Record of error on climate continues at Powerline

May 26, 2010

So, this Hinderaker guy at Powerline:  Does he ever acknowledge his goofs?

Since we last visited the issue, a month after the record was in that his claims of no warming were wrong, he’s talked about the issue at least twice.

Hinderaker didn’t fix his error here, in December.

Hinderaker didn’t fix his error here, in February, and in fact proceeded as if he’d been right instead of wrong.

This is Sith-strength denialism on Hinderaker’s part, don’t you think?  It never was about the science at Powerline, but instead has always been about the politics.

How does the moniker “Baghdad Bob John” fit?


Dan Valentine – He makes me laugh

May 26, 2010

By Dan Valentine

My dad was a big man. Six-two, some two-hundred-and-thirty pounds. He was two-eighty or so at one time.

Once, he went on a public diet, along with other hefty local celebs–a radio deejay or two; a politician or three; John Mooney, the Trib’s sports’ columnist. I think Herman Franks, manager of the old Salt Lake Bees and former New York Giant catcher was one. All wanted to thin down. They called themselves the “Blubber Brigade”. Once a week my dad would report to the reading public their weekly success or failure.

When my mom first fell in love with my dad, friends would say, “But he’s fat.” My mom would answer, “But he makes me laugh.”

HE MAKES ME LAUGH
(c) 2010 by Daniel Valentine

There are men of worldly means,
Earthly goods, and riches,
Who’d have set me up in suites,
Each with household staff.

But my love I chose because
He keeps me in stitches.
He is not a man of wealth,
But HE MAKES ME LAUGH.

There are men of world renown,
Household names with money,
Who’d have handed me blank checks
With their autograph.

But my love I chose because
He’s bust-a-gut funny.
He is not a man of fame,
But HE MAKES ME LAUGH.

Friends wonder why
I’m no taken with the guy.
He’s not much to look at.
Not by half.
Some would even say he’s fat
And ask themselves, “What’s with that?”
Well, HE MAKES ME LAUGH.

There are notables I know
Who are sitting pretty.
Each of whom I said no to.
All must think me daff’.

But my love I chose because
He’s side-splitting witty.
He is far from well-to-do,
But HE MAKES ME LAUGH–
My, how that man can make me laugh!–
And he thinks I’m funny too.

YOU’RE HALFWAY HOME
(c) 2010 by Daniel Valentine

If you can make a woman laugh
In this world of ours gone daff’,
My friend,
YOU’RE HALFWAY HOME.

If you can roll her in the aisle,
Turn concern into a smile,
My friend,
YOU’RE HALFWAY HOME.

Sure, you’d love to wine-and-dine ‘er,
Buy her clothes by some designer,
Send her flowers, bring her candy.
All of which is fine and dandy.
But you’re broke! Not to choke.
Make her laugh. Tell a joke.

If you can make her slap her knee,
Grab her sides, go tee-hee-hee,
My friend,
YOU’RE HALFWAY HOME.

If you can bring tears to her eyes,
Make her laugh until she cries,
My friend,
YOU’RE HALFWAY HOME.

So you’ve none of earthly riches–
Pal, just keep your gal in stitches.
You don’t need a lotta money.
All you gotta be is funny.
Never mind that you’re broke.
Make her laugh. Tell a joke.

If you can make her spill her beer
While she’s grinning ear-to-ear,
My friend,
YOU’RE HALFWAY HOME.

If you can make her roll about,
On the verge of passing out,
My friend,
YOU’RE HALFWAY HOME.

Fill her heart and home with laughter,
Head to toe, floorboard to rafter.
Let the others buy her toddies,
Spend their dough as though their Saudis.
So you’re broke! Not to choke.
Perfect time for a joke.

If you can make her stamp her feet,
‘Fraid ‘a falling off her seat,
My friend,
YOU’RE HALFWAY HOME.

No need to buy a long-stemmed rose.
No box of chocks, no card with poem.
Just make her snort milk from her nose.
Make her laugh
And YOU’RE HALFWAY HOME
To happily-ever-af’.


Hummingbird moth in the lavender at 6:00 a.m.

May 25, 2010

Hummingbird moth at the lavender, May 25, 2010

Hummingbird moth (Hyla lineata?) breakfasts at the lavender in the front yard - photo by Ed Darrell

Kathryn planted lavendar on the front walk.  It crowds the walk, so you have to brush by it coming in or going out of the house, and sometimes you get a great whiff of lavender.

On the way back from getting the newspaper this morning I was greeted by this hummingbird moth sipping its breakfast from the lavender blossoms.  It was too dark for natural lighting.  The flash froze the wings, and exposed colors that you can’t see as the little creature hovers.

