The spider man's spider house

Sally and I took some pictures today. I drove her to a street I traveled every work day. It's been a tradition every year for the homeowner to decorate his house for Halloween with a big spider in a web.

From my yearly observation, the spider house is the only one on the block decorated for Halloween. When I'd drive by in Octobers past I'd often think, "Wish I'd brought my camera." Today I did.

Heel, boy!

The other day I read one of those factoids--interesting facts of no real importance--that had a headline, "Men were first to wear high heels." The story was that men wore high heels to keep their feet in the stirrups while riding. It ended by saying, "Once women started wearing high heels men stopped wearing them." Well, most guys, anyway. (They forgot about cowboys, or the Beatles, who wore 3" heels on their boots when they came to the U.S. in '64.)

I'm not sure about that factoid, because my dad's childhood book, The Book of History, from 1930, shows pictures of high heels on women in ancient Greece. Here's an illustration from the book, which was taken from a fresco.

An illustration of Helen, wife of Menelaos, meeting Paris, prince of Troy, is given some authenticity by having the clothing taken from pictures of contemporary dress found on pottery and frescoes. It shows Helen and her handmaidens all wearing high heels. And exposed breasts.

(This picture had a particular fascination for me as a child, as you might imagine.)

I don't know the history of high heels, but I know that women have had a love affair with them forever. Shoe styles change, but high heels are never out of style.

I went on the Internet and found these pictures. So, who do you think looks better in high heels? This leggy lass?

How about this leggy lad?

This pair of queens?

Or this queen?

Somebody's watching me

A local news story tells of a guy who stole a school bus and led police on a chase. Pursuers, in the interests of public safety, called off the chase fearing someone would get killed. The thief crashed the bus and got away. All cops have is this picture, which they're sharing with the public.

Our pictures are being taken more than we think. Walking into your local grocery store, convenience mart or department store, or getting out of your car in a parking lot, chances are there is a camera looking at you. Many places use cameras in intersections to catch stoplight runners, or on the road to catch speeders, then issue robotickets.

When it concerns public safety we're all for these cameras until we get caught by one of them.

I like the idea that if someone robs a bank or a store there will be pictures of the robber. Besides helping to catch the crook, there's a secondary benefit. Seeing pictures on TV news of identifiable robbers may discourage other would-be robbers. But I don't like pictures being taken of me without my knowledge. I think about it sometimes when I'm shopping. I don't do anything that would look suspicious, but sometimes I get a kind of tingly feeling in the back of my neck, like Somebody's Watching Me. To someone who already thinks like a paranoid it can be creepy.

I'm all for security people watching bad guys. I'm all for security not watching me. Too bad there's no camera that can see intentions. It'd make me feel a lot less paranoid if I knew as soon as a camera saw me it would say, "look away; this man is on legitimate business."

Fatherless, motherless boy

I tried to think of something that could be a tribute to John Lennon for his 70th birthday. I just haven't been able to come with up with anything that hasn't been said a million times.

Reading the September 13, 1968 issue of Life, with excerpts from Hunter Davis' biography, The Beatles, I was struck once again by the story of Lennon's early life. He was born in 1940 in the heat of war, his father left the family, his mother left him with his aunt Mimi and her husband. I wonder how much his early years percolated in his brain, and came out in his music. Probably a lot.

Hunter Davis, in this short excerpt from the magazine, tells of Alfred (Fred) Lennon, John's father, and Julia Stanley, his mother. No matter that it is told in the biography in just a few paragraphs, it ended up in his songs. I've included a performance from a New York appearance, where John sings "Mother," and even though he says in his intro it's not personal I don't think even he believed that when he said it.

Then John's own son, Sean, does a great job on his father's song, "Julia," on a 2001 TNT special honoring Lennon.

The bully boy

The last few years have seen some attention paid to bullying in public schools. I saw a couple of stories about it just yesterday, one on the Today Show and one on Oprah. I was bullied for a short time, my first year in high school.

I was kind of surprised at the time because I wasn't an obvious target for a bully, but for some reason Garry Starr picked me out. And his name was really Garry Starr, and I haven't changed it for the purpose of this blog, because Garry showed himself to be a coward. I don't worry about him coming after me nearly 50 years since he picked me out to bully. He could be dead by now, for all I know.

Garry Starr was an ugly kid. I can't even imagine what he would look like as an adult. Maybe like the guy in the picture. Starr was hulking and slope-shouldered, but big. He was about 6' tall, but his height was in his torso, which was long, as were his arms. His legs seemed short in comparison. So he looked like the gorilla he was. He had a lizard face, some sort of skin condition that gave his face a scaly appearance. He didn't do anything physical to me. He grabbed me by the collar one time, but there wasn't any hitting, just mainly insults, brought on by...what? I never could figure him out. I was just singled out in his pea-sized brain to be a victim. I did what victims of bullying do, too. I tried to avoid him, and that wasn't always possible. Because he was a year ahead of me in school we didn't have any classes together, but occasionally I saw him in the hall, at which time he'd get in my face.

