Apocryphal Now!

Apocryphal stories are defined as stories of doubtful authorship or authenticity.  They are somewhat different from a story a raconteur would tell because apocryphal stories are always false even though they may have some basis in truth.  A raconteur's story may be 100% true. 

With the new year will come the Darwin Awards stories from some dark region of the Internet.  These stories, which describe various ways some people, who, through their own stupidity, have caused their own demise.  These incidents usually involve some guy from the south, a shotgun and a beer can or two or three or more.  It is interesting to note that these stories, while billed as new for whatever year they are released,  are 90% the same every year and never involve women.  If these Darwinians are correct, (and I believe they are) women don't do these things.  Sure they may fall prey to accidental death but never with a rocket stolen from the local defense plant that they welded to the top of their car in order to go 300 miles an hour while not having the common sense to ask themselves how am I gonna stop this thing?  Yes, the Darwin awards incidents are apocryphal but always fueled by testosterone.

However, throughout the years, I have heard several apocryphal stories that do not end in someone's death and involve reasonable situations and although you kinda know they are not true, you want them to be.

A few Sundays ago I was watching "Sunday Morning" on CBS.  I am a major fan of this program and it is programmed into our DVR so that I never miss one.  On the Sunday in question, they did a little piece about Emily Post the 1930s New York socialite who wrote several books on etiquette which are still in print.  The CBS profile made me think of an apocryphal story about her that I heard long ago and I want it to be true.

And here it is:

Two guys were attending a black tie dinner at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel in New York.  One turns to the other and says,"Do you know the woman you are sitting next to?"

The other guy says, "No, who is she?"

"Emily Post," his friend says.

"The Emily Post, the one who wrote all of the etiquette books?"

"The one and only," his buddy replies.

Later in the meal our guy turns to the woman and says, "Aren't you Emily Post?"

"Yes I am," she said.

"The Emily Post who wrote all of the books on etiquette and table manners?" he asks.

Quite sheepishly she replies, "Why, yes I am."

"You're using my salad fork."

Rim shot, fade to black...the apocryphal story is complete.

Forget the mechanics that if she had been sitting on his right she would have had to reach across his plate to the forks on his left.  Or, if seated to his left, she would have had to pick up the fork with her right hand an act she was forbidden to perform from birth.

But, I don't care.  I want it to be true and if I had to verify it under oath I would.

Happy Holidays!

And mind your manners at the table.

And, depending on the crowd, feel free to dip into the apocryphal chalice in your head and tell the story. 

I'll back you up.

 

 

Another chapter from the Magical Misery Tour

My wife and I never go to the movies. We don't like crowds and we don't like to be required to be in a specific place at a specific time. So, we decided that we can wait for any film to come to a store near us where we can go to purchase it. We watch it, pass it on to Ellen's brother's family and ultimately donate it to the library.

Recently, we sat through "Batman - The Dark Knight." A lot of anticipation over this film in our house as we are big Batman fans and, sadly, big Heath Ledger fans. Well, Heath should win a posthumous Oscar, but the struggle between good and evil that went on in that film was so overwhelming that we began rooting for the forces of evil to win. And, as an aside, what's with Christian Bale's use of the Clint Eastwood stragulated gravel voice whenever he was wearing the cape and cowl?

I mention all of these things as a way of setting up the next installment from the Magical Misery Tour which deals with the many forces of peer pressure which I think do so much to negate heredity as a molder of people.

Read on carefully, Blog Rangers:

Almost all movies deal with the triumph of good over evil. The common twist is that the characters who carry the day are those least likely to do so. Movies perpetuate the idea that there is an inner strength within all of us. No matter how overwhelming the odds, some reserve of moral fortitude is released and the nerd becomes the champion. The artist Andy Warhol may have been talking about this phenomenon when he said, "Everyone is famous for fifteen minutes." Here's what I think: Andy Warhol and the movies are not always right.

I attended an advanced grade school. Everyone there had the potential to be an overachiever and that is why they were selected to be there. I can't comment on the details of the selection process, because it is lost to the ages due to my unwillingness to investigate its origins. However, most of us went on to bigger and better things than algebra, advanced English and woodworking could provide.