Probably a Hyla lineata, no?

Hummingbird moth at the lavender, #2 - IMGP4107 - photo by Ed Darrell, all rights reservedHummingbird moth at the lavender, #2 - IMGP4107 - photo by Ed Darrell, all rights reserved

Hummingbird moth in the lavender in the morning


Measles vaccine: Britain bans anti-vaxxer Wakefield

May 25, 2010

Dr. Andrew Wakefield’s license to practice medicine in Britain was stripped away by British authorities earlier today, due to his “ethical lapses” in conducting research against measles vaccines.

Wakefield’s research claims, published in the distinguished medical journal Lancet in 1998, sparked a worldwide hysteria over the claimed link of Mumps-Measles-Rubella vaccine (MMR) to autism.  The journal earlier withdrew the article when the research was exposed as faulty and reaching erroneous conclusions.

Lancet retracted the paper earlier this year.

Effects of Wakefield’s errors ripple across the globe, as children pay the price with measles rates up worldwide, especially in Africa, and in North AmericaRob Breckenridge described the damage for the Calgary Herald:

However, Wakefield’s foul legacy is very much consequential. His latest comeuppance is hopefully a small step in undoing that legacy’s damage, but much damage has already been done.

Wakefield authored a now-discredited paper published in 1998 in The Lancet, which implied that the MMR (measles-mumps-rubella) vaccine was linked to autism.

Numerous studies have shown no such link exists, but Wakefield’s research had the predictable effect of scaring people away from the MMR vaccine. Vaccination rates plummeted in the U.K., and the number of measles cases soared.

In 2008 in the U.K., there were almost 1,400 cases of measles compared with 56 the year Wakefield’s paper was published. In 2006, a 13-year-old boy died from measles — the first time in 14 years such a death had been recorded.

On top of the multiple studies rejecting the MMRautism link, The Lancet issued a formal retraction of Wakefield’s paper in February, citing his unethical and irresponsible conduct.

Once a disease like measles becomes rare, we tend to drop our guard, either forgetting how serious it is or assuming it can never come back. As we’ve seen in the U.K. it can come back with a vengeance. Unfortunately, it’s not only the U.K. where we’re learning that lesson.

This month, Alberta Health Services confirmed five cases of measles in the Calgary area. Given our lack of recent experience with measles — there was only one case provincewide in 2009 — AHS offered a primer on the disease.

Measles is extremely contagious, meaning one need not have close contact with an infected person. There is no cure, but vaccination can prevent it. There are still pockets of the province where vaccination rates are low and measles cases there have been higher.

Southwestern Alberta is one of those regions. Not only has measles made a comeback there — a 2000 outbreak closed a Lethbridge-area private school — but cases of mumps and whooping cough have been documented over the past two years.

In B.C., 87 measles cases have been confirmed this year. It’s believed many stem from infected out-of-country visitors at the Vancouver Olympics.

All cases involve people who were either not vaccinated, or only partially vaccinated. Eight cases were associated with a single household, where no one had been vaccinated.

As Typhoid Mary denied she could be the cause of the deaths of the people she cooked for, and so continued cooking, Wakefield promises to keep up his campaign for measles.

Dan Valentine – Victor Buono gets into the act

May 25, 2010

By Dan Valentine

Victor Buono and my dad were friends. Drinking buddies, on at least one occasion. He was in Salt Lake, appearing as Falstaff in “Henry IV” at the University of Utah. The year was 1964.

One evening after a performance, they painted the town, as they say. Upon leaving a private club, Buono stepped to the curb for a cab. Upon seeing one, he turned to my dad and said, “What sneaking fellow comes yonder?”

He stepped into the street to flag it down. “Hark! Do you not hear the people cry?”

The cab stopped and he turned to my dad, opening the back passenger door for him. “Enter Troilus.”

A year later he appeared as “Captain Hook” at the Music Valley Music Hall in Bountiful. Believe me, when I say, there has never been a better Captain Hook. Ruta Lee was Peter Pan. He got me an autographed picture of her in her costume. It’s somewhere in a dump in Houston, pigeons pecking away at it. Just one of the many things I had to trash when I became homeless again.

Victor Buono, 1953

Victor Buono, 1953

On the day my sister Valerie started school, late fifties, somewhere thereabouts–she was born in 1955–my dad wrote a column, his best, a “newspaper classic”, to the world.