Why? I have my theories. Nowadays they talk about gay kids being bullied, and I wasn't gay. I was smaller than Garry, and I'd had a date once with a girl who he'd bring up when he'd threaten me. Maybe he was jealous.

My friend Ron had once run afoul of Garry Starr and Ron's dad had given him some advice. "If he corners you, haul off and hit him in the nose as hard as you can, then run like hell." I thought about it and shuddered. If I did that maybe I'd get away, but there would be hell to pay later. I would try to avoid being cornered.

Bullying was considered a rite of passage in those days. I didn't tell my parents, because my mother was adamant that I stand up for myself if faced with such a situation. "I can't fight your battles for you," was her phrase. Someone, I think it was my brother, told Dad, and he was upset. The last time Garry Starr bothered me was when I was driving. He spotted me and followed me home. I pulled up in front of my house. He pulled up next to me, in the street, rolled down his window and started his usual line of threats. Suddenly I was aware of my dad coming out of the house at a run. Garry saw him and floored his car, getting out of there in a cloud of burning rubber. Dad yelled at me, "Get out of the car!" He jumped in and took off after Garry Starr. He didn't catch him but I was never bothered by Garry Starr again. Garry had realized that my dad, all 5'5" of him, wasn't intimidated and a bully can't handle that. As long as someone (i.e., me) was scared of him he was in his element; like most cowards if faced with someone who'd fight back he ran. It taught me a valuable lesson about bullies. In this case Dad had "fought my battle for me" and I was grateful.

A few years later I was confronted with that mentality when I was in the Army in Germany. Some guys took a dislike to me. I had a sarcastic mouth and attitude, I admit, and they didn't like it. I never showed any fear to any of them, just ignored them, and after a time they left me alone. It's no fun when the target of bullying doesn't play along.

It's about time someone did something about kids bullying other kids. I'm glad to see programs addressing the problems. When I worked for the school district they would identify these problems if they could. No one wanted another school shooting like Columbine, where bullied kids took weapons and killed indiscriminately. Bullied kids will carry weapons if they think it's the only way they can protect themselves. There came a time when adults realized that bullying wasn't just a kid thing, but a dangerous situation that could turn deadly.

The glum group

I found this picture, framed, on a friend's wall. (Click on these pictures to make them big so you can see what I'm talking about.)

I took a snapshot of it, because what struck me about this large group portrait of some 1953 fez-wearing conventioneers is that there are no smiles. Nowadays when pictures are taken the photographer usually exhorts the subjects to put on a happy face. This is just conjecture, but it could be because of one of these reasons: the dinner was rubber chicken--for the 34th straight year; the speakers bored the hell out of them, like every other year; they were missing the Milton Berle show on television, or the open bar just closed.

There are two people who have faint traces of a smile.

They are flanking this man who appears to be grimacing. He might be wondering when the Pepto-Bismol will be passed around.

Judging by the ages of the people in this photo I'd say these are the age of my grandparents, born in the 1890s or early 1900s. They had been through two world wars and the great depression. In 1953 Americans worried about things like the Russians dropping bombs: atom, or horrors, hydrogen. Maybe these people just find it hard to smile because they're all wearing dentures--in that era aged Americans died with just a few of their real teeth left in their mouths--or it could be after a long life spent going to conventions they're just all smiled out.

Time flies when you're having life

I've got one more day to enjoy beautiful Northern California, but in the meantime I've got some of my favorite postings that I'm recycling. I'm retired now, since January 1, 2009, after 32 1/2 years working for a large school district. This was written on the occasion of my 30th anniversary at the district, June 23, 2006:

Today was an anniversary for me, but I shared it with only a couple of people, because it's not that big a deal to anyone but me. Today was my 30th anniversary of working for the school district. I started there on June 23, 1976.

When I started working for the school district we had 69 schools, and one female principal. Now we have 100 schools (give or take a couple, since almost every year they shut down old schools or open new schools), and the last figure I heard was that 2/3 of the principals are female, and about half the administrators in our district offices.

Up until a few years ago, when my parents' generation started retiring or dying, the school system was still patriarchal. The principals were all men who sat in their offices doling out punishment. To get called to the principal's office meant you were in TROUBLE. Now it means you might get a certificate good for a little toy at the school store if you were good that week. A kid might look forward to being called in to the principal's office. Back then the principal was a godlike figure who presided over a school like Moses over the Israelites. To be summoned was to feel fear and trembling.

As society has changed, so has our school system.

I was hired by Big Jim, who was Warehouse foreman, for whom I worked in one capacity or another for about 26 years. He went on to become Director of Purchasing, and an even bigger pain in the ass than he was as the Warehouse foreman, but that's another story.

One of the guys who worked there when I started knew me from when we were teenagers. He was then a warehouseman, but he went on to bigger and better things, and now he's a high school principal still working for our district. Since he's gained about 50 or 60 pounds in 30 years he tells me, "I should've stayed with that job; I'd still be lean and mean." Well, mean anyway.

