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That line has been one of the most enduring, and most obscure, taglines of my entire marriage. It derives from a comedy album dating to the early first term of the Nixon administration, by then-famed Dick impersonator David Frye, which I got a hold of in fifth or sixth grade, promptly memorized, and have managed to retain little bits of for the rest of my life.
One of those little bits still burned into my brain, all these years later, begins with the line in the header. It's from the third cut on the first of Frye's Nixon albums, titled I Am The President, where he voiced both the title character and the equally impersonate-able Nelson Rockefeller, then Guv of mine own home state. In the bit, based on an apparently actual incident from 1969, Nixon asks his vanquished GOP rival to recount the results of his "goodwill" visit to various South American nations. History confirms that Rocky didn't do any better than Nixon's own ill-fated 1958 visit south of the border, but the album makes all kinds of fun of their respective visits to Points South, beginning with that very tag line of "put down your crutches and tell me all about it."
Over the years, we've tossed off that line to refer to any situation where an employer, a client, a co-worker or (quite often these days) a daughter has been particularly brutal to one or both of us. It came up earlier today when our new health insurer was messing with us, by (seemingly) requiring us to obtain all of our monthly-maintenance meds through a mail-order service rather than our friendly Wegmans or Wally-World prescription counters. I never expected to use the "crutches" reference literally, where an actual Fucking Pair Of Crutches was propped up within two feet of my poor wife's knee.
I had pain of my own this morning, listening to Eleanor going through an entirely one-way audio conversation with the Medco drug-by-mail voice recognition voicemail tree, asking about each of our meds by name, dosage, quantity and age of user. All of their generic options turned out to cost substantially more than their $4 fills at Chez Sam. Eleanor's brand-name-only brand would be way more than her own store charges; mine, a little less; Em's, about the same. All of this, though, reeks of micromanagement and bullying of a patient population that has just been beaten into submission by our Best Health Care System In The World™.
----
I did find a way to ease some of that pain, though.
Although I've occasionally checked library catalogs to see if they had CD copies of my old-favorite comedy albums from the 60s and 70s, I'd never checked Google for this particular performer, and lo and behold, for $17.99USD, I was able to score a complete .mp3 set of both of the David Frye Nixon albums I'd had, and loved, as a kid: the aforementioned I Am the President, and the sequel, a fanciful imagining of what a Nixon-operated radio station would sound like; the call sign was WNIX and the album title was Radio Free Nixon.
Five minutes later, both albums were on CD and my .mp3 player. My 2:30 clients, 3:30 coworkers, 4:15 fellow gym rats and anyone who called me all afternoon could have seen my shit-eating grin even if they had closed eyes or were far far away. I was hearing classic schtick from 40 years ago, most of which I still remembered. and hearing Nixon getting skewered all these years later was just as satisfying as hearing the Wait Wait crowd continuing to skewer Bush and Palin even as they refused to let even a single barb touch the thin skin of the new Occupant at 1600 PA Ave.
I'd have enjoyed a clip of Barry and Michele showing up at the place at 4 a.m., telling Dubya they were "the President-elect.... and Mrs.-elect." Until the gloves (or blue dresses) come off, though, at least I have my fifth-grade memories to tide me over.
Where Books and Civilizations Go to Die
Jan. 6th, 2007 06:44 pmBusy morning for an in-town Saturday. I've been having that lethargic about-to-come-down-with-something feeling since the middle of yesterday, so I put off a bank run and library visit until today, along with a couple of other stops. As a self-incentive for getting 'tall done, I planned on making it to an afternoon showing of Children of Men if I finished everything on time. Things went smoothly enough that, when I finished my stuff at the library just up the road from the AMC theater, I was running a good half hour early for the 1:20 show. I wound up devoting most of those minutes to some nostalgiazing, since today happened to be the start of the Audubon Library's used book sale.
I've never been a stranger to events like this. The hometown library growing up used to do them, but we acquired even more old books through the annual rummage sale at our church. My mother was one of the quintessential Church Ladies who put these things on, so she always got dibs on any good stuff she saw coming in and had pretty much eternal leave to take any unsold leftovers she liked when they were done. Over the years, we probably picked up as much useless junk at them than we managed to give away.
Audubon's isn't that much different, although some of their books are much newer and nicer. The selection is still completely jumbled-up (if I recall, the Brits actually refer to these events as "jumble sales"), the pearls surrounded by way too much swine, and the chances to make fun of other peoples' taste are just brimming.
