12.30.10 New Year’s in Dixie

OK, we admit it, we’re northerners at heart.

In a discussion of who is cooler – Nathan Bedford Forrest or Winfield Scott Hancock? – Hancock wins every time.  Sure, they were both resourceful in a pinch.  Forrest captured Fort Pillow almost singlehandedly.  And Hancock pretty much saved the Union at Gettysburg.  (You can look it up.)  But after the war, Forrest was a founding member of the KKK, while Hancock was dubbed “the handsomest man in America” and almost became President, losing in 1880 by the closest popular vote margin in history.  (Look it up.)  Now that’s cool!

But we’re solidly Dixie in one respect: you gotta eat Black Eyed Peas on New Year’s Day.  It’s a tradition that goes all way back to the Babylonian Talmud (circa 500 B.C., Google it), that decrees that eating Black Eyed Peas (botanical name: Vigna unguiculata sp.) on Rosh Hashanah brings prosperity in the coming year. Sephardic Jews who arrived in Georgia in the 1790’s brought the practice with them.  It became a New Year’s practice throughout the South, and it continues to this day.

But northerners can get in on it, and here’s why:  there was a guy named Charles Ferguson Smith who taught at West Point in the 1850’s.  He became a key northern general in the Civil War, second in command to his former pupil Ulysses S. Grant, and together they captured Fort Donelson (it’s in Wikipedia).  He told his men, “damn you gentlemen, I see skulkers, I’ll have none of that here…this is your chance, you volunteered to be killed for your country, and now you can be.”  Now that’s cool, but it’s slightly less cool than the fact that one of his descendants (all Scots being related) is named Stacy Anne Ferguson.  But she’s better known as Fergie, and she’s the lead singer of a group NAMED the Black Eyed Peas.  So through that connection, we northerners can lay claim to owning this excellent tradition.

So, whether you consider yourself a Yank or a Reb, Jewish or Gentile, your fate in 2011 will be determined by your grocery list, and your saucepan.  Get to the store, get some Black Eyed Peas, and cook ’em up.

And as any good ole boy would say:  L’Chaim!

12.23.10 Cold Christmas

Christmas.  When all thoughts turn to South American polo players, bathing beauties, Xavier Cugat and mistaken identities.

How’s that?  Here’s how:  It starts with all-American beauty Esther Williams and Latin lover Ricardo Montalban.  In the 1940’s Hollywood paired them in series of madcap musicals in which she would sing and swim in tight bathing suits, and he would sing and dance in tight pants.  In 1949, MGM rolled out “Neptune’s Daughter” with Williams playing a bathing suit designer (naturally) and Montalban an Argentine polo player (claro).  Her sister, played by Betty Garrett, mistakes him for his masseur, played by Red Skelton.  Throw in Mel Blanc as dopey sidekick Pancho and Keenan Wynn as a local mobster, and what you get is…a thoroughly forgettable formula flick.

Were it not for THE SONG.  It was written by Frank Loesser (of Guys and Dolls fame), and he would sing it with his wife at parties.  Much to her chagrin, Loesser sold the rights to MGM for use in the movie.  The studio also convinced Xavier Cugat and his orchestra to temporarily quit their gig as house band at the Waldorf-Astoria and appear in the film.  What resulted was a musical masterpiece, with Williams and Montalban performing the song romantically, and Garrett and Skelton performing it for laughs.  The song went on to win an Academy Award.

That was just the beginning.  In March and April of 1949, no less than four different versions were recorded and released, and they ALL reached the top 20 almost simultaneously.  More versions rolled out throughout the 50’s.  Perhaps the oddest version was a live duet between Rock Hudson (pretending to be straight) and Mae West (pretending to be young and interested) at the 1958 Oscars.

But the song was still just a song, until Dino nailed it.  Dean Martin included it on his 1959 album “A Winter Romance” (bonus trivia: there are no credits given for the female singers on the track).  A year later, the album was re-released as “Holiday Cheer.” And THAT turned the song into a holiday standard.

Yep, it’s the classic sweet-but-sexy Christmas duet covered by just about everybody.  Dinah Shore and Buddy Clark, Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Jordan, Dionne Warwick and Ray Charles, K.T. Oslin and Barry Manilow, Ann-Margaret and Al Hirt, Zooey Deschanel and Leon Redbone, Dolly Parton and Rod Stewart, Bette Milder and James Caan.  And no matter the pairing – Miss Piggy and Rudolf Nureyev in a steam bath? You bet! – it always works.  There’s one holiday sentiment everyone agrees upon.