On my first day of work in 1976 I was sent on a work detail to unload a boxcar load of toilet paper at a railroad siding. That was the first and only time I ever did that. As some sort of an initiation on my first day the guys working with me took me to a bar for lunch and wanted to buy me a beer but I refused. I'd been out of work for seven months when I was hired, and didn't want to be fired on my first day for drinking. That was the first and last time that ever happened, too. My first day working for the school district was a day of first-and-lasts for me.

A whole other story, worthy of more room than I have here, would be about those men I worked with when I started. As the district has gone kinder-gentler in its administrative ranks, so have the men working in the non-teaching jobs like mine gotten more modern and smarter, less the knuckle-dragging Neanderthals common in those days. I'm a remnant of that Neanderthal bunch, but I think I was a harbinger of what was to come. Maybe a cross between Neanderthal and Cro-Magnon.

I worked with a guy nicknamed Grunt, who was such a character I've got to devote a whole blog posting just to him. I only worked with him for two years before he quit but he was one of a kind, and I haven't forgotten him. He was a deserter from the Marine Corps, working for an amnesty discharge by working a minimum of two years for a non-profit organization. He did his two years for us and hit the road.

There isn't anyone nowadays who would quit after two years. Men work for us for a long time. It's the benefits. Their stories are always similar to mine; they worked another job, they got laid off, or the benefits sucked, or they needed something more secure. The school district is a big security blanket for many of us.

Whatever my background, I didn't think like that in 1976. The last thing in the world I was thinking about was retirement. I didn't plan on staying there, as a warehouseman or anything else. I had other plans: be an artist, be a writer, get back into the creative business. The need to make a living has a tendency to crush plans like that.

When I started my job Gerald Ford was President. Now I consider him the biggest welfare recipient in the history of the U.S. because he's gotten a fat pension as a former President when he was never elected to anything but Congress. He was appointed to Vice President and became President by default. (One of my rants, if you haven't guessed.) Now we have another unelected President. Well, unelected in 2000, that is, and barely elected in 2004. (Another rant.)

For the whole 30 years I have been on a 243-day-a-year contract, commonly called a 12-month contract. People in school districts have varying lengths of contracts: teachers have 9-month, school secretaries have 10 ½ month, principals 11-month, etc. So in 30 years that means that I've had to wake up 7,290 times and either go to work, call in sick or take a vacation day. That's kind of awe-inspiring when you think about it.

I accrue about 22 days a year vacation, and 13 days sick leave. I rarely call in sick, but try to use my vacation to avoid total burnout by taking a week off here and there. My job is to stop at 32 schools a day, which adds up to 160 stops a week. I get to a point where I need a break to recover. The toll on my body has been considerable. My lower extremities, feet, knees, ankles, have taken a direct hit from walking, standing, stepping down from a truck. My beard has gone from dark brown to white. The sun, which in 1976 could not penetrate the thick dark hair on my head, can now sunburn the bald spot.

In total, 30 years adds up to 10,950 days, give or take a few leap year days here and there. But then, who's counting?

I invented sex

I'm still out of town, so I'm recycling old posts. Here's a favorite of mine from April 17, 2007:

Today I was speaking to a teacher in the faculty room of an elementary school. I was taking a break, having a cup of coffee. Besides working for the same school district, Linda and I have been neighbors for over 30 years.

Neither of us have to have newer, bigger houses, keep up with the Joneses by buying boats, motor homes or expensive cars. Since we're both still married to our original spouses we got on the subject of when we were young and first married. I said, "When Sally and I went through our hippie phase we had no money for anything but rent, groceries and utilities. We didn't miss money. We invented things to do. We had sex. We went to the park and fed the ducks, we went to the public library and read books."

Without missing a beat Linda said, "You invented sex? Well, thank you!"

I blushed, thrilled to be finally thanked for my contribution to humankind.

Space in my head

I'm reposting some of my favorite oldies while I'm partying in Northern California with friends. This is from April 9, 2007:

Going through some old files I ran into the oldest story of mine I still have, a science fiction short called "Zero Hour." Many more of my stories went the way of all things over the years. It seems that some of us--me, in particular--put no value on much of our pasts, and let a lot of it get away from us.

Based on the handwriting I was probably in fourth grade when I wrote it, about 1955 or 1956. It isn't necessary to read past the first page to see where the story is going. Joe McLenen (sic) is checking out some "intsurements" on the rocketship SP-12. The dumb "enginner" wasn't "carefull" and slammed the hatch on poor Joe. Joe compounded his problems by slipping on some "greese" and falling.

I can say something for "Zero Hour," reading it 51 years later: it has a beginning, a middle and an end, which means I was already familiar with plots and story structure. It also showed my early interest in space, rockets, trips to the moon and even beyond.

I was a solitary kid, just as I am a solitary adult. I have lived most of my life in my head. If I'm awake I'm dreaming up stuff and when I'm asleep I'm dreaming of stuff to dream up. I used to read books on the future and talk about space and rockets a lot. So much so that when my third grade teacher saw me in the hall during my fourth grade year she said to me, "I thought you'd be on Mars by now."