Unusual, perhaps, for these events was seeing several big boxes of vinyl LP records on the center table. Though we no longer own a working turntable, I retain a morbid fascination for the albums themselves, particularly their covers. Facing out from the box- the first thing most people would see coming in the door- was a copy of the Carpenters' Close to You album. I discreetly moved it to the back to as not to scare the shoppers. (Yes, I did own it when I was 11. Shut up.) There were many of that genre and vintage, but only one or two approaching the qualities of the immortal Why'd They Bother Bin. I almost bought an album of Frankie Yankovic polkas just for its cover cheesiness (so obscure there's not even an image of it on Google), or any number of educational albums like this one-
- which looks like something either out of a liberal Democrat's campaign literature or a kiddie porn site. Possibly both.
Then I found a sad piece of someone's childhood. See, kids, back when there were records with big holes in the middle (see "45"), we treasured them and toted them just like you do your jewelcases and iPods. Decca records even invented a keepsake holder for your favorite dozen of them- a far more pristine but empty version can be had, as can most of my childhood, on eBay-
- but the one on the table was full. Not just of records, but of memories. The owner- female, the handwriting suggested- had lovingly recorded the A and B-side titles, composers, even serial numbers onto the index on the inside cover. And what a mix- half a dozen Doors and Zombies singles, but at least one Disneyland Records compilation of something from the Mickey Mouse Club. The sleeve of the first single's page, surrounding the label, was filled with autographs and notes from friends. I so wanted to buy this just to try to return it to the probably-my-age owner, who might have been saddened beyond belief to find her past relegated to a 25-cent bargain table.
I moved on to the hardcover books, where other memories awaited, including my second grade science book-
"Come back next week, Timmy, and we'll learn how to mix silicone to send Mary into puberty five years sooner!"
- any number of original Hardy Boys books, some Barrons review guides from Regents exams I actually took, and way more Dan Brown and Danielle Steel books than should ever be allowed in one room at the same time on account of the danger of spontaneous combustion.
In the end, though, I walked out with nothing other than memories- well, other than the borrowed DVD (Spinal Tap, speaking of spontaneous combustion) and book (Bryson's latest, with a freakin TYPO IN HIS OWN BOOKCOVER BIO, idiots). I then moved along to the movie stop, where my memories of P.D. James's book were also in for some serious regurgitation.
----
This is not a date movie.
But it's a damned powerful one, and illustrative of an anti-Utopia that, in its own way, is even sicker than Orwell's simply because it is so real, and close to today's world in time and likelihood, compared to 1984's predictions or even to James's own original 1992 projections of things 20-years-hence from then. Her evil oppressor is known as the Security Police; Cuarón uses the far more familiar moniker of Homeland Security. Its technology, its propaganda, its abject violence seem far closer to today's time than anyone would ever want to admit. Only the lack of babies really sets it apart.
Though the credits give a "based on" credit to James, it's Cuarón's vision and, thus, his story (literally, as well, he having co-written the screenplay). Other than a few character names and many broad-brush strokes, there's little of the original novel in this depiction, and that's fine, for both are compelling, and ultimately uplifting, and even oddly funny, in their own respective ways. Michael Caine is worth the price of admission all by himself, and Chiwetel Ejiofor makes yet another appearance proving there is nothing beyond his range. The soundtrack (particularly the cover chosen for this entry) is awesome and fitting, as well. And the camera work ranks among the best of any I have ever seen- never has a splotch on a lens said as much as several of them did toward the climax of this film.
I do have the benefit of being able to compare the film to the James original, since we've owned it in hardcover since it came out. Amazingly, this is not a repeatable event, since that edition is out of print, as are all but one or two cheapie paperback editions reissued just in the past year to coincide with release of the film. I've no idea why Knopf is so stingy with some of its best material; after all, if all else fails, there are always used book sales at libraries for them to go to.
I've never been a stranger to events like this. The hometown library growing up used to do them, but we acquired even more old books through the annual rummage sale at our church. My mother was one of the quintessential Church Ladies who put these things on, so she always got dibs on any good stuff she saw coming in and had pretty much eternal leave to take any unsold leftovers she liked when they were done. Over the years, we probably picked up as much useless junk at them than we managed to give away.
Audubon's isn't that much different, although some of their books are much newer and nicer. The selection is still completely jumbled-up (if I recall, the Brits actually refer to these events as "jumble sales"), the pearls surrounded by way too much swine, and the chances to make fun of other peoples' taste are just brimming.