“World, I bequeath to you today one little girl in a crispy dress with two blue eyes … and a happy laugh that ripples all day long, a batch of light blonde hair that bounces in the sunlight when she runs. I trust you’ll treat her well …”

I Googled it. The results: hit after hit, if that’s the right word. Many minus my dad’s by-line. Some have changed “two blue eyes” to “two brown eyes.”

Many have Victor Buono as the author. He first read the piece on The Joey Bishop Show. When he read it one night as a guest on the The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson–I think the year was 1967–the result was countless letters from viewers pleading for a copy.

Buono called my dad. He wanted to make a 45 of it. My dad gave his okay.

It had been read many times on television in the past. Tennessee Ernie Ford read it on his show, Art Linkletter on his, Garry Moore on his.

There is a picture of the 45 on a site called “Victor Buono Fan Page.” No date.

Not much came of it. I don’t even think it got as far as the distribution part.

A copy could very well be in a Houston dump. When I was tossing box after box, I couldn’t look at the contents. It was too painful. There may be a copy in the BYU Achives. That’d be nice.

Victor Buono came to town and visited my dad several times. At the time, we were living up by the University of Utah. Butler Avenue. My folks had bought a sorority house. I’m not kidding. Can’t remember the name of the sorority. They got kicked off campus. The reason: the sorority members couldn’t keep their grades up or the birth control pills down. That was the often-told joke. For months after my folks bought it, frats would walk into the house without ringing, look around disappointed and say, “Where’d all the girls go?”

Three stories, a trillion rooms, one bathroom with rows of stall showers and toilets; a huge dormitory. My folks put a pool in the basement. My dad’s mom lived with us in the Sorority Mother’s quarters (living room, bedroom, kitchen.)

I loved my grandmother. I called her “Mom Mom.” She was my second mother. Her name was Marie. And she was a piece of work. Was she ever! She’d been a Roaring 20s flapper. She loved to party. I mean, she LOVED a party.

Picture Norma Desmond in Sunset Boulevard and that’s my dad’s mother. She wore a turban like Norma Desmond. She sported a long, long cigarette holder like Norma Desmond. She wore dark sunglasses like Norma Desmond When she drank, she WAS Norma Desmond.

I’ll never forget the last time Victor Buono visited. He and my dad and mom would be talking and my grandmother, after a few martinis–no, a lot of martinis–would do her best to change the conversation. “Victor, don’t you think I still look young-young-young?” “Victor, don’t you think I’m beautiful?” Funny/sad. Very embarrassing.

Can’t remember him stopping by after that.


Towel Day 2010

May 25, 2010

After the train wreck in the Star Chamber of the Texas State Soviet of Education last week, I’m glad to have my towel.

How big a towel would it take to fix the McLeroy Massacre?

Remember the words of Douglas Adams, wherever he is:  “Don’t panic.”

More:

Towel Day display, 2010

Towel Day display, 2010 - from http://wxpython.org/blog/about-42/

So long!  And, thanks for the fish!


Dan Valentine – Muggy

May 24, 2010

By Dan Valentine

Sen. Orrin Hatch (R-Utah) likes a staffer around when he speaks, so he can get some immediate feedback afterward, and one night the task fell upon me, his speechwriter at the time, because Paul Smith, his press secretary, who usually accompanies him, was off on vacation.

Afterward I walked him to his car, telling him along the way basically three words. “You were great!”

“What did you think?”

“Senator, you were great.”

“Think it went well?”

“You were great.”

He had strayed from the prepared remarks and rambled all over the place, going on a tangent about a recent Supreme Court decision. (“I just want to say one thing … I just want to add one thing … And let me just say …”) But that’s his speaking style.

As the Senator got into his car, he said, “I’d like to see more like it.”

I closed the door behind him. He unrolled the window. “I need a speech on drugs. Can you write me one?”

“Sure,” I said. “No problem. For or against?” I had lots of confidence back in those days.

He looked at me, shook his head. I watched him drive off. Then, briefcase in hand, I thought to myself: Okay, now for that drink!

I hailed a cab and said, getting in, “A little muggy.”

It was mid-August. D.C. was built on a swamp and even at night the heat is stifling.

The cabbie looked up at me in the rearview mirror. “What’s the–?”

“Muggy?” How to explain? “You know. Hot. Sticky.” I loosened my tie. “Makes you want to take off all your clothes.” I unbuttoned my top shirt button.

“Hot? Sticky? You like–?”

“Muggy? I can take it or leave it.”

He asked: “You police?”

I shook my head.

“Just checking.” He hit the meter. “In my country of Bangladesh, muggi is word for–how do you say?–hooker.” He pulled into traffic. “Redhead, you like that? You want blonde? Two blondes?”

“Just a minute,” I said.