Baby, it’s Cold Outside.

12.17.10 The Head of France

All France wants for Christmas is their Bourbon back.

Henry IV was an impetuous, selfish double-dealer. He was a Huguenot, and had fought against the Catholics in the Wars of Religion that were tearing France apart.  But in 1589 he turned on his family and converted to Catholicism, just so he could become King.  And then he turned again, and in 1598 issued the Edict of Nantes, which guaranteed religious freedom for the Huguenots.  The result was a spirit of cooperation between all faiths, and a powerful new France, united under one King.

And mon dieu, what a King!  Men referred to him as “le bon roi (the good king)” for his wisdom, women called him “le vert galante (the gallant green knight)” for his dashing good looks, and everyone agreed he was “Henri le Grand.”  He lent his name to a style of architecture, and France’s first national anthem was the “Marche Henri IV.”  But it’s his LAST name that became truly legendary. His full name was Henry Bourbon, and he created a dynasty that would last for centuries.  Henry had six children, and they married into the royal families of Europe (even today there are Bourbon monarchs in Spain and Luxembourg.)  His grandson was Louis XIV, who spread the Bourbon empire around the world.  As far away as America, you can find the Bourbon dynasty in a bottle of Kentucky whiskey, on a street sign in New Orleans, and on the jersey of a Dominican relief pitcher for the World Series champion Cincinnati Reds.

But for Henry, however, the end came too soon.  In 1610, while attending the coronation ceremony of his second queen, he was assassinated.  He was embalmed and laid to rest in the Royal Basilica at Saint-Denis.  And that did not guarantee him a happy ever-after.  During the French Revolution, his tomb was ransacked, he was decapitated and his remains were scattered.  France became a democracy and turned its back on its royal past.  The Bourbon legacy was discredited. And its founder was lost.

Skip forward to the present.  France’s power has eroded.  Its pride has suffered.  Many French may be yearning for their former days of glory.  When suddenly, this week, on the 400^th anniversary of Henry IV’s death, their wishes have come true.  A team of scientists just released the results of their examination of an embalmed head recently found in a private collection.  Using radio carbon dating, examining the head for scars and features, and even by smelling the embalming fluid in the nostrils, the scientist have made a determination: they have found the head of Henry Bourbon, Henry IV, grand king of France.

Vive le roi!

12.10.10 CPO Feller

Consider every pampered, arrogant, ungrateful professional athlete you know.  And then there’s this guy.

He joined the Cleveland Indians in 1936 for the bargain price of $1.  He immediately proved himself to be one of the hardest-throwing and effective pitchers in the game.  In his first season, at the age of 17, he struck out 17 batters in one game, becoming the first and one of only two pitchers to ever “strike out his age.”  In 1938, he set a record for strikeouts in a game when he fanned 18.  He was the first pitcher to win 20 or more games in a season before age 21.  He pitched a no-hitter to open the 1940 season, and remains the only pitcher to ever do so.

And then.  On December 7, 1941, the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor.  On December 8, Robert William Andrew Feller of Van Meter, Iowa enlisted in the Navy, the first major leaguer to do so.  For the next four years, at the absolute height of his athletic powers, he served aboard the USS Alabama, as a gun captain.  Over those four “lost seasons,” he launched missiles and bullets with the same intensity that his baseball alter-ego could hurl a fastball.  He ended the war decorated with 5 campaign ribbons and 8 battle stars.

He returned to the Indians in 1945 and played for 12 more seasons.  In his career, he pitched 3 no-hitters, and 12 one-hitters (another record).  He led the American League in strikeouts 7 times.  His fastball remains the second-fastest ever clocked, at 107.6 MPH, and he threw that one when he was almost 30 years old.  He won the World Series once, amassed 266 wins and 2581 strikeouts, was an 8-time all-star, was once the league MVP runner-up and came in 3rd place for the MVP twice more.  For all this, he was elected to the Hall of Fame in his first year of eligibility, in 1962.

He is longest-tenured living Hall of Famer.  This past spring – at age 91 – he threw out the first pitch at the Indians first spring training game. But then, in August he was diagnosed with leukemia and underwent chemotherapy; he had a pacemaker installed; he was treated for vertigo, thrush, and a fungal infection.  Yesterday the sports papers reported the news that  “Rapid Robert,” “Bullet Bob,” thrower of the “Heater from Van Meter,” was nearing his end.  Last night, he was moved into a hospice in Cleveland.

