.  Every community needs a journalistic watchdog to alert the citizenry about excesses in the bureaucratic process, overt zealousness by control freaks, and buffoonery beyond the pale; Rhodes is to Bellingham what Mike Royko was to Chicago.  

A retired high school English teacher, Rhodes has been a Fourth Corner writing presence since 2002 when he began authoring a community column for the Bellingham Herald.  That lasted 18 months ending when the paper acquired a new owner.  His next gig, in monthly form, was for the cause-conscious Bellingham Weekly with Rhodes and the paper often touching upon subjects neglected by the Herald.  Suddenly, within a few days of Christmas, 2006, the Weekly's publisher pulled a Scrooge and folded the paper with word of his decision leaked during the paper’s annual party.  Thanks to editor Tim Johnson whose ability to communicate with his readers cannot be over-emphasized, the paper was re-born three months later as the Cascadia Weekly and Rhodes was back in business, again on a monthly basis.  Along the way he began writing occasionally for the very serious Whatcom Watch whose interests are largely focused on scientific and environmental subjects.  Following a couple of weighty attempts complete with footnotes, Rhodes began a charming and compelling collection of "Saunters" through the neighborhoods of a community he dearly loves.  Endearing aspects of these essays include interactions with people, adventures along the way, historical notes, and commentary.

If there is one aspect of Rhodes’ writing that is particularly appealing, it’s his gracefulness.  Every word is on the money, there is a rhythmic flow and a joy in what he is does while his economy of words is impressive.  One of his very effective tricks is occasionally following riffs of objections with self-deprecatory comments.   It’s a terrific way of keeping the reader in his corner. 

Rhodes furthered his communications horizons in 2006 when he began performing on "The Chuckanut Radio Hour," an obvious first cousin to "A Prairie Home Companion."  Created by Chuck Robinson, owner of Village Books in Fairhaven, the show is folksy while literate enough (the main feature is an appearance by an author) that the association with books is effectively enjoined.   Rhodes, a decidedly laid back fellow, nears hail-fellowship as he narrates five-minute bits about oddities of life as a ‘Hamster.  For readers of sufficient memory, think of a hip Will Rogers without the Oklahoma twang and you are on the right track.

"Returning to the Branch" is a collection of Rhodes at his best taken from newspaper columns, radio essays, and the "Saunters."  The latter are of particular value to Californians might who want to know more about Bellingham although most of us who live here fervently hope such reading does not inspire moving.  We want the place to ourselves.  

Most of Rhodes’ pieces are hilarious but a few are serious.  One in particular, "Blossoming: Three Transgendered Women," is particularly compelling while offering understanding about a largely dismissed subject.  Rhodes, somehow, manages to comfortably shoehorn a lot of information into a column while offering sensitive commentary about three extraordinary women with enormous strength of character.

Other subjects thoroughly nailed include: an examination of the “joys” of summer; the culture wars of Bellingham and the rest of Whatcom County; a treasure that is no longer: the Newstand of the city’s downtown where 3,000 magazines were available; and, maybe, the book’s funniest piece: “The Girl With the Hamster Tattoo, My Encounter with Lisabeth Salander.”

Perhaps, as a mannerly offering in un-mannerly times, a decent public service would be to provide a buyer’s beware warning regarding Rhodes’ approach to satire.  Should you be of persuasions initiated by Rush Limbaugh, Karl Rove, almost any decision by George W. Bush or a local muckabout named Brett Bonner, a former broadcaster fortunately de-miked by an otherwise clueless Bellingham management, your reading satisfaction would more likely be found in Sarah Palin’s latest book.  Come to think of it, the closest Conservatives come to satire is “The Colbert Report” with Stephen Colbert portraying a hilarious right wing goofus.

If you enjoy Clifford Brown’s smoky trumpet, Laurel and Hardy’s inspired insanity, the Allens—Steve and Woody, Molly Ivans, and Lenny Bruce, then “Returning to the Branch” is for you so go buy a copy at Village Books.   If you are unfortunate enough to live outside of The City of Subdued Excitement, check in with the same folks.  Chuck Robinson and his merry band are easily Googled, but then you know about those Internet shortcuts.

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More Minnie....by Bob Sanders

Last week's column about the Grand Ole Opry piece I wrote for TV Guide in 1956 included references to comedienne Minnie Pearl who was a big help.  The assignment had been made by the magazine's editor, Merrill Panitt. 