“Short one, tall one? Yes? No? Just let me know. I know big, big blonde.” He took his hands off the wheel to form imaginary large breasts in the air–

“Hey! Look out!”

–and almost ran into an on-coming car. “Very nice. She does everything.”

“Listen–”

“I think you like her.”

“Will you listen?”

“Yes?” he said.

“I think we have a little misunderstanding here.”

“No muggi?” He was very disappointed.

“No muggi!”

“All right, all right. Relax, my friend. No need to get excited. Where do you want to go”

A few blocks later the taxi pulled to a stop in front of my destination. I paid the fare and got out.

“How about twins?”

“No!” I slammed the door. “No muggi.”


Instapundit’s Glenn Reynolds poisoned by DDT

May 24, 2010

You can read about it here, at Instapundit.

Reynolds wants DDT back because dengue fever showed up at Key West.  News for Reynolds:  We see it in Texas all the time, but usually among poorer people with Hispanic heritage who live along the Rio Grande.  (Funny how these conservative nutballs all worry about people, so long as they’re white, and rich enough to travel to tropical vacation spots; where’s Reynolds to worry about the people who supply his fruits and vegetables?)

One solution:  Improve health care to cure humans with dengue, and then mosquitoes that spread it have no pool of infection to draw from — mosquito bites become just mosquito bites.

Other preventives:  Drain mosquito breeding areas (tires, flower pots, potholes, etc.) within 50 yards of human habitation.  Mosquitoes don’t fly far, and if they can’t breed where people are, they won’t travel to find human victims.

Stupid, destructive solutions:  Spray DDT.  DDT kills insects, bats and birds that prey on mosquitoes much more effectively than it kills mosquitoes, and mosquitoes evolve resistance faster, and rebreed faster. DDT is especially deadly against brown pelicans — maybe Reynolds figures we don’t need to worry about them any more, since they’re under assault from the oil slick that threatens to kill the estuaries of Louisiana.  Were he concerned about the birds, surely he’d have realized his error, right?

So, why did Glenn Reynolds get stupid about DDT?  Why is he promoting DDT, instead of promoting ways to fight dengue?

____________

But, then, Glenn Reynolds has been a fool for poisoning (anyone but himself) for a long time:

_____________

United Conservatives of Virginia swallow the DDT poison, too.  Don’t these people ever study history?

Transmission of Dengue Fever

Transmission of Dengue Fever

Help Glenn Reynolds recover from DDT poisoning, let others know the facts:

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The rear of the horse that measles rode in on

May 23, 2010

Why would people fail to inoculate their kids against measles, and thereby contribute to deadly epidemics?

There was this guy in Britain, Andrew Wakefield, who published a study suggesting a link between measles vaccines and autism.  But it turned out his research didn’t support that claim.  Then it turned out he was under contract to produce a paper that made that claim regardless the science, for a lawsuit.

Darryl Cunningham's graphic account of measles vaccine hysteria, one page

A page from Darryl Cunningham's graphic account of measles vaccine hysteria, "The Facts in the Case of Dr. Andrew Wakefield." TallGuyWrites (Darryl Cunningham)

Darryl Cunningham created a concise, 15-page graphic accounting of the story of how the misdeeds of one physician led to a world-wide, child-killing panic.  If you do not know the story, go read it.  You should be troubled by the story it tells.  Be sure to read it through.  Cunningham is thorough in his debunking of the hysteria the anti-vaxxers promote, and you should know it all.

Darryl Cunningham's graphic story, "The Facts in the Case of Dr. Andrew Wakefield"

Another page from Darryl Cunningham's graphic story, "The Facts in the Case of Dr. Andrew Wakefield" about the motivations behind the hysteria.

Then send a copy to Jenny McCarthy, or anyone else who carries the torch of ignorance-based hysteria against vaccines and in favor of disease.

Dr. Wakefield’s original paper was retracted by the publisher — it’s no longer considered valid science.  It’s a hoax.  No subsequent research confirmed any links to autism.  Serious, large-scale follow-up studies revealed no connection whatsoever between measles vaccine and autism.

Measles is a nasty disease, tough to eradicate, and working hard to come back and get your children and grandchildren.  Don’t be suckered.

Andrew Wakefield created a hoax.  Those who rely on his study rely on bogus science, voodoo science.  History tells us that, if we stop the fight against measles, people will die.

Would you contribute to publishing this comic for distribution in pediatrician’s waiting rooms?

More:

Tip of the old scrub brush to JD 2718.


Measles ride again

May 23, 2010

Those people who warn against vaccinating kids?  They are laying low today.  They didn’t pick up the New York Times as they usually do on a Sunday — they don’t want to know.