And last night in Mobile Bay, aboard the USS Alabama, they polished the plaque that sits next to the humble bunk he slept in for almost four years, to commemorate his service:  Cleveland Indian Bob Feller, the only Chief Petty Officer in the Baseball Hall of Fame.

10.29.10 Hobbit Headache

To Arms! To Arms! The Battle for Middle-Earth rages anew!

Hollywood never had much hope for The Lord of the Rings.  It was “the book which could not be filmed.”  But then in 1995 an unknown director named Peter Jackson went to Hollywood to try to convince Universal to do a remake of King Kong.  Universal said no, but they were impressed by his ambition and asked, “What else you got?”  Jackson suggested shooting Lord of the Rings on location in New Zealand, using no big-name actors and his own nascent effects company.  Trouble was, the rights to the trilogy were owned by Saul Zaentz, who was negotiating to sell them to Miramax.  After months of discussions the project was obtained by New Line – a division of Miramax – with the profits (if any) to be shared among Zaentz, Universal, New Line/Miramax, the estate of author J.R.R. Tolkien and Peter Jackson’s company, which is called, quite appropriately for this insane venture, Wingnut Films.

What happened next was about as shocking as Frodo Baggins taking down the Dark Lord.  Three epic successes, almost $3B in receipts, 31 Academy Award nominations and 17 wins, including a perfect 11-for-11 for the final installment, Return of the King, tying it with Ben Hur and Titanic for most awards given to a single film.  And, in true Hollywood style, everyone started fighting over the spoils.  The various parties owned different shares of the domestic gross, the international gross, and DVD sales, resulting in an accounting nightmare.  16 cast members sued for profits from merchandise bearing their likeness.  Saul Zaentz sued, so did the Tolkien Trust.  The final act of the saga was Peter Jackson suing Miramax, the company that had bankrolled the film.

So now everybody hated everybody.  But hold on, there was more money to be made!  Before he’d even left the Oscar ceremony, Jackson was being asked about filming The Hobbit, the prequel to Rings. But he had finally gotten the green light from Universal to shoot King Kong, and it kept him busy for several years.  Meanwhile, the rights to the Hobbit were owned by yet another entity, Warner Brothers, and it took those several years to work that issue out.  At last, this July, it was announced that the rights had been negotiated, Jackson was back as director, all of the relevant cast members from Rings had agreed to participate, and The Hobbit had been given a two-film treatment.  Rings fans rejoiced.

So now Peter Jackson is the toast of New Zealand, right?  Well…um…due to the success of the Rings and the growth of the New Zealand film industry, the Screen Actors Guild has been lobbying for better pay and benefits for Kiwi film workers.  Last week, the leaders of 7 film workers’ unions issued a “do not work” order against The Hobbit and took to the streets of Wellington in protest.  Jackson had to awkwardly announce that he may have to move the filming….to Europe!  Rings fans freaked (New Zealand IS Middle-Earth, after all).  The Prime Minister of New Zealand jumped in.  Finally, just a few hours ago, the Parliament of New Zealand passed “the Hobbit Law” (seriously!) which classifies most of the workers on the film as contractors (receiving pay, but no benefits), instead of as full employees of Wingnut.  So now production can finally proceed in New Zealand.

Yes, it’s just like the Battle of 5 Armies: complete pandemonium with a hoard of gold to be won.  The Hobbit hits the big screen Christmas 2012 and 2013.

10.1.10 Fashion Victim

Ah, the price of beauty…

Maria Gunning was born in 1733 to a humble family in central England.  But the family soon moved to a meager rental house in Dublin.  To help the family get by, Maria and her younger sister Elizabeth worked as actresses in local playhouses, which was a somewhat dubious profession (actresses were often known to make other “professional income” on the side.)  But it earned them a little celebrity, and an invitation to a grand ball at Dublin Castle.  Unfortunately, they had no dresses sufficient for such an occasion.  So they reached out to a local theater manager, who let them pull a few things off his costume rack.  Attending the ball dressed as Lady Macbeth and Juliet, Maria and Elizabeth were presented to the Earl of Harrington, Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. He was so struck by their innocence and beauty he took pity upon the Gunning family and paid for their relocation back to England.