Unusual, perhaps, for these events was seeing several big boxes of vinyl LP records on the center table. Though we no longer own a working turntable, I retain a morbid fascination for the albums themselves, particularly their covers. Facing out from the box- the first thing most people would see coming in the door- was a copy of the Carpenters' Close to You album. I discreetly moved it to the back to as not to scare the shoppers. (Yes, I did own it when I was 11. Shut up.) There were many of that genre and vintage, but only one or two approaching the qualities of the immortal Why'd They Bother Bin. I almost bought an album of Frankie Yankovic polkas just for its cover cheesiness (so obscure there's not even an image of it on Google), or any number of educational albums like this one-
- which looks like something either out of a liberal Democrat's campaign literature or a kiddie porn site. Possibly both.
Then I found a sad piece of someone's childhood. See, kids, back when there were records with big holes in the middle (see "45"), we treasured them and toted them just like you do your jewelcases and iPods. Decca records even invented a keepsake holder for your favorite dozen of them- a far more pristine but empty version can be had, as can most of my childhood, on eBay-
- but the one on the table was full. Not just of records, but of memories. The owner- female, the handwriting suggested- had lovingly recorded the A and B-side titles, composers, even serial numbers onto the index on the inside cover. And what a mix- half a dozen Doors and Zombies singles, but at least one Disneyland Records compilation of something from the Mickey Mouse Club. The sleeve of the first single's page, surrounding the label, was filled with autographs and notes from friends. I so wanted to buy this just to try to return it to the probably-my-age owner, who might have been saddened beyond belief to find her past relegated to a 25-cent bargain table.I moved on to the hardcover books, where other memories awaited, including my second grade science book-
"Come back next week, Timmy, and we'll learn how to mix silicone to send Mary into puberty five years sooner!"- any number of original Hardy Boys books, some Barrons review guides from Regents exams I actually took, and way more Dan Brown and Danielle Steel books than should ever be allowed in one room at the same time on account of the danger of spontaneous combustion.
In the end, though, I walked out with nothing other than memories- well, other than the borrowed DVD (Spinal Tap, speaking of spontaneous combustion) and book (Bryson's latest, with a freakin TYPO IN HIS OWN BOOKCOVER BIO, idiots). I then moved along to the movie stop, where my memories of P.D. James's book were also in for some serious regurgitation.
----
This is not a date movie.
But it's a damned powerful one, and illustrative of an anti-Utopia that, in its own way, is even sicker than Orwell's simply because it is so real, and close to today's world in time and likelihood, compared to 1984's predictions or even to James's own original 1992 projections of things 20-years-hence from then. Her evil oppressor is known as the Security Police; Cuarón uses the far more familiar moniker of Homeland Security. Its technology, its propaganda, its abject violence seem far closer to today's time than anyone would ever want to admit. Only the lack of babies really sets it apart.
Though the credits give a "based on" credit to James, it's Cuarón's vision and, thus, his story (literally, as well, he having co-written the screenplay). Other than a few character names and many broad-brush strokes, there's little of the original novel in this depiction, and that's fine, for both are compelling, and ultimately uplifting, and even oddly funny, in their own respective ways. Michael Caine is worth the price of admission all by himself, and Chiwetel Ejiofor makes yet another appearance proving there is nothing beyond his range. The soundtrack (particularly the cover chosen for this entry) is awesome and fitting, as well. And the camera work ranks among the best of any I have ever seen- never has a splotch on a lens said as much as several of them did toward the climax of this film.
I do have the benefit of being able to compare the film to the James original, since we've owned it in hardcover since it came out. Amazingly, this is not a repeatable event, since that edition is out of print, as are all but one or two cheapie paperback editions reissued just in the past year to coincide with release of the film. I've no idea why Knopf is so stingy with some of its best material; after all, if all else fails, there are always used book sales at libraries for them to go to.
Reader's Disgust
Jan. 3rd, 2007 09:05 amThis is turning out to be one of those odd entries from the little English village of Consciousness-upon-Stream. I'll understand if you start hearing crickets chirping in the background.
An elJay Friend brought an old book friend back to mind the other day. It's a time travel novel set in the New Yorks of 1882 and 1970, which I know I've mentioned here before:
Time and Again
I could go on, and probably did originally, about the book's premise, its fabulous execution of the idea, the sequel I'd not recommend nearly as much, the pedigree of the author (the late Jack Finney, originator of the "Body Snatchers" sci-fi concept) or the sad Development Hell of efforts to get it filmed in the almost 40 ensuing years.