You may want to know, however.

More than 1,100 deaths from measles have been reported among 64,000 known cases in Africa the last year, it said. Chad, Nigeria and Zimbabwe have had the largest outbreaks.

“There is a widespread resurgence of measles with these outbreaks in over 30 African countries, some of which are seeing very high case fatality ratios,” WHO expert Peter Strebel told a news briefing.

Some 8,000 migrant children in Bulgaria also had the highly-contagious disease during the period, he said.

Measles deaths among children under five years old fell to 118,000 in 2008 from 733,000 in 2000, according to the United Nations agency’s latest figures.

But the WHO warned that a lack of funding and political commitment could result in a return to more than 500,000 cases measles deaths per year by 2012, wiping out the gains to date.

Avoiding vaccinations for measles suddenly may not be a great idea.


Dan Valentine – Zehr gut!

May 22, 2010

By Dan Valentine

I checked my e-mail this morning. There was a message from my bestest friend, regarding a piece I had written. Two words. “Zehr gut!” Her dad was German, died when she was three. She has one remaining photo of him.

“Zehr gut”. I had to Google it. Wikipedia: “Germany has a 6-point grading scale to evaluate the performance of school children.”

“Zehr gut!” “Best possible grade!”

Thanks, Professor. I needed that.

We communicate by e-mail. My cell minutes ran out months ago. Back in mid-December, in fact.

A “good” friend of mine in Salt Lake used up much of them.

When I was in Nashville, he’d call on a regular basis. Usually from a bar. We’d been friends for quite some time. Going on 30 years. Ever since I first took over my dad’s column.

He’d call and ask, “How are you doing?” Then he’d shout (to whomever was in the bar.) “It’s Dan Valentine Jr. Got him on the phone.” As if anybody in the bar knew who in hell Dan Valentine Jr. was. Or cared. It had been some thirty years since my last column.

I’d say, “I’m homeless. In Nashville. I need a place to stay. Till I get on my feet. Can you take me in?”

When I had the column, and afterward, when I was living in D.C. and New York, I was welcome to stay at his place whenever I was in town. Once, I got in a cab at the airport, gave my friend’s address, and the cabby said, “Oh, you’re going to Valentine’s place.” Funny.

When you’re famous/rich, friends “want” you to stay with them. Oscar Levant, the great musician/wit/brains behind “An American in Paris,” sold his home and stayed with different friends the rest of his later life. Christopher (“The Sound of Music”) Plummer sold his home long ago and just stays the night/week with assorted friend. It helps to be famous/rich.

But, anyway, my friend would call. I’d tell him I was homeless. I need a place to stay. (He’s the proprietor of a very successful shop downtown.) It was Christmastime. He’d say, “This is our busy season.” Then, “We’ve got our house up for sale.” Oh, if he was calling from the shop: “Here, talk to the wife. But don’t tell her your homeless. It would upset her.”

Wouldn’t want to do that!!!

One night he calls while I’m tramping through sleet and snow. “How are you doing!”

“I’m doing fine, blah, blah. I’m going to make it here in Nashville if it kills me, blah, blah, blah.”

I soon came to the realization, it could very well kill me.

He calls another day. I plead with him to take me in. He’d been drinking. He’s a happy fellow when he drinks. Aren’t we all! He says, “Sure. I’ll tell the wife.”

I call him the next day to make arrangements. He’s sober. “It’s our busy season,” he says. “We’ll going to Vegas at the end of the month,” he says. “But,” he says. “Sure,” he says. “Uh,” he says. “You’re welcome to stay with us. You can get a job somewhere.”

Needless to say, I didn’t go there. Had a change of heart. Thanks but no thanks. He used up my last minutes leaving messages on my cell. Going, going, gone.

But just before they ran out, with just one or three minutes remaining, I got a call from my bestest friend. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you for days. Why haven’t you been answering the phone?” Then: “Come home. I bought a house. With a pool.” (She swims.)

Nicer words I’ve never heard. Except for maybe the two words: “Zehr gut!”


Dan Valentine – “I miss my Dad”

May 22, 2010

By Dan Valentine

Yesterday I wrote: “Everybody in Texas drives. They’d drive to the bathroom if the stall doors were wide enough.”

I borrowed that line from the script of Bob Fosse’s “All That Jazz” (1979): “I got a friend who bought a Mercedes just to get to the bathroom.” He lifted it (perhaps, perhaps not) from my dad’s “The Wit & Wisdom of Dan Valentine” (1974). Can’t remember off hand how my dad phrased it. There’s a copy of the book, along with all his columns, in the BYU Achieves. I’m in Ensenada.