There the girls were a sensation. They were, in the vernacular of the day, “hotties.”  Soon after, they were attending events in London.  When they were presented to the Court of St. James, the event was covered by the national newspapers.  Pop went the Gunning sisters!  Within a year, Elizabeth had married the Duke of Hamilton and had moved to a castle in Scotland.  In 1752, Maria bagged an even bigger prize: George William Coventry, the 6th Earl of Coventry, Viscount Deerhurst, Lord Lieutenant of Worcestershire, a Lord of the Bedchamber of King George II and a peer in the House of Lords. The couple were married (he was 30, she was 19) and took a honeymoon trip to Paris.  When they returned to London, Maria was mobbed by adoring fans, and had to be escorted through Hyde Park by the King’s Guard.  She was now regarded as the most beautiful woman in the country.

But as quickly as the marriage was underway, things got ugly.  Maria loved and courted the publicity, but her husband found it vulgar.  She would dress up, he would dress her down.  She would cover her face in white powder and rouge, he would wipe it off.  Maria’s face soon broke out, and she used more makeup to cover it up.  Frustrated, George turned his affections to a mistress; Maria turned her affections to her adoring public.  She wore gaudier dresses, glitzier jewelry, and more makeup than ever.

In the end, her vanity proved to be her downfall.  While still in her mid-twenties, Maria became sick.  Doctors were called in, but could not diagnose the cause.  No amount of costuming or makeup could conceal the fact that she was dying.  The papers were soon reporting that she didn’t have long to live.  And so it came to pass:  250 years ago today, the star who had blazed so brightly across London’s social scene, flamed out at the age of 27.

The culprit?  Well, as Sherlock Holmes might have said, the Makeup Did It.  You see, the rouge of the day was based on a lead foundation.  All that applying and wiping of toxic lead powder on her face resulted in an acute and fatal case of blood poisoning.

Maria Gunning, Countess of Coventry:  Society superstar, fashion victim.

8.27.10 Fat Cats and Bureaucrats

Here’s what happens when folks in charge of education can’t answer simple questions correctly.

Since taking office in January, New Jersey Republican Governor Chris Christie has been in a highly visible, very personal battle with the teacher’s union, the NJEA. Christie slashed the education budget and then demonized teachers as overpaid bureaucrats.  NJEA officials fired back, noting that the heavyset governor loves cutting budgets but NOT his caloric intake.  It’s been nasty.

Last May, New Jersey had to prepare its submission for “Race to the Top,” a federal program that grants funds to states that demonstrate a commitment to education reform.  The 10 highest-scoring states would win significant federal grants.  NJEA officials and Christie’s commissioner of education sat diplomatically  together and answered the 1000-page questionnaire.

Over Memorial Day weekend, the Governor’s office revised the submission to incorporate some new policies which the NJEA had refused to endorse.  Unfortunately, one answer to a question that asked for data from the years 2008-9 was revised incorrectly, using data from 2010-11.  As a result, when it was sent to Washington, the submission was dinged 5 points, and New Jersey placed 11th, just 3 points shy of a critical 10th-place finish .  Which cost the state $400MM in federal funding.

Okay kids, can you spell “RECRIMINATION”?

“(The Governor) basically hijacked the whole process for his own political purposes”…”This is like losing 200 points on the SAT because you didn’t write your name on the top sheet”…”It’s astonishing that the administration’s failure to proofread their own homework would lead to losing out on this funding”…and on and on and on….

Christie blamed Washington, saying “(Obama) is going to have to explain why he is depriving us of $400 million because one of his bureaucrats in Washington couldn’t pick up the phone (to get the right data).”  To which Democratic Senator Frank Lautenberg responded, “Blaming President Obama is like blaming the teacher when you didn’t do your homework.”  It’s nasty.

And so, as the war of words erupts among the adults, the kids are heading back to school.  There they will find there are fewer activities, fewer supplies, and a lot fewer teachers (some 4000 or so may lose their jobs).

The new school year hasn’t even begun, but the kids have already received an excruciating lesson.  Civics 101: Fat Cats and Bureaucrats.

8.6.10 Blue Ribbon Beer

China provides the U.S. with lots of inexpensive goods.  In return, the U.S. sells back to China many high-end luxury products.

Here’s a case in point.  If you pick up a copy of Window of the South, a highly respected bi-weekly business magazine in China, you’ll find lots of advertisements for expensive luxury products.  In the latest issue, there’s an ad inside the front cover for a delicious imported alcoholic beverage.  It shows a tall champagne flute holding a beautiful amber liquid, next to an elegant brown-and-gold bottle, standing together proudly upon an oaken cask.  The copy raves that the premium wood and craftsmanship of the casks creates the product’s wondrous color and flavor, and ends by describing it as “truly a treasure.”  Mmm, yummy.