I wasn't on Mars, but Mars was in me. I read everything I could on the subject of the solar system and knew as much as anyone about the then-current knowledge of the planets.

One Saturday morning last year my brother and I were having coffee. We both said that in some ways we didn't regret getting older because it meant he had lived through some important parts of the Twentieth Century. The thing that stuck out most in his mind was the moon landing on July 20, 1969. It was one of my Top Ten life-moments, too.

It seems that as a species we made that giant leap, and then have gone back to taking baby steps on our way into space. Of course, as I watch the days dwindle down to a precious few, as the old song says, I get less patient. I want to see people boldly go where no one has gone before!

"Get the hell out!"

I'm out of town, so I've found some of my favorite old postings to recycle.

I've been following the stories of Tea Partiers (unknown in 2007 when this blog was written), and of firebrands complaining loudly about placement of mosques, the president, the Democrats, blah blah blah...

I've heard all of it before, of course. It just takes different forms. Remember a few years ago when some yo-yos wanted to rename French fries "Freedom fries" because we were mad at France? Things haven't much changed.

From March 22, 2007:


Wandering around the Internet I found this ridiculous statement appended to the American flag. This is the descendant of the decals and bumper stickers we used to see during the time of the Vietnam War, "America Love It Or Leave It."

I always wonder about people who create these sorts of images, wondering exactly what is in their minds. Is patriotism standing up in front of a flag and issuing a challenge, "If you don't love FREEDOM then you GET THE HELL OUT." Is it patriotic to kick people out of the country if they don't agree with you? And who doesn't love freedom? But exactly what "freedom" are the people who created this image talking about?

Are they talking about their right to make ridiculous pronouncements and by positioning them next to an American flag give them some sort of credibility? Or is it just a handy symbol to hang onto a threat? Are they talking about the freedom of speech, which means that I can disagree with them? I can tell them when they say things like this I think they're stupid?

I wonder what people in other countries think when they see this sort of provincialism on the part of Americans, or are they used to our arrogance and our "we're the only people that matter" attitude toward the rest of the world's population? Have you ever seen a bumper strip that says anything like this originating in Great Britain or even Botswana? I'm sure their citizens feel every bit as patriotic about their countries but they don't go about making total asses of themselves like some folks in our country do.

"If you don't love freedom, then get the hell out of the U.S.A.!" isn't patriotic. It's idiotic. It isn't thinking, it's just a jerk and his knee, and it's jingoism in its rawest form.

Creating political demons

After I wrote in my last blog about incivility in politics I went to my files to find more examples from a national perspective.

It's never a secret that for the sake of winning one side wants to create an image of their opponents as agents of Satan, but the demonizing of a person for the purpose of politics just shows a certain mentality. It's not flattering to those doing the demonizing. It can backfire.

I've yet to figure out these pictures that come from Lyndon LaRouche's LaRouchePAC showing President Obama as the demon, Hitler.

Hitler started wars, Obama is trying to end them. In the second place, and in case the Obama-as-Hitler gang doesn't realize this, if Barack Obama had lived in Germany in the 1930s he would have probably been one of the first in line for the death camps. Anyone who wasn't Aryan was less than human. So the Obama/Hitler posters are a real cheap shot, and people who wave them around probably don't know anything about Hitler.

I got this trifold mailer from the Democratic party a few weeks ago, using Sarah Palin in the role of demon.

From my observation over two years, Palin is whoever you want her to be. You want her to be a sweet, flag-waving American soccer mom, you can see that. If you want to see her as an aggressive, disagreeable, take no prisoners liar, then she's those things too. I see Palin as being a political opportunist. I've read the stories of her home life (see Vanity Fair #602, October 2010), how it doesn't jibe at all with her fans' image of her. I've seen the adoring mobs showing up at book signings, as if she actually had something important to say. The smiling, gregarious Palin of those signings doesn't match up with the volcanic, paranoid person as she's portrayed by people who have known and worked with her.

But even with all that Palin doesn't rise to the level of demon. I see her more as a fly buzzing around the head of the body politic. She's annoying enough you can't ignore her. I wouldn't bet on her getting very far in a run for president in 2012, if that's her goal. But some of the Tea Party types she tends to attract can be very dangerous, and even a failed run for the presidency could bring more lunatics out from beyond the fringe.

...and it's those people that are troubling to Republicans. Palin bothers Republicans because she has her base of noisy followers who are threatening their status quo. But the Republicans can't mount an all-out assault on Palin and the Tea Partiers. All they can do is further demonize Obama, make him and the Democrats even more Satanic to the conservatives:

"Ooooooo, they want to appease gays and repeal Don't Ask Don't Tell...oh, horrors, they want to take away big tax breaks for the rich and give breaks to the poor and middle class. that's Socialism, isn't it? They want to make sure health care is available to everyone. Oh my Lord, how un-American is that? We all know only people who can afford health care should get it. It's nature's way of thinning the herd. "

OK, let's get the mouths that roar, the hired gums, the Becks, Limbaughs and O'Reillys, to get on the air and characterize Democrats as minions of Lucifer and see if it plays to some dumbass Americans. And by golly it does! I can practically feel the heat from the fires of hell burning the soles of my feet right now.