Not today, though. For me, for now at least, my consciousness has been sent even further downstream to the form in which I first encountered this work. It wasn't a dimestore paperback (and at the time, the paperback probably would've actually been only about a dime) or a library hardcover (though I went out and borrowed that in a hurry), but that freak of literary nature known then, and apparently still alive now, as the Readers Digest Condensed Book.
Dude, that is IT. Fifth from the left, with the brownish cover with green titles. I can't recall if my parents had a separate subscription to these, or if it came with getting the weekly magazine at the time, but I know our house was full of the things. Most were romance or adventure tales- Finney's tale was condensed along with Halic-The Story of a Gray Seal, Six Horse Hitch, Bomber, and A Woman in a House. Classics all.
Such was the story of my childhood. Our parents had one high school diploma between them and little if any college, but they always had a love of reading which got imparted to all three kids and, through us, all three grandkids. Yet while their intentions were good, their choice of subject matter was, to say the least, a bit odd. They were heavily into collections, mainly of things like these which just arrived in the mail or at the supermarket without any effort. I must've had the world's biggest collection of 99-cent introductory volumes of encyclopedias known to man, probably explaining why my knowledge of everything from "Aaron, Hank" to "Byzantine Empire (The)" is far vaster than anything at the end of the alphabet.
My sisters were onto this racket by the time I got a hold of this one time-travel-toting tome in my 10th year. "Reader's Disgust," one of them spurned them. "Get the real things." So I did. Even so, all these years later, seeing that set of condensed books- others in that rack include that smarmy 70s tearjerker Bless the Beasts and Children (which DID get made into a movie, goddam it)- is giving me a rollup of nostalgia, much like seeing a good car accident on the side of the road between a Ford Pinto and an AMC Gremlin. Ugly, even dangerous, but you have to slow and look.
And for less than 35 dollars, including postage and packing, it can all be mine.
Someone stop me before I go blind, get stupider, or both.
(PS to She Who Started All This: the uncondensed version of this book appears to be out of print in your Amazon but quite available in ours. To stop me before I start buying useless junk, if you either email me a snail addy or the location of your amazon.com wishlist, I would be honoured toinflict bestow one on you. Even if the p&p winds up being more than the damn book, which is itself quite cheap.)
An elJay Friend brought an old book friend back to mind the other day. It's a time travel novel set in the New Yorks of 1882 and 1970, which I know I've mentioned here before:
Time and Again
I could go on, and probably did originally, about the book's premise, its fabulous execution of the idea, the sequel I'd not recommend nearly as much, the pedigree of the author (the late Jack Finney, originator of the "Body Snatchers" sci-fi concept) or the sad Development Hell of efforts to get it filmed in the almost 40 ensuing years.
Not today, though. For me, for now at least, my consciousness has been sent even further downstream to the form in which I first encountered this work. It wasn't a dimestore paperback (and at the time, the paperback probably would've actually been only about a dime) or a library hardcover (though I went out and borrowed that in a hurry), but that freak of literary nature known then, and apparently still alive now, as the Readers Digest Condensed Book.
Dude, that is IT. Fifth from the left, with the brownish cover with green titles. I can't recall if my parents had a separate subscription to these, or if it came with getting the weekly magazine at the time, but I know our house was full of the things. Most were romance or adventure tales- Finney's tale was condensed along with Halic-The Story of a Gray Seal, Six Horse Hitch, Bomber, and A Woman in a House. Classics all.Such was the story of my childhood. Our parents had one high school diploma between them and little if any college, but they always had a love of reading which got imparted to all three kids and, through us, all three grandkids. Yet while their intentions were good, their choice of subject matter was, to say the least, a bit odd. They were heavily into collections, mainly of things like these which just arrived in the mail or at the supermarket without any effort. I must've had the world's biggest collection of 99-cent introductory volumes of encyclopedias known to man, probably explaining why my knowledge of everything from "Aaron, Hank" to "Byzantine Empire (The)" is far vaster than anything at the end of the alphabet.
My sisters were onto this racket by the time I got a hold of this one time-travel-toting tome in my 10th year. "Reader's Disgust," one of them spurned them. "Get the real things." So I did. Even so, all these years later, seeing that set of condensed books- others in that rack include that smarmy 70s tearjerker Bless the Beasts and Children (which DID get made into a movie, goddam it)- is giving me a rollup of nostalgia, much like seeing a good car accident on the side of the road between a Ford Pinto and an AMC Gremlin. Ugly, even dangerous, but you have to slow and look.
And for less than 35 dollars, including postage and packing, it can all be mine.