Richie Phillips was a member of our class as was Stephen Solomon. Richie was a redheaded kid with freckles who had the look and smell of a victim about him. Stephen Solomon was extremely short and very anti-social. These two guys had been selected under the same scholastic criteria as the rest of us, but, when a hierarchy is defined, not everyone is equal despite their inclusion in an elite group. Some will populate the top, some the middle and some will live out their stay on the bottom to serve the cruelty needs of the others above them. Richie Phillips and Stephen Solomon were relegated to the lowest rungs of our social hierarchy. I won't delineate the kid tortures we put these two through because memory, embarrassment and taste have banished them from my brain. However, there is no question that my behavior and that of my classmates would bend and shape these two fellows later in life. I think we all agreed that one would be a janitor and the other a child molester. However, we couldn't decide which one would be which.

In 1982, I attended my 20 year high school reunion. Stephen Solomon attended. Richie Phillips did not. Stephen Solomon graduated from high school at 5 feet 5 inches tall. He came to the reunion at just under six feet which was a major surprise and a testament to the medical theory regarding growth spurts in late puberty. Stephen Solomon was rich from the investment banking computer program he alone had written. He had a beautiful wife on his arm. Seeing him bolstered my faith in the movies. Richie Phillips never entered my brain.

The next day, as I was leaving the island where I grew up, I stopped at the toll booth on the causeway and 38 year old Richie Phillips collected my toll. Swallowing my surprise as I handed Richie a quarter, I asked him how he was. He looked right through me as if I wasn't there. It was probably the same look all of us gave him through the formative years whenever he summoned up the courage to speak. He continued his stare and told me he was fine. After an even longer pause, I told him my name. I wanted some sort of recognition although I still don't know why. He feigned recognition but the moment evaporated as the horn from the vehicle behind me broke the inertia holding me and my rented car in front of Richie Phillips.

I have thought about Richie Phillips and Stephen Solomon many times since that day. Did we produce a computer genius and a toll taker? Did we have anything to do with either of their fates? I do believe we abused them both equally. I want to believe that Stephen Solomon succeeded to spite us and, regrettably, I have to believe Richie Phillips succumbed to us. However, I am sure that for that short period of time on the causeway, Richie Phillips, safe in his toll booth, was taking toll of me.

What could he have been thinking?

Magicians Who Can Talk

I grew up in Atlantic City, New Jersey. During and immediately after World War II, many of the hotels there were used as recovery hospitals for our troops who were injured in the war. My late father, a Podiatrist and recently discharged from the Merchant Marine, volunteered his services to the hospitals there while he was starting to build his private practice.

There were a lot of entertainers on scene to play the clubs in Atlantic City and many of them spent their spare time entertaining the convalescing troops. One such entertainer was a magician who called himself Hardin. He was the brother of the great escape artist Houdini. My dad was always interested in show business and longed to be a part of it, but the closest he came was helping Hardin to perfect his escape routines. Dad spent many hours tying and chaining Hardin to various heavy objects. (This was quite acceptable behavior in the day as it was before bondage became mainstream.) Anyway, the problem was that often Hardin was unable to extricate himself from my father's elaborate hogtying and his act and their friendship suffered as a result.

In later years when my father would talk about these times he said that Hardin would have done much better if he had been a magician who could talk. What does that mean I would ask. "Well," dad would explain "If Hardin could have developed some sort of rapport with the audience by engaging them in conversation, he could have diverted their attention while he used the tools he had palmed to free himself from his restraints." Sadly, Hardin was not the talkative type and he lived out his life known only has Houdini's brother the one who tried and failed to be a magician. You can see many examples of this phenomenon on "America's Got Talent" or "American Idol." Watch as the magicians allow the illusions to just happen or not happen as they gesticulate wildly and silently.

Hence, the phrase "a magician who could talk" took on great meaning in our house. Dad always tried to teach me that it was important to be able to explain things as you were doing them because the very act of explanation would instill confidence in your viewers and/or listeners. And it wasn't just stage magic he was talking about it was just about any task for which you would be judged. If you have ever seen David Copperfield perform you will note he is a very verbally engaging person and the spectacular magic that occurs around him is so much more amazing because we, the audience whom he has befriended through his conversation with us, feel that we are part of the act. Illusion is accomplished largely through verbal diversion and the really great practitioners of the art are great conversationalists.