I googled “drive to the bathroom” and came up with:

“If we Indians could drive to the bathroom, then we would do that.” (TIME Asia, Bryan Walsh, Hong Kong.

“We are a ‘car’ people and we would like to drive everywhere. We’d drive to the bathroom if we could.” (M. Timothy ‘O Keefe. “Guide to the Caribbean Vacation”.)

“The urban population, they are driving in cars everywhere. If they could drive to the bathroom, they would.” (David Kohn. “Getting to the Heart of the Matter in India.)

I like to think that my dad came up with the line first. But probably not.

The Salt Lake Tribune didn’t pay my dad much, tho’ for many in Utah it was the reason they subscribed to the paper. So he free-lanced to make ends meet. Sold a story here, sold a story there, sold a story to Esquire.

He wrote a pamphlet called “Pioneer Pete’s Utah Scrapbook,” off-beat tales of Utah history, geared to tourists and distributed at truck/tourist stops. It shot off the shelves. So he wrote “Pioneer Pete’s Idaho Scrapbook, Wyoming Scrapbook, Divorcee Scrapbook, Nevada Scrapbook, Hunter’s Scrapbook, Fisherman’s Scrapbook, the list goes on and on.

He published a soft-back collection of his newspaper columns, displayed and distributed in these same truck/tourist stops. One the columns was called “Dear World,” his thoughts and wish for me, watching his first-born traipse off to his first day of school.

“Dear World: My young son starts to school today. It’s going to be sort of strange and new to him for awhile, and I wish you would sort of treat him gently …” It’s been called a “newspaper classic”.

In 1969, Jerry Herman (Hello, Dolly/Mame) wrote a musical, starring Angela Lansbury, called “Dear World.”

A few years ago, I met Jerry Herman at the ASCAP Musical Theatre workshop. We had quite a long chat. Wonderful guy! Half-kidding, I told him that he had stolen my dad’s title. He didn’t deny it. He smiled and said, “Nice title.” I picture him in a restaurant, picking up one of my dad’s American Essay books, and getting the germ of an idea for a musical.

When my sister was born, in 1955, my dad wrote a column called “Hello, Little Girl.” He later included it in a book, sold in restaurants. I googled “Hello, Little Girl” earlier this morning. I knew what would come up. Wikipedia: “The title is reference to the Stephen Sondheim song ‘Hello Little Girl’ for the musical ‘Into the Woods.”

I like to think that Sondheim was thumbing through a restaurant table-copy somewhere and the title stayed in the back of his mind.

The first song John Lennon ever wrote was called “Hello Little Girl.”  I like to think – nah, impossible. But, then again …

The book, displayed at truck/tourist stops, sold so well that he wrote and published a series of booklets called the American Essay series, each geared to those on the road, eating at truck/tourist stops along the highway:

“What is a trucker driver?” He’s a big guy. He’s a small guy. He comes in all sizes and shapes. Short, tall, skinny, fat. Laughing, serious.”

“What is a veteran? He’s a man who looks the world in the eye. He’s a big man, he’s a small man, he’s a short man, he’s a tall man.” On and on. Corny stuff. But they sold and sold. So much so that he wrote “What is a father/mother/teacher/secretary/nurse/ minister/rancher/farmer/rancher’s wife/farmer’s wife/truck driver’s wife. He even wrote “What is a mortician,” for morticians to hand out to customers.

He once said, later in life, that he had ruined what little talent he had writing them.

He sold hundreds of thousands of them. “Sentimental classics designed to make the heart sing”.

In 2003, the 75th Annual Academy Awards were hosted by Steve Martin. He began his introduction: “What is a movie star?” Tremendous laughter. Immediate recognition. “A movie star is many things.” More laughter. “They can be tall, short, thin, or skinny.” More laughter, stars falling off their seats, as they say. It’s on YouTube. My dad would have loved it!!!

Most humor is identification, and most everyone in the audience, it seems, had stopped to dine in their travels and read one or two of my dad’s sentimental essays sold at truck/tourist stops throughout the west.

At Carnegie Hall, Andy Kaufman read my dad’s essay “This is a wife” to the audience and brought down the house. “A sigh in the night … A smile across a room of strangers … A tug at a sleeve in the middle of a sad movie.” People were falling off their seats. It’s on YouTube.

As Tony Cliff, Kaufman read “This is a wife” on David Letterman, bringing the house down once again. It’s on YouTube. It’s also reprinted in a book of best written humor ever with Kaufman’s by-line. My dad wouldn’t have been too keen about that.