Someone stop me before I go blind, get stupider, or both.
(PS to She Who Started All This: the uncondensed version of this book appears to be out of print in your Amazon but quite available in ours. To stop me before I start buying useless junk, if you either email me a snail addy or the location of your amazon.com wishlist, I would be honoured to
File under S for "Shames, Damn."
Jan. 9th, 2006 07:33 amThe Class of 2006 for the National Baseball Hall of Fame is due to be announced tomorrow. The class reunions may be held in a phone booth, or perhaps even on the head of a pin because there's a good chance nobody will get the 75% of the electorate required for induction (voters being allowed to choose anywhere from 0 to 10 nominees).
One who should have been shooed-in on his first ballot tomorrow, but surely won't get in ever, is one Dwight Eugene Gooden.
----
Doctor K, we called him, eventually just Doc. His arrival in Queens in 1984 signaled the end of an extended nuclear winter of Metfannery. We'd sucked for most of the previous decade. That much we could take, for this was a team built on suckage- the Mets set a still-standing record low winning percentage of .250 in their first season, and two years later moved to a stadium built on top of a garbage dump. Except for brief shining moments in '69 and '73, "Met" and "suck" remained roughly synonymous.
Yet the '74-'83 decade of sucktasticity was even worse, for that's when Steinbrenner became Lord of the evil empire across the Triboro and the hated Yankees began to get good. I still think it was a mistake to let them onto OUR hallowed ground in 1974-75 while "The Stadium" was being rebuilt, for they took all our onfield magic back with them, started winning pennants the year they left Shea and, gorram em, haven't stopped since.
Except for those few bright years of glory back in Flushing beginning in 1984, ushered in mainly on the 19-year-old arm of this young man from Steinbrenner's home town of Tampa.
By the end of the 1985 season, people were ready to extend the Lexington Avenue IRT all the way to Cooperstown on account of Gooden's first two years of prowess, all accumulated before he reached legal drinking age. In '85, he won 24 games, struck out 268 batters in 278 innings, won the Cy Young award and finished strong in the balloting for MVP. A year later, he was a 21-year-old leader of a World Championship team.
And then the demons got him.
----
Gooden entered a clinic in 1987 for substance abuse and his performance faltered, but he recovered for a decent '88 season, the last time until the end of the century that the word "decent" could be applied to the Mets in general. Injuries then plagued him along with further legal trouble- rape charges in '91 and further positive drug tests in '94 ended his Met career and all chances of Hall of Famage.
Or did they? For he wound up in the Bronnix, and promptly pitched a no-hitter for the Yankees, a feat which has eluded Met pitchers for every one of their 44 seasons. His final years weren't even a shadow of his early ones, but he padded his win total to 194 and his strikeout total to almost 2,300-still pretty amazing considering how many bad years had been mixed in with the good.
Any chance of a sympathy vote faded after his 2001 retirement. His Florida rap sheet has grown longer by the year, mostly DWI and assault charges. Even sadder, Wikipedia reports that his own eldest son is now in prison- on a drug conviction. I don't think this is what they meant by "will the circle be unbroken," dammit.
----
So if Jim Rice, or Bruce Sutter, or even Orel Hersheiser gets a call from the Hall tomorrow? Say a good word for Doc come next August, because it's his votes you wound up getting.
One who should have been shooed-in on his first ballot tomorrow, but surely won't get in ever, is one Dwight Eugene Gooden.
----
Doctor K, we called him, eventually just Doc. His arrival in Queens in 1984 signaled the end of an extended nuclear winter of Metfannery. We'd sucked for most of the previous decade. That much we could take, for this was a team built on suckage- the Mets set a still-standing record low winning percentage of .250 in their first season, and two years later moved to a stadium built on top of a garbage dump. Except for brief shining moments in '69 and '73, "Met" and "suck" remained roughly synonymous.
Yet the '74-'83 decade of sucktasticity was even worse, for that's when Steinbrenner became Lord of the evil empire across the Triboro and the hated Yankees began to get good. I still think it was a mistake to let them onto OUR hallowed ground in 1974-75 while "The Stadium" was being rebuilt, for they took all our onfield magic back with them, started winning pennants the year they left Shea and, gorram em, haven't stopped since.
Except for those few bright years of glory back in Flushing beginning in 1984, ushered in mainly on the 19-year-old arm of this young man from Steinbrenner's home town of Tampa.