I have been thinking about this process as I have just finished reading photographer Annie Leibovitz's book "Annie Leibovitz at Work." In this quick read she explains how she does what she does and how her work has evolved. Ansel Adams did the same thing in "Ansel Adams The Making of 40 Photographs." Both of these legendary photographers allowed the reader to take a look at the mental processes that they employed while creating their art. Rhetoric as camouflage be damned, this is how we did it and you can do it too if your head is on straight. You just need to think about what you want to do and do it. After all.....art is magic too.

Oh, and there's a cautionary flag here. Hitler used rhetoric as camouflage as did George Bush, Richard Nixon, Jim Jones, Harold Hill (The Music Man), Charlie Manson and the Wizard of Oz.

Raconteurism

Before we begin this blog I want to respond to the anonymous "BD" who asked, "Is there another word for synonym?"  Yes, BD there is and it is synonyme which is French for synonym proving that all is fair in love and semantics.  It also explains why I am antisemantic.

But, I digress.

Raconteurs are people who tell stories well and with great gusto.  Their stories are also interesting.  I'm sure you can count the times you've sat with someone who rambled on ad infinitum and ad nauseum only to get to the point of the story which was, "And my folks came home at the time they were expected and we put up the storm windows, had a sandwich and went to the movies."

The tag line is usually followed by great peals of laughter from the teller and the temptation to do some peeling of their own from the long suffering and burdened listeners.

Real raconteurs savour that which they relate and even embellish the tale a bit just to make the story a tad more interesting.  They can be forgiven for this as they are performing a public service.  If you know any real raconteurs you will know  that sometimes the things they tell you are 100% factual and some are only 10% factual and the rest fall anywhere along the scale.  But the practiced raconteur will never let you know how much is real and how much is not.  And if you love the story or are amused by it in some small way....who cares?

I tell you all of this because from time to time I'm gonna tell you a story...like this one....

Some jokes are based in truth.  Sometimes they cease to be funny when the truth upon which they are based is discovered.

When I was fourteen years old I became interested in photography.  Since I lived in a small town and worked cheap, I was able to get a job as a "stringer" for most of the local publications.  A "stringer" is a person who is paid for a picture only if it is actually printed by a publication.  At five dollars per shot printed, "photo opportunity" meant much more to me personally then than it does now.

I had been listening to the radio when I heard the announcer break into the music and announce that a man was perched on the eighth story ledge of the town's one hotel and was threatening to jump.  I grabbed my Rolleiflex camera and asked my father to drive me to the hotel.  My mother objected loudly saying that it was no place for a boy of my tender years, but was drowned out by the sound of the slamming door and the car pulling out of the driveway.

My father and I arrived at the hotel in about five minutes and were greeted by John Hess the town's only full time newspaper photographer and another "stringer" known only as "Herman the German."  (Remember the 2nd world war was barely over, so this kind of name calling was permitted.)

"Glad you're here, my boy," said John Hess.  This greeting both puzzled and elated me as I thought I was finally being accepted into the ranks of the pros but couldn't understand this largesse from a man who barely spoke to me at any other time.  But my elation quickly turned sour when I heard the explanation for Hess' hospitable greeting.

"We need three," John explained, "You catch the guy when he leaves the ledge, Herman here will catch him in mid air and I'll shoot him when he hits the ground."  (No motor drives on the cameras back then) Only I was relieved when the potential jumper's parish priest arrived and talked the man back into the hotel.

As I said, most jokes are based in truth.  There is a photographer's joke about one photographer telling another about something he saw on his way to work.  He described a man in tattered, but once elegant clothes, lying in the gutter in front of the photographer's studio.  He had his hand extended "just like that of the guy on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel" and was imploring the photographer to help.  His friend then asks his co-worker, "Well, what did you give him?"

"The light was pretty good," was the reply, "F16 at 100th of a second."

Not funny after that time I spent focusing my camera and my soul on the hotel ledge and the man who didn't jump. 

Welcome to the magical misery tour.

The Memory Lives On

Are you haunted by song fragments? I am....and with the advent of Kazaa and itunes I have been able to satisfy 99% of my long frustrated aural needs by downloading songs from the Internet.