The freak show continues

I've written about Curtis Allgier before. He's an inmate in the Utah State Prison who killed his 60-year-old guard while at a hospital, then escaped. He was later recaptured at a local fast food restaurant. The 6' tough guy, Allgier, was tackled by a retired man, age 59, all of 5'6" tall and 140 pounds, who took his weapon and held him for police.

The latest controversy for Allgier's upcoming trial is whether the judge will allow the defense to have Allgier's tattoos covered by makeup so the sight of them won't inflame the jury. Well. In this day and age many prospective jurors might already be sporting tattoos. I see young women with sleeves of tattoos, and can only wonder what is hidden by their clothing.

Years ago, before the current tattoo rage, but well into the punk rock era, I saw a young man on Telegraph Avenue in Berkeley with HATE in large gothic lettering, tattooed on the front of his neck. My immediate reaction was, "Here's a guy who has rendered himself permanently unemployable."

For all of the tattoos I see nowadays, even the hostile tattoos like the young Berkeley punk had, I have never, but never, seen anyone or anything like Allgier outside of a book with illustrations of tribal tattoo customs around the world.

My guess is the judge won't allow him to wear makeup. That Allgier has chosen to make himself instantly repellent with hate messages on his face shouldn't be hidden from anyone. He chose to have the tats, now he can share them with the larger world.

In another story today, the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals in California ruled against the city of Hermosa Beach, which has an anti-tattoo parlor ordinance. According to the courts, tattoos are a protected form of expression. Even with concerns about dirty tattoo needles, the judges said the city can't issue a blanket ban on tattoo businesses. After all, whether it's on paper or skin, the First Amendment applies to all freedom of speech. So in his own way the California judge has held up a precedent for the Utah judge. Curtis Allgier's face is a form of his disdain of the larger society. By wearing messages like "skin head" and pictures of swastikas on his face he's let us know he's an intolerant, violent person. It doesn't help him that he's already proved that by killing a guard. So I say, have Curtis Allgier sit in front of a jury with all of his messages available to them for observation. And then throw him someplace dark so the rest of us don't have to look at this freak any more.

Here's a thought of what the courts could do with Allgier based on a picture I found in my files. I have forgotten where I got it, but it was from a medical site. It's not the invisible man, but is of a man who is allergic to sunshine dressed up to leave the house.

"Chained nudes in Hitler's laboratories of agony"

Men's adventure magazines--or "men's sweat" magazines, as they're sometimes called--were popular from the 1950s into the '70s. The racks were full of them.

I especially remember this style of men's sweat magazines from my Army days of 1966-68. They were lying around in the barracks and guard shacks. I don't remember any of the articles or stories. I thought they weren't worth reading. The provocative headlines pretty much say it all, and in their own way the headline writers were geniuses. I remember the garish covers with half-naked girls either menacing GI's or being rescued from the Nazis.

These three covers that I found for sale on eBay fit the latter description. For many years no one could escape seeing covers of magazines, paperback books, and even movie posters with pictures of women being tortured, threatened, or dead. It was like an all-out assault on women. At the time this sort of image was called "damsel in distress", now it's called violence against women. There are men who hate women and don't have any problem at all in abusing them. I guess for those guys these covers would seem perfect, mixing in a little Marquis de Sade with Nazis, known for cruelty. I admit to having mixed feelings about these covers. I grew up seeing them everywhere, but I don't hate women, and would never hurt any woman.

My mixed feelings come from the funkiness of the artwork. I love the art of illustration. Many fine illustrators worked on these magazines, the same artists who did advertising or paperback book covers, pin-up calendars, etc. The artist probably didn't even think about the subject matter; it was just a job and a paycheck. An editor would tell him, "We need a girl in a bra hanging from her wrists while a Nazi whips her, and there's a GI with a machine gun bursting in the door in the background." The artist got his favorite model, who might even be his wife or daughter if he was saving money, posed her, then took pictures of himself or his buddies for the guys. I believe these three covers, all from the same title, all published in 1963-64, are by the same artist. The Nazi has a monocle on two of the covers, and in the cover with the girl being zapped in that see-through chamber, the Nazi looks a lot like Phil Silvers as Sgt. Bilko. (You do remember that old television sitcom, don't you?)

The women's expressions seem somewhat benign considering what they are going through. It mitigates the horror of the situations. Maybe it's because the models are posed, just part of a big joke.

Haute couture with swastika.

For years BDSM--bondage, discipline, sadism and masochism for those who might not know--was a forbidden subject, and any pictures or magazines featuring torture or bondage, whips and chains, were sold under the counter.

Vintage kink from under the counter.

Nowadays we can see it on TV, or find it in a fashion magazine. It's blatant now, but in the past sometimes it was sneaked into pop culture without the public really being aware of what they were seeing. Consider this comic strip, The Phantom, from 1937, where the woman whips the girl into unconsciousness and the Phantom stands with a half-smile on his face, doing nothing to stop the act. Someone slipped something by every one of hundreds of newspaper editors who carried The Phantom comic strip.