By the end of the 1985 season, people were ready to extend the Lexington Avenue IRT all the way to Cooperstown on account of Gooden's first two years of prowess, all accumulated before he reached legal drinking age. In '85, he won 24 games, struck out 268 batters in 278 innings, won the Cy Young award and finished strong in the balloting for MVP. A year later, he was a 21-year-old leader of a World Championship team.
And then the demons got him.
----
Gooden entered a clinic in 1987 for substance abuse and his performance faltered, but he recovered for a decent '88 season, the last time until the end of the century that the word "decent" could be applied to the Mets in general. Injuries then plagued him along with further legal trouble- rape charges in '91 and further positive drug tests in '94 ended his Met career and all chances of Hall of Famage.
Or did they? For he wound up in the Bronnix, and promptly pitched a no-hitter for the Yankees, a feat which has eluded Met pitchers for every one of their 44 seasons. His final years weren't even a shadow of his early ones, but he padded his win total to 194 and his strikeout total to almost 2,300-still pretty amazing considering how many bad years had been mixed in with the good.
Any chance of a sympathy vote faded after his 2001 retirement. His Florida rap sheet has grown longer by the year, mostly DWI and assault charges. Even sadder, Wikipedia reports that his own eldest son is now in prison- on a drug conviction. I don't think this is what they meant by "will the circle be unbroken," dammit.
----
So if Jim Rice, or Bruce Sutter, or even Orel Hersheiser gets a call from the Hall tomorrow? Say a good word for Doc come next August, because it's his votes you wound up getting.
Two nights. Two memories. One very good. One very bad.
I will forever associate my daily newspaper days with the constant clickity-clacking sound of a teletype machine. (No idea what this sounds like? Go here and download the thing, or click this.) Our newsroom had two, next to each other in a little corner alcove, one always ready to switch to if the other jammed or ran out of the huge industrial rolls of newsprint which put out its vital world news content.
Thar war no Intrawebs in 1978, which is when this story begins, so one of the benefits of staying up past midnight most nights was we got the news and the ballscores and the juicy gossip off those newswires long before anyone else on campus. I was a late bloomer as a newswriter and didn't join the paper until my sophomore year. On my first night going up those stairs, the editors gave us "compets" the tour, including of the alcove with the teletype machines. They mentioned that the machines had a loud bell which would go off in the event of stop-the-presses breaking news, but not to worry, that never happened.
It happened that night.
For that night was Sunday, September 17, 1978, and President Carter had just brokered the landmark Egypt-Israeli peace accord. We were busier than usual that night and we learned an awful lot about the news business.
----
For the next two-plus years, I evolved from a slackadasical trainee into a pretty decent, even respected, reporter and editor. By my senior fall, I was the one doing the training of the new kids coming up those stairs. I also worked on the side as the local part-time correspondent for the (then three) Syracuse newspapers. I'd seen it all, or mostly all, but in all that time, that bell had never gone off again. Not for Bucky Dent, not for Iran, not for Reagan's stunning election victory.
Not until twenty-five years ago tonight.
----
We were a tough and cynical bunch. We went after the local DA with a story about him beating his wife. We had a prominent sign in the newsroom saying "Never believe a rumor until it's officially denied." I came close to a reprimand for putting a caption on a photo of a fire at the Ag College poultry barn that read "Chicken Fry."
But when the bell rang for the sudden and tragic death of John Lennon? We cried. We hugged. We screamed for the loss of a voice which had brought us through our childhoods, gone away for awhile, and only recently come back with a renewed strength and, yes, Imagine-ation.
And then we went back to work writing it all down.
I can't remember what I wrote, or even if I did. It was a Monday night; Sundays were my usual night to copy-edit, but I might have had something else in the paper that night and if I did anything, it was likely CE'ing someone else's reaction piece. But I'll never forget where I was, nor the new and blacker meaning of the ringing of that bell.
I will forever associate my daily newspaper days with the constant clickity-clacking sound of a teletype machine. (No idea what this sounds like? Go here and download the thing, or click this.) Our newsroom had two, next to each other in a little corner alcove, one always ready to switch to if the other jammed or ran out of the huge industrial rolls of newsprint which put out its vital world news content.
Thar war no Intrawebs in 1978, which is when this story begins, so one of the benefits of staying up past midnight most nights was we got the news and the ballscores and the juicy gossip off those newswires long before anyone else on campus. I was a late bloomer as a newswriter and didn't join the paper until my sophomore year. On my first night going up those stairs, the editors gave us "compets" the tour, including of the alcove with the teletype machines. They mentioned that the machines had a loud bell which would go off in the event of stop-the-presses breaking news, but not to worry, that never happened.