Why are we thinking about these songs from so long ago? Betcha other than your first sexual encounter (even if you were alone) those short little songs comprise the bulk of your memory of that time. Try to quickly name 25 of your classmates from those days. How about 25 song titles or groups?

Our earliest memories of music are of the nursery rhymes we learned as toddlers. They were easy to learn because they were short and highly repititious....much like your average 2 minute and 3 second rock and roll song. The "hooks" or choruses of those ditties are what we remember still. Any of you know all the verses of "American Pie" or "MacArthur Park" or "Alice's Restaurant?" Probably not. Ever hear them requested in a club? Probably not.

Having been in the radio business and having access to music research, , I know that the music we remember most are those songs we heard in our last formal formal year of education. At that time, popular music was playing in almost any recreational venue in which we found ourselves from the bars to our dorm rooms or apartments. My experience with this occurred in about 1966. However, something else was taking place at that time which would divide our memories. The something else was the advent of FM stations starting to play music other than their two traditional categories which were classical or elevator. But, not everyone embraced FM as a music source. One reason was the fact that there weren't very many FM sets in cars. If you wanted one, it was an expensive option. It wasn't until 1974 when federal law mandated that all car radios manufactured in the US had to be AM/FM. But back to our bifurcated musical memories. People who graduated in 1966 either listened to the Carpenters on AM OR the Doors and Captain Beefheart on FM. There are songs from that AM playlist that I never heard when they were popular and I have friends who missed the whole FM lexicon from their last year of formal education. Couple that with the ploitical schism that was occuring over Vietnam, and the two musical forms went into their separate camps with their fans....

So, rush to an Internet music website, type in your favorite song that you've been hearing in your head all of these years, play it ten or twelve times and move on with your life.

While you're at it, think about how fast your children burn through their favorite music due to the many sources they have from which to hear and copy it. Remember how long you listened to the radio waiting to hear your favorite tune? While you're at it, encourage your child to slow down in his or her appreciation of the latest hit.

Why?

Because they aren't going to have anything to dance to or request at their 20th high school reunion.

Hello

Today is the beginning of yet another life activity for me.  I have been thinking about blogging for a long time.  I am not a diarist although I thought about that for a while.  But then, who would read them and why?  I suspect the same could be asked of this process.  I'll have to find out.

First, a bit about me.  I was born in Atlantic City, NJ.  I am an only child.  I spent my adult life in the broadcasting business.   I am a 64 year old retired man who has been living on the North Fork of Long Island for ten years.  I spent most of my working life in Pittsburgh and Columbus, Ohio.  For the last 18 years I have been married to Ellen who was also in the broadcasting business.  She is now involved in cat rescue and other community activities as am I but not to the extent she is.  Upon retirement, I reinvested in my life long hobby of photography and have developed a reputation as a fair to middling landscape photographer.  I don't listen to the radio anymore, but I am a major television watcher.

I have a 33 year old daughter who lives far away from here, but we have a wonderful telephonic relationship and we see one another when we can.  She is my lifeline to the younger generation. She is also living proof that heredity trumps environment as we have very many of the same beliefs and habits that had to come from the gene pool as I was not present for the first 16 years of her life.   My other lifeline to the youth of America is made up of the two photographic interns I take on each year who never cease to amaze me with their technical expertise and their understanding of the life culture which we share.  These kids will do well because failure is not only something they have never considered an option, it is something that if they think about it at all, they think it happens to other people.

When I first retired, I thought that since I was just a year or two ahead of the baby boomers, I would contact the three major television outlets in the city and, for a modest fee, give them unlimited access to my life and ultimate death and all that came in between.  I thought this would appeal to them as our demographic group was becoming the largest segment of the population.  But then I imagined....(roll tape) here I am in the urology office, he's going to check my prostate....all of you know how important this is....." and I thought this show is going to be some sort of  tour of my orifice's, my finances, my marriage and my friendships old and new.  I couldn't imagine myself being that interested in my life, let alone strangers.  I never made the call.  But I have been actively thinking all of my life and maybe some of those thoughts might be of interest to the blogosphere or the ether or the plasma screen or whatever you call this medium.

So, over the next however long this lasts....let's find out.

Only The Best!

Steve

PS...Thanks, Nancy for showing me how to technically to do this.

PSS Don't miss "Fringe" on Fox tonight.