During the Red Scare, in 1950, my dad hosted a local radio show in Salt Lake. One of his guests was Sen. Joe McCarthy who was traveling the country, spreading the word to one and all who would listen that there were “Commies” in our State Department. Heaven forbid! God save us all! One day the number of “Commies” was 205; another day, 4; next day it would be 81.

It was on my dad’s radio show that McCarthy first came up with the exact number of “actual card-carrying Communists in the State Department.”

57!

My Dad: In other words, Senator, if Secretary of State Dean Acheson would call you at the Hotel Utah tonight in Salt Lake City–”
Sen. McCarthy: That’s right.
My Dad: –you could give him 57 names of actual card-carrying Communists in the State Department of the United States–actual card-carrying Communists?
Sen. McCarthy: Not only can, Dan. but I will.

Flip the calendar pages to 1962 and “The Manchurian Candidate”, starring Frank Sinatra and Angela Lansbury, based on the Red Scare and Joe McCarthy.

Mrs. Iselin (at meal time): I’m sorry, hon’. Would it really make it easier for you if we settled on just one number?
Sen. John Yerkers Iselin: Yeah. Just one, real, simple number that’d be easy for me to remember.
(Mrs. Iselin watches her husband thump a bottle of Heinz Tomato Ketchup onto the his plate)
Sen. John Yerkers Iselin (addressing the Senate): There are exactly 57 card-carrying members of the Communist Party in the Department of defense at this time.

I miss my Dad.


Typewriter of the moment: Jerry Lewis’s pantomime typewriter (with Leroy Anderson)

May 22, 2010

Ms. Fox’s class had a great time with this video — easy to see why, no?

From “Who’s Minding the Store,” a 1963 Paramount release.

I would have sworn I had a post on Leroy Anderson, but it’s not there to link to; you can check him out on PBS, though.  Another good topic to explore, an oversight to amend.

Jerry Lewis’s pantomime typewriter, always with the Leroy Anderson tune behind it, was one of his most famous comedic routines.  It was very popular in Europe, in both Germany and France.  It’s easy to translate.

Tip of the old scrub brush to Ms. Fox.


Progress run amok: No typewriters?

May 22, 2010

Pamela Bumsted sent the link to Boing! Boing!

The Writers Room is kicking out the guy with the last typewriter.

Writers Room logo on Facebook

Writers Room logo on Facebook

The Writers Room is a non-profit that offers cheap working space to writers.  In the old days, that meant a desk and a chair where a writer could use a legal pad and write longhand, or put a typewriter down to type a manuscript.

In 2010, there was just one guy left using a typewriter.  Everyone else had switched to computers.  Boing Boing said:

Greenwich Village’s Writers Room, a low-cost place for writers to rent workspace, has banned mechanical typewriters from its premises, giving Skye Ferrante, the sole remaining typewriter user the choice of switching to a laptop or going elsewhere. He’s not going to switch. Ferrante’s been using the Writers Room for six years, and is distressed at the news that he’s got to leave.

Skye Ferrante at his typewriter - now banned from the Writers Room

Skye Ferrante at his 1929 Royal typewriter - now banned from the Writers Room - photo by Hagen for New York Daily News

What’s this world coming to?

According to the New York Daily News (which probably has typewriters anymore only in its museum, if it has that):

“I was told I was the unintended beneficiary of a policy to placate the elderly members who have all since died off,” said Ferrante, a Manhattan native who’s writing children’s books. “They offered me a choice to switch to a laptop or refund my money, which to me is no choice at all.”

Ferrante was peeved, but not completely surprised.

A growing number of scowls had replaced the smiles that once greeted the arrival of his black, glass-key typewriter.

“The minute the sign came down, I realized there was antagonism from some of the new members,” he said. “They gave me an attitude when they saw me setting up the typewriter.”

Ferrante’s connection to typewriters runs deep. He owns at least five of the old-school machines, his devices of choice since his teens.

“There’s a different commitment when you know you’re making a mark on the page, when you strike a key and bleed ink on the page,” he said.

After being contacted by the Daily News, Writers Room officials told Ferrante he can continue working on his typewriter until the end of his term on June 30.
http://www.nydailynews.com/ny_local/2010/05/20/2010-05-20_untitled__typewriter20m.html?r=ny_local&utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+nydnrss%2Fny_local+%28NY+Local%29#ixzz0odMP9rdB

Heck, they might as well ban pens, pencils and paper.
Progress is okay.  This time, though, they’ve taken it too far.


