Copyright © 1944, 2012 Time-Life, Inc.
Wednesday, June 06, 2012
68 years ago today...June 6, 1944
A contemporary account of the invasion of Europe from Life magazine, cover-dated June 19, 1944.
Copyright © 1944, 2012 Time-Life, Inc.
Copyright © 1944, 2012 Time-Life, Inc.
Sunday, June 03, 2012
The unprincipled principal
When I started my career in a large county school district in 1976 a female principal was a rarity. Out of sixty-nine principals there was one woman. Today more than half the principals of what is now a district with over one hundred schools are women. But when the district started promoting women to the position they came under a lot more scrutiny than men, sometimes for the better, sometimes worse.
Scarlett (not her real name) was a female principal who was very sexy. When she got her job in the early eighties the talk was that she'd slept her way to the top. It's the kind of sexist stuff you expect to hear when an attractive woman gets promoted. But in Scarlett's case, after knowing her for a couple of years, it wasn't hard to believe. Scarlett had been a teacher when my wife got her job in the district and they worked in the same school. “Scarlett,” she said, “had hair down to here,” (indicating her waist) “and her skirts up to here,” (indicating her butt). Scarlett was also a rich girl with a rich husband. They lived in a big house, and Scarlett had a governess for her child.
The school they gave Scarlett was one of the oldest schools still in use in the county, built before World War I. This is a picture of the actual school in 1916. Sixty years later when I first saw the school it hadn't changed much. Modern schools have gone from three-story to one-story for safety purposes. At this school in its last years a child fell down a stairwell and was killed. It precipitated the decision in 1995 to close it down. A few years later an arsonist destroyed the empty building.
If the first mistake the district made was promoting Scarlett to principal, the second mistake was assigning her, a rich woman wearing expensive clothes and jewelry, spike-heeled designer shoes, tight skirts and frilly tops to a school in the lowest socio-economic area of the county. Over 90% of the children attending the school lived under the poverty line, qualifying for free or reduced lunch.
In that area a car ten years old was considered new, fashion was what you got at Kmart if not the local thrift shop, and bling…well, forget that. It’d take an electron microscope to see the diamond in a wedding ring. Not like Scarlett’s large diamond rings, which caused temporary blindness from reflected sunlight. Scarlett was nothing if not condescending to the citizens who populated her school. There was no doubt it wasn’t her first choice of assignments.
Scarlett’s secretaries, Julianne and Cindy, had plenty to tell me about her. Among the many stories (too many to tell here) was the one where she called fellow principals to her school for a special luncheon. Scarlett had invited only male principals. Just before the luncheon Scarlett slipped into her office and changed her clothes. Her secretaries’ jaws dropped when she walked out in a white pants suit, through which they could see her colorful bikini underwear. As Julianne told me, “She put on quite a show for the guys!”
My own story of Scarlett’s exhibitionism came when I walked up to the front doors of the school. There was a school maintenance vehicle parked on the sidewalk. When I got to the entrance I looked through the glass doors and saw a maintenance man, a hunky guy in