The one that got by the censors.

"If that does not work, we beat him."

Iran's been in the news again lately. As I write this their promised release of an ill American prisoner is apparently on hold, as is their sentence of stoning for a woman found guilty of adultery. International pressures do work, but Iran is like the willful child who will take punishment rather than admit he's wrong, and then when he does make concessions they are small, but seen as "progress".

Britain's The Economist has an interesting article on Iran's president, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, and his close advisor and relative by marriage, Esfandiar Rahim Mashai. Mashai, like the proverbial willful child I mentioned, was taken to the woodshed by Ayatollah Khameni, the religious leader of Iran, and chewed out after he "renounced hostility for the people of Israel." That has to make Israel feel like they have some sort of credibility in Iran, for all of the hate-talk and saber-rattling that normally goes on. Mashai is seen as being in line for the presidency after Ahmadinejad's term is over.

Yesterday I watched President Obama at a press conference tell everyone to accept Islam as a religion, and to respect it. I'm pretty sure he's talking about a more Americanized Islam, which doesn't look on its Christian neighbors as "infidels". (As to how American Muslims look on their Jewish neighbors I don't know...probably the same way their Jewish neighbors look at them.) As we've seen in over thirty years of rule by hardliners in Iran, and with the Taliban in Afghanistan, the ancient clashes with the new. Iran has a dress code for women, runs their state by a religious code from centuries past, and yet has nuclear capability. Talk about a schizoid situation! No wonder everyone is worried about Iran; the combination of nuclear weapons and religious zealotry is alarming to anyone who thinks about it.

In the Economist article there's a quote that immediately jumped out at me:

“If someone turns away from Islam,” warned Ayatollah Muhammad Taqi Mesbah Yazdi, a longtime leading government supporter, “we warn him, and then, if that does not work, we beat him.”

It's hard to reconcile that kind of thinking with the American way. In our country taking someone out and beating them because they aren't behaving by a religious code is just plain battery. And I've yet to meet anyone who believes in a religion after being beaten, or even beaten verbally (isn't that sometimes called a "come to Jesus" meeting?) I'll bet in Iran, besides the opposition Green Party, there are a lot of people who have taken their beatings and hide their lumps, no longer so ardent about the Iranian version of Islam. Maybe one of these days they'll take their country back, put the imams back in their mosques and out of government.

Today is the anniversary of the attack of 9/11, and I don't hold it against even the most religious Muslims, just the terrorist Muslims, who, unlike the call from our president, don't believe in religious freedom or religious tolerance. They believe in their freedom to kill us. I think our government is careful at sorting out terrorists from traditional Islam, even though the public isn't. That's the kind of thinking that leads to some pipsqueak pastor from a tiny church in Florida holding us all hostage with his threat to burn someone's holy books. In his own way he's as bad as those who call us infidels.

One thing I've heard nothing about in all this talk lately is our relationship with Saudi Arabia, which is a strict Islamic state, and which provided most of the 9/11 terrorists. Bin Laden is a Saudi. We have a symbiotic relationship with that country, which supplies a lot of oil, and apparently religion is put on the back burner when money and oil are involved.

The re-offender

The sickening report was told in this morning's local newspaper: less than six blocks from my house a four-year-old girl was led by a man into the men's room of a thrift store and raped. Her mother, who had left the child in the toy aisle of the store, tracked her down and banged on the door. The child responded to the mother's knocking on the door by yelling, "Mom! Mom!" The mother told the child to open the door but the girl said, "I can't." She later told police the man was "on top of her."

The mother continued knocking on the door until the rapist opened it. The mother tried to grab him but he struggled and escaped. He ran until three male employees of the store tackled him in front of a restaurant which is across a busy four-lane road.

The man who allegedly committed the crimes is Richard Randall, age 41, who has a history as a sex offender, arrested in 1999 for attempted sexual abuse of a 9-year-old, a second degree felony, reduced to a third degree felony. He willingly entered treatment, and was considered a model recovering offender. In 2003 after completing his treatment, a jail term and probation, his sentence was reduced to a misdemeanor. For this latest offense he was booked into jail on Tuesday for "suspicion of rape of a child, aggravated sexual abuse of a child, and aggravated kidnaping." Why he snapped after doing well in treatment is anyone's guess right now. Since he committed his crime in a public place he must've either been overwhelmed by the urge to the point where he lost all common sense or impulse control, or maybe he wanted to be caught. I can't see how he thought he could commit a rape in a bathroom in the back of the store--a store that was formerly a supermarket--and make it out of the building and to his car without being caught.

It doesn't give you much hope for rehabilitation when it comes to sex offenders of children, does it? Actually, there is a myth that no offender is ever cured, but the recidivism rate of sex offenders, depending on the type of offense, is not as high as other criminal offenders. I believe the people who worked with Randall on his original conviction were optimistic that he had put away his offending ways.