It happened that night.
For that night was Sunday, September 17, 1978, and President Carter had just brokered the landmark Egypt-Israeli peace accord. We were busier than usual that night and we learned an awful lot about the news business.
----
For the next two-plus years, I evolved from a slackadasical trainee into a pretty decent, even respected, reporter and editor. By my senior fall, I was the one doing the training of the new kids coming up those stairs. I also worked on the side as the local part-time correspondent for the (then three) Syracuse newspapers. I'd seen it all, or mostly all, but in all that time, that bell had never gone off again. Not for Bucky Dent, not for Iran, not for Reagan's stunning election victory.
Not until twenty-five years ago tonight.
----
We were a tough and cynical bunch. We went after the local DA with a story about him beating his wife. We had a prominent sign in the newsroom saying "Never believe a rumor until it's officially denied." I came close to a reprimand for putting a caption on a photo of a fire at the Ag College poultry barn that read "Chicken Fry."
But when the bell rang for the sudden and tragic death of John Lennon? We cried. We hugged. We screamed for the loss of a voice which had brought us through our childhoods, gone away for awhile, and only recently come back with a renewed strength and, yes, Imagine-ation.
And then we went back to work writing it all down.
I can't remember what I wrote, or even if I did. It was a Monday night; Sundays were my usual night to copy-edit, but I might have had something else in the paper that night and if I did anything, it was likely CE'ing someone else's reaction piece. But I'll never forget where I was, nor the new and blacker meaning of the ringing of that bell.
Fuccillo, Hugh
Sep. 27th, 2004 12:18 pmIt isn't often that a local product or service gets its product name or advertising tag line into the general popular lexicon. That's more true than ever these days, with so many locals being squashed like bugs by the Mall-Warts and such of the world.
Some I remember from various stops on my route were, "Hey Jerry! What's the story?" and its sorta contemporary, "Crazy Eddie! His prices are innnnsannnnne!" Palisades Amusement Park's "Come on over!" There must've been more but those brain cells are dying fast these days.
Not much from Ithaca, but I do still use an old local Computerland ad on the dogs sometimes (one with Christopher Columbus going "yesss, malarkey?" to the sailors), and I occasionally recycle the format of the local spokesman for the deceased Nippenose Equipment Co. ("in the Deeee Witt Mall"), one "Dirty Dan," who always ended the ads with a bad joke ("...and berember, stray cats only result in more stray cats, it's a case of cause and effect being identical").
Rochester ads have always been pretty sterile, with the exception of the Trio of Truly Bizarre in the music biz- Record Archive, Buzzo, and the Great Great House of Guitars. In Buffalo, on the other hand, several have broken through into popular culture use.
"Fun-wow!"
"Hi, Mom!"
"...the injuree attorneeeees, call 854-twennnteee-twenteee"
But the undisputed king of them all at the moment is Billy Fuccillo.
This phenomenon apparently started in Central NY, though I don't remember it from my days there. A few years ago, he began expanding through much of upstate, including buying the old Chevy dealership on Grand Island and introducing his uniquely tacky version of the "go see Cal" form of car advertising to us WNYers. (Interestingly, he bought into the New Mexico car dealer market, where he apparently runs the identical schtick but under the more locally correct name "Billy Fernandez").
And through his local ads, and his shrinkwrapping of buses, and the helpful translations of media types and transplanted folks from the 'Cuse, we have all now learned that there is only one word, four letters yet seventeen syllables long, to be associated with Billy's inventory, level of discounting, and personal girth.
Huuuuuuuuuge.
It's taken the few years for it to infect the lexicon, but it's happening. I've heard other car dealers making fun of it, and sellers of other products trading off of it. Yet just now, it finally reached the appropriate level of car dealer dregs. Returning from the bank, on a hand-drawn sign for a garage sale near Maple and Transit:
And thus we have the trifecta. Misappropriated, misused, and misspelled.
Some I remember from various stops on my route were, "Hey Jerry! What's the story?" and its sorta contemporary, "Crazy Eddie! His prices are innnnsannnnne!" Palisades Amusement Park's "Come on over!" There must've been more but those brain cells are dying fast these days.
Not much from Ithaca, but I do still use an old local Computerland ad on the dogs sometimes (one with Christopher Columbus going "yesss, malarkey?" to the sailors), and I occasionally recycle the format of the local spokesman for the deceased Nippenose Equipment Co. ("in the Deeee Witt Mall"), one "Dirty Dan," who always ended the ads with a bad joke ("...and berember, stray cats only result in more stray cats, it's a case of cause and effect being identical").