Is it Scotch?  No.

Wine? Uh-uh!

It’s a beer.  But not just any beer, a beer with a long and distinguished tradition.  First brewed in 1844 by German immigrants, this ambrosia has won many international awards.  It was the choice of the rich and powerful for years, including Bob Hope, who famously served it in his home. It was once one of the most popular beers in America, selling as many as 15MM barrels a year.  It is synonymous with American craftsmanship.  It is, quite simply, a legend.

No wonder, then, that it is craved by the Chinese quaffing cognoscenti; in China, it is known as “Blue Ribbon 1844” and retails for $44 bucks a bottle.

But here in the States, you can buy a six-pack for about 4 bucks.

You know it as Pabst Blue Ribbon.  Mmm, yummy.

7.30.10 Emperor of the Month

As we move from July into August, all thoughts turn to sandy beaches, lazy afternoons, and the Roman Empire.

In ancient Rome, the year was originally laid out as ten months stretching from early Spring to the winter solstice. The first four months were named after gods (Mars, Aphrodite, Maia and Juno) and the rest were just numbered (Quintilis, Sextilis, September, October, November, December).  After that, there was a nondescript winter period, before starting again with Mars’ month.

In 46 BC, Julius Caesar improved things by defining the winter period as two new months, named for Janus, the god of new beginnings, and for Februa, the Roman festival of purification.  He moved the beginning of the year to Janus 1st, the day the Senate took office.  He also staggered the number of days within each month, 31 in Martius, 30 in Aprilus, etc. throughout the year, with February taking the remaining 28 days (except for Leap Years) for a total of 365 days.  It was a great achievement, but Julius enjoyed the new calendar for only a year before he was assassinated.

He was succeeded by his adopted great-nephew, Augustus Caesar.  Augustus declared his great-uncle a god, and renamed the month of Quintilis as Julius, in honor of Julius’ birthday in that month.  Augustus Caesar proved to be an excellent leader, so after his death, he too was declared a god and the month of Sextilis was renamed Augustus. In order to give Julius and Augustus equal memorials, both of their months were given 31 days.

From that point on, every Roman leader wanted to be “Emperor of the Month.”  Nero renamed April as Neroneus; Domitian renamed October as Domitianus; Caligula renamed September as Germanicus.  Emperor Commodus went off the deep end and renamed ALL TWELVE months in honor of himself, but since he was a fool, nobody took him seriously.  In the end, none of these changes lasted.

Yep, the ultimate measure of fame is staying power.  And for over 2000 years, nobody’s been able to knock Julius and Augustus off their calendar pedestal, or climb up there with them.

So, Hail Caesars! The only two mortals who achieved the ultimate celebrity status: Permanent Pinup.

6.4.10 Slippery Logic

Presenting some seriously slippery summer syllogistics.

Children are more pliable, more flexible, more resilient and more durable than adults.  It’s official.  Not because the AMA says so.  It wasn’t proven by some decades-long research study conducted by orthopedists.  And you won’t see it on any life insurance mortality actuarial tables.  Nope, you’ll see it later this weekend in a backyard near you.

Folks will take a long sheet of plastic, and lay it out on the ground.  Wet it down with a hose.  Even better, slather on some Johnson’s Baby Shampoo.  Put on a bathing suit, or just a pair of old shorts.  Back up about 20 paces, and sprint as hard as they can.  Hurl themselves onto the plastic and pray for dear life there isn’t a stick, or a rock, poking up somewhere.  If they’re lucky, they’ll slide madly down the plastic some 100 feet and onto the grass at the far end, in a squiggly squealing heap.  Yippee.

But here’s the official part:  kids can do this safely, adults cannot.  Who says?  The federal government, that’s who.  If you look carefully on a box of Slip N Slide, you’ll find the following disclaimer from the Consumer Products Commission, dating back to 1993, “The WHAM-O slides are designed for use by children only. Use by adults and teens has the potential to result in neck injury and paralysis. Because of their weight and height, adults and teenagers who dive onto the water slide may hit and abruptly stop in such a way that could cause permanent spinal cord injury, resulting in quadriplegia or paraplegia.”

There.  You’ve been warned.  You’re an adult, a big, dangerous dope.  It doesn’t matter how fun it looks.  How many gin and tonics you’ve had.  Or how hot it is outside.  If you decide to go for a slide, you’re on your own with no legal recourse.

As for your kids, they’re officially indestructible.  They can pretty much do anything they want.  Including suing WHAM-O.  Yippee.