Dan Valentine – “Born and bred in Texas”

May 21, 2010

By Dan Valentine

Last night, in the wee hours, I sat bolt upright in bed and shouted, “Texas! He must have been born and bred in Texas!” Melody’s brigadier dad, the guy who thought I was gay because I didn’t drive.

I resided in southeast Texas – Friendswood, Galveston, Houston, Jamaica Beach, Clear Lake, etc. – for some five years without a car. Most times I was the only pedestrian within a five-mile radius. Everyone in Texas drives. They’d drive to the bathroom if the stall doors were wide enough. Many, many times I’d be strolling along, in my own mind, when a car full of kids would swing over, the windows rolled down, and scream, “Faggott!” and race off down the street, gleefully giggling to themselves Or, they would slow down and honk their horn suddenly, scaring the hell out of me, then speed off.

Dan Valentine in storm-ravaged Texas

Dan Valentine, in Texas

My friend’s grandfather lived with us when we resided in Friendswood. One time I came home and was flipping through the mail in the kitchen, when I heard him speaking on the phone, talking to his sister. “I don’t know what he does.” I opened up a bill. “He put a small down payment on the house.” I opened up another bill. “He doesn’t drive.”

Her grandfather – his first name was – was born in Georgia. He’d been a carpenter. He was going on 80. He was suffering from CPOD, Chronic Destructive Pulmonary Disease. A grand ol’ man. The best of years of my best friend’s life were spent living with him and her grandmother in Florida.

He once gave me the greatest compliment I’ve ever been given. Sometimes, not often, at night after writing all day, I would buy a pint of rum/gin/scotch/vodka/whiskey–whatever was cheapest; there was a liquor store down the block–and I would enjoy a drink or ten, standing by the kitchen counter, and talk about his granddaughter. Stories, experiences we’d had together, etc.

Before he died, he told his granddaughter (this, she told me later): “Y’know, Dan really, really loves you.” A truer and nicer thing anyone could have said about me.

I don’t drive. My brother never drove. My sister didn’t learn how to drive until late in life. My dad discouraged it, to say the least. He had covered too many traffic deaths as a young reporter.

But back to Texas. Hurricane Rita! Late September, 2005.

Some 3 million people were evacuated within a 500-mile radius–the largest evacuation in American history. Wikipedia. After the tragedy of Katrina and New Orleans, authorities were taking no chances.

My friend’s mom and step-dad–they had moved to Houston to be with their daughter–packed some things, stopped by to pick up Guy and his much needed supplemental oxygen canister, and sped off for Oklahoma.

My friend has a yellow Jeep. She’d always wanted one. It’s easy to pick out on the highway. She still has an Obama sticker on the back, next to a “I Like To Swim” sticker, below a “Democracy Now” sticker, by a sticker from “The Bulldog”, a coffee shop in Amsterdam. We love bulldogs!!!

Everything is about the dogs in my friend’s life. They come first and foremost. At one time she/we had five! At the time of Rita, she had three–Daisy (a veteran from D.C. and Manhattan), Bogie, and Rosie.

We packed their things–food, water, toys, blankets. The TV was on in the living room. as background music, with tales of chaos.

Texans were driving in multi-car caravans, causing grid-lock. What’s a car caravan? It’s a Texas thing. During a hurricane. When there is little time. You grab your most prized possessions. And make a run for it.

In Texas, the most prized possession is–you guessed it–a car. No, two cars (a car for work, a car for play). No, three cars (two-doors, four-doors, no-doors). Plus a pick-up or two and an SUV for dumping one’s trash in a river or lake.

So you’ve got family after family in lots of cars, traveling, oh, so slowly, bumper to bumper, not wanting to get separated from each other. It can cause a problem. One car runs out of gas, all the cars in the family stop. They’re not leaving one of their babies behind.

Back to the chaos. A bus, with elderly evacuees, caught on fire, killing 24, their oxygen tanks exploded. Cars were running out of gas. Gas pumps were empty.

Ten thousand homeless were left to fend for themselves.

My friend, with me in the front passenger seat, a dog in my arms and lap, two dogs in the back, are just about to leave when we get a call from her step-dad. He had pulled off the road for a doughnut, maybe it was flapjacks–and God bless him for it–and had learned that the Hilton was open and was accepting guests. And their dogs! The mayor had a suite, had set up headquarters there They’d rented a room for themselves, rented a room for us and the dogs.

The bar was open, the restaurant was open, dogs everywhere. In the lobby, in the elevators. A dog lover’s dream.

Lesson learned: Follow the mayor. If he ain’t leaving …

Rita made landfall on Saturday, September 24, a category three. It missed Houston.

Hurricane Ike, on the other hand, that was another story. But I’ll leave that for later.