Rochester ads have always been pretty sterile, with the exception of the Trio of Truly Bizarre in the music biz- Record Archive, Buzzo, and the Great Great House of Guitars. In Buffalo, on the other hand, several have broken through into popular culture use.
"Fun-wow!"
"Hi, Mom!"
"...the injuree attorneeeees, call 854-twennnteee-twenteee"
But the undisputed king of them all at the moment is Billy Fuccillo.
This phenomenon apparently started in Central NY, though I don't remember it from my days there. A few years ago, he began expanding through much of upstate, including buying the old Chevy dealership on Grand Island and introducing his uniquely tacky version of the "go see Cal" form of car advertising to us WNYers. (Interestingly, he bought into the New Mexico car dealer market, where he apparently runs the identical schtick but under the more locally correct name "Billy Fernandez").
And through his local ads, and his shrinkwrapping of buses, and the helpful translations of media types and transplanted folks from the 'Cuse, we have all now learned that there is only one word, four letters yet seventeen syllables long, to be associated with Billy's inventory, level of discounting, and personal girth.
Huuuuuuuuuge.
It's taken the few years for it to infect the lexicon, but it's happening. I've heard other car dealers making fun of it, and sellers of other products trading off of it. Yet just now, it finally reached the appropriate level of car dealer dregs. Returning from the bank, on a hand-drawn sign for a garage sale near Maple and Transit:
| GARAGE SALE |
| TODAY 10-4 |
| 234 STUPID STREET |
HUGH |
And thus we have the trifecta. Misappropriated, misused, and misspelled.
Something old, something new
Sep. 6th, 2004 07:09 amJust sitting here trying to chill as the dogs do their morning re-enactment of Crips vs. Bloods. Feeders of pets get no Days off from their Labors, yknow.
I continued a tradition last night. Emily and I have made it to the final Buffalo Bisons night game of the season, which usually falls on the Saturday or Sunday night of Labor Day weekend, virtually every year since 1998 (it was a shoulda-been-rained-out suck night last year). Through the design or accident of the scheduler, every one of those games was against our former home town team, the Rochester Red Wings. This year, the final Bison night game fell on the other end of the Thruway, so we made the trip to Frontier Field in Rachacha.
It occurred to me we'd sorta done this before: I won last-minute tickets to the last regular season game played at the Wings' crumbly old Norton Street ballyard, 8 years ago, and even wrote about it (and, amazingly, saved the file). Thought it would be fun to compare those memories, the new ones being recorded before I retrieve the file containing the old ones:
( Now )
( Then- August 30, 1996, if you're keeping score )
I continued a tradition last night. Emily and I have made it to the final Buffalo Bisons night game of the season, which usually falls on the Saturday or Sunday night of Labor Day weekend, virtually every year since 1998 (it was a shoulda-been-rained-out suck night last year). Through the design or accident of the scheduler, every one of those games was against our former home town team, the Rochester Red Wings. This year, the final Bison night game fell on the other end of the Thruway, so we made the trip to Frontier Field in Rachacha.
It occurred to me we'd sorta done this before: I won last-minute tickets to the last regular season game played at the Wings' crumbly old Norton Street ballyard, 8 years ago, and even wrote about it (and, amazingly, saved the file). Thought it would be fun to compare those memories, the new ones being recorded before I retrieve the file containing the old ones:
( Now )
( Then- August 30, 1996, if you're keeping score )
I've become quite attached to so many people here. At the wrist and ankles, which makes riding a bicycle rather interesting.
It's been tempting, and utterly lazy, for me to just use our undistinguished second person plural pronoun "you," or any of its regional variants (youse, yas, yall, allyall, allyallyouse), to express those genuine feelings of affection and appreciation.
No more. It's time to put faces to the names that move me, inspire me, feed my soul and make me laugh.
Of course, they'll be the entirely wrong faces. And therefore, no names.
( With all this talent in one room, it's no wonder they tore the school down... )
It's been tempting, and utterly lazy, for me to just use our undistinguished second person plural pronoun "you," or any of its regional variants (youse, yas, yall, allyall, allyallyouse), to express those genuine feelings of affection and appreciation.
No more. It's time to put faces to the names that move me, inspire me, feed my soul and make me laugh.
Of course, they'll be the entirely wrong faces. And therefore, no names.
( With all this talent in one room, it's no wonder they tore the school down... )