This depressing story is personal to me for a couple of reasons: One, I shop that thrift store, know the layout, and exactly where he and the child would have been when he took her, even the restroom where he raped her. We also have a four-year-old granddaughter, and the thought of what happened to this little girl happening to our little girl is more than I can stand. I have to chase those thoughts out of my head. I believe the mother of the little girl was too trusting, letting her child out of her sight for even a minute. Even if she had seen Randall, whose picture is above, she might not have thought anything about it. Sex offenders don't wear a sign or a special hat saying "sex offender", do they?I looked for some online statistics on sexual offenders re-offending and found some statistics. In many cases treatment does work, but not always, and apparently, if we can believe the story about Richard Randall, not for him.

A collection of official studies spanning the years 1983 to 2010 across all 50 states and the federal government has been assembled. . .the average recidivism of sex offenders committing new sex crimes since 1983 is approximately 9%, compared to the 42% average recidivism rate for all felony offenders committing any new felony offense.

According to the Office of Justice Programs of the United States Department of Justice, in New York State the recidivism rates for sex offenders have been shown to be lower than any other crime except murder. Another report from the OJP that studied recidivism of prisoners released in 1994 in 15 states accounting for two-thirds of all prisoners released in the United States that year, reached the same conclusion. (Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sex_offender)

In the meantime, when in a public place make sure you look and observe who is around you, and need I remind parents to never leave a child alone in a store for even an instant?

Let scandal be your handle

Johnnie Ray was a popular singer in the early 1950s. His biggest songs, the two-sided hit, "Cry" and "The Little White Cloud That Cried" were delivered with bucketloads of emotion. Ray, according to the web biographies, is considered a "bridge between Frank Sinatra and Elvis Presley."

Before he was a star Johnnie Ray was arrested in 1951 for soliciting an undercover male police officer for sex. He copped to a guilty plea and paid a fine. During the height of his popularity the scandal magazines of the time published his mug shot and story of his arrest. Nowadays with tabloids staring at us in the supermarket lines it's hard to remember a time when scandal was considered sleazy. My mother would buy Confidential magazine and put it on a shelf in her closet under some clothes. I'd find it and read it. If my parents hid something it had to be hot!

This page, from a 1955 rag called Lowdown, is public response to their news of Ray's arrest. Letter writers, in no uncertain terms, tell the magazine what they think of them for outing their hero, Johnnie.

For a celebrity to stay in the public eye nowadays sleaze and scandal are almost welcomed. How many records did Britney Spears sell when she was going through her years in the tabloids? In the last week news of party-girl Paris Hilton being arrested for cocaine has taken over the story of Lindsay Lohan, her jail sentence and time in rehab. It's almost as if Hilton figured it'd been a while since she'd seen her face in the tabloids or on TV, so might as well get busted for drugs. Always a good headline, and with her money she can afford a good lawyer.

At least Lohan can act. Paris Hilton's claim to fame is that she's an heiress. No one, including herself, has ever claimed she is an actress. Unless you consider her facial expressions in a video circulating around the web, giving oral sex to her boyfriend. (She does deliver the line, "I know you like it" with some conviction.)

Back to Johnnie Ray. In those days news that a star was gay was a career killer. Liberace sued publications that claimed he was gay. He was gay, but he sued them anyway. Stars like Ray and Rock Hudson and others got married to women to give the impression they were hetero. It doesn't seem like a big deal now, does it? Someone in show business is gay? Wow, what a big surprise. I'm really surprised that Ray's career not only survived, but flourished during the 1950s, a very uptight and unforgiving era for scandal. Being arrested didn't kill off Johnnie Ray's career. Like a lot of pop stars of his era, rock 'n' roll administered the coup de grace. Ray was arrested again in '59 for soliciting an undercover officer, but by then his real success was behind him. Ray drank heavily, and maybe being gay in such a climate had something to do with it. He died at age 63 in 1990, his liver gone.

We look back this sort of exposure now as being almost quaint, but at the time it could stop a show business career in its tracks. Ray was lucky his best years were after his original arrest, but before the story broke.

Here's Johnnie Ray, singing "Cry":

Every picture tells a story

When I go to a thrift store I look at photo frames because sometimes I find personal or family pictures. Yesterday I found the above sepia-toned portrait photo in a frame.

The picture appears to be from the 1930s, maybe earlier. The boy with the collar wing flying astray--and why didn't the photographer adjust it for him, or at least tell him about it?--is identified on the back, in a pencil notation, as Bain Hoopes. I googled the name and found a Bain Hoopes who was on the Philadelphia Social Register in 1914 (too early), and a Francis Bain Hoopes, who loaned an N.C. Wyeth original to Johns Hopkins University. With such an unusual name it could be this boy is related to those Hoopes.

There are reasons that personal snapshots or portrait photos would end up floating around in antique shops or thrift stores. A box of photos is bought at an estate sale; a picture is left in a frame when there's no one to claim it. I think it's kind of sad, really. Every one of these pictures, which fell into my hands in the same way as young Bain Hoopes, had a meaning to somebody at one time.