The aptly-named journalist had been radio/TV critic for the Philadelphia Inquirer prior to moving to the  Walter Annenberg-owned sister publication, established in April, 1953.  Annenberg was the son of Moses L. Annenberg whose life is worth a Google or two.  Moses L. was an exceedingly rough-and-tumble sort whose origins were the Chicago newspaper circulation wars.  His employers included the Chicago Tribune plus papers owned by William Randolph Hearst who called him a "circulation genius."  Annenberg, whose genius was mostly muscle that prompted close association with America's then reigning mobsters, eventually was sent to prison for neglecting to pay nearly $10 million in unpaid taxes including interest and penalties.  Son Walter never forgot as he walked an exceedingly straight-and-narrow while preferring to believe that his father's prison time was the result of a Franklin D. Roosevelt political contributions vendetta.  Republication enthusiasts sometimes climb on board through the darndest of circumstances. 

TV Guide's origins go back to the late 40s and New York City where Lee Wagner started a purely local publication based upon the obvious: TV viewers needed help determining what they would watch.  By 1953, there were seven stations in the Big Apple (included was a channel assigned to Newark, N.J.) and there was no doubt that such a relative glut of viewing possibilities required a guide.

It was Wagner who recognized the potential so believe not the Russian history accounts promulgated by Annenberg and others who have failed consistently to acknowledge Wagner's creativity so enhanced by an understandable reluctance by newspapers to carry detailed program listings.  Some papers did an about face but, by then, TV Guide was entrenched.

Give Annenberg credit.  It was he who bought Wagner's product seeing it as the keystone of a national magazine.  When I worked for TV Guide, it was common knowledge that a vice-presidential minion named Joe Furst initially suggested the magazine's feasibility.  More than 50 years and three ownerships later (the scary Rupert Murdoch was one), TV Guide is but a slim shadow of what it once was.  Highly accurate program listings, once the heart of the publication, have been enormously reduced largely because of the vast number of viewing outlets.  The magazine's gushing character is today more suggestive of People with inane stories about stars now the focus.  During my 13 years with TV Guide, we were considered the Dutch uncle of the industry with Panitt the writer of tough and incisive editorials.  Not having TV Guide was like living in Chicago and not reading Mike Royko.

Panitt, a graduate of the University of Missouri's fine School of Journalism, had a no-nonsense attitude based on a deeply-held conviction that TV Guide's success was mostly a matter of providing accurate program information.  Also, he was determined that the National Feature Section, a wrap-around common to all editions (they eventually numbered more than 225) would never become a fan magazine.  When TV goofed, Panitt was there to chastise the recalcitrant child.

By the time of my Opry assignment, the program had been testing the TV waters as a monthly show--as unsure of its TV audience as it was certain of its radio followers, faithful since November 28, 1925 when the show began on WSM-AM.

Proof of the Opry's TV trepidation in 1956 was the rather remarkable first show booking of Tony Bennett who sang Hank Williams' "Cold, Cold Heart."  Here we are 54 years later and Bennett is still a major entertainer and the Opry likely to return to TV after a devastating flood this past spring.

Following publication of the story in the April 7, 1956 edition of TV Guide, Minnie Pearl and I corresponded.  That summer, wife Betty and I decided to visit her mother in Bristol, Virginia.  Invited by Minnie to stop by, we did so.  It was a stop of martini significance.  Arriving at her home shortly before noon, the pride of Grinder's Switch announced that we would be eating chicken prepared by the Cannon cook.  Husband Henry was off flying a client to a gig and Minnie broke out the Beefeater's and vermouth and put on some George Shearing records.  It turned out Shearing was her favorite jazz artist.  Minnie and I really hit it off and a torrent of verbal communication ensued.

Betty, pretty much a teetotaler, was please to meet Minnie and, as I remember, called upon by her getting-happier-by-the-moment husband to sing "Git Along Mule" whose second line runs: "don't you roll them eyes."  Betty had utilized her country repertoire during PI Beta Phi social events at Ohio University.  She and Minnie sang backwoods material as the Beefeater's level plunged.

Almost to the day Betty died, my observant wife claimed I drank 12 martinis that day and it's difficult to discredit her account.  I did read a year later of a guy who perished after consuming 15 so it's understandable why I've never threatened the Nashville record.  The chicken went untouched.

I kept in touch with Minnie over the years.  She was elected to the Country Music Hall of Fame in 1975.  The plaque honoring her achievement reads: "Humor is the least recorded but certainly one of the most important aspects of live country music." 

After suffering three attacks of breast cancer that led to double mastectomy surgery in 1985, Minnie returned to the Opry making her final appearance June 14, 1991.  During a routine with Acuff, she forgot her lines although Acuff effectively covered for her.  Minnie ran offstage shouting to her husband: "Henry, we've got to go home."  Her 51-year association with the show ended three days later when a stroke left her partially paralyzed.  Admission to a retirement home followed and her condition slowly worsened.  Minnie received the National Medal of Arts from President George Bush the Elder in 1992 and two years later was inducted into the National Comedy Hall of Fame.  She died March 4, 1996.

Every so often I hoist a martini to Minnie Pearl.  Never 12.

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