The picture of the bespectacled girl and her Marilyn Monroe-lookalike friend was found as a bookmark in a copy of The Savage God by A. Alvarez. On the back it says, "Marlene and me, gym class, 1953." No indication of which one is Marlene.

Another bookmarking photo is of the gent, standing before the fire, in a bowler hat and cane, obviously having a good time. I notice he has family photos on the mantle.

The baby in the New York Yankees baseball suit isn't dated, but I'm guessing he's one of the Baby Boomers, like me. Probably late '40s...?

Finally, one of my favorites, the couple by the sedan. The clothes say 1940s. Love her fur coat, his double-breasted suit coat and shirt sans tie. If I let my imagination go I can see them as a bank robber and his gun moll, but they're probably just somebody's Aunt Ruth and Uncle Joe, both long since deceased. It was taken on a Thanksgiving Day, when they were ready to drive home. Or, it's the day before Joe reports for induction into the Army, and gets shipped off to the war. Auntie Ruth is smiling bravely, Joe is grinning, wondering how he'll look in a uniform. Whoever they are, I have them by my desk and I look at them quite often.

As Rod Stewart put it, every picture tells a story. Sometimes we just have to make up the stories.

Bad ads

Looking through the old issues of Life magazine on Google Books is an education on the middle decades of the Twentieth Century, especially in the advertising.

I've picked out some ads that caught my eye. The first one, from 1940, I chose because of the cowboy on the bucking bronco, who isn't selling rodeo, but coffee. The cowboy needs his coffee, except the copy writer decided that wasn't enough, so he tagged it with the phrase, "COFFEE CHEERS YOU UP!" and even included clip art of a lady in her closet and the tag, "HAVEN'T YOU GOT A THING TO WEAR? CHEER UP. What you need is a cup of coffee!" That's throwing everything into the ad but the kitchen sink, hoping some sense will come out of it. Better to have stuck with just one of the elements. "COFFEE CHEERS YOU UP!" is a stupid slogan. I drink a lot of coffee and it makes me alert, or gives me the jitters depending on how much I've had. It doesn't cheer me up. The cowboy on the bronco seems out of place because he can't drink coffee while a horse is trying to throw him off. The lady in the closet looking for something to wear just needs to concentrate. Another cup of coffee could just make her more nervous because she can't make up her mind.

On second thought...throw the whole ad out and start fresh with something, anything, else.

That ad doesn't hold a match to my next choice, also from 1940, Spud Cigarettes. Spud? Cigarettes? A Spud is a potato. I assume Spud Cigarettes were made with tobacco and not potatoes. There's a reason you've never heard of Spuds. They probably died a horrible death from consumer disinterest. It looks like they were marketing to women. No woman would go to a grocer or tobacconist and say, "Gimme a pack of Spuds." Lucky Strike, Chesterfield, Pall Mall, maybe even Camel...but not Spud.

Finally, my favorite ad of the bunch, which comes from 1966, and is supposedly about the 1966 Chevrolet Corvair Monza. It's really about sex.

Why is the driver old enough to be the girl's father? Why is she looking coyly up from behind her magazine at us? Why is she barelegged and barefoot? Why does she have on tight shorts? Why is her labia outlined?

No company like General Motors pays millions of dollars on advertising without carefully researching how to market their product. The red Corvair convertible isn't a car, it's for attracting girls. Of course, by the time Dad and Mom and their kids have been to the Chevrolet showroom where Dad is just dying to see the new Corvair, they will take home a beige 4-door family car. Like a lot of guys, Dad was lured somewhere with the promise of sex, and then left dangling.

A tribute to a Dick

This tribute to Richard F was in my local paper yesterday, mixed in with the obituaries. The piece is in extremely bad taste, and I don't know who wrote it. I was once a friend of Richard F, also called Dick.

We met in sixth grade, then remained friends as adults until politics came between us. Dick was what we'd call today a Tea Partier, but in the 1970's. He was ahead of the curve on that. I was then, as I am now, an old-fashioned liberal Democrat. We got into too many arguments. Occasionally Dick and I ran into each other and exchanged pleasantries, but for all intents and purposes our friendship ended about 1975.

Dick made the obituary columns twice yesterday. Besides this "tribute" there was also a matter-of-fact short obit that said he died after an extended illness, where and when he was born, who survived him, and where he'd be buried. It also stated "married and divorced." Dick and Lynda were married very young; she was 15 and he was 17. Their son was born in 1965, about the time Dick turned 18. He had dropped out of high school, but he got his high school diploma at some later point.

Before Dick got a car and a girlfriend he was an honor roll student. I used to envy him for his good grades. Unfortunately, Dick got to thinking with his dick, and that's the downfall of many a young man.

He was still married to Lynda when I last saw him.

In the past six weeks I've seen death notices for some people I knew: one high school acquaintance, one for another good friend I knew in junior high school, one for a former coworker, and now Dick. Three of the four were the age I attained last month on my birthday.

"Don't laugh when the hearse goes by, for you may be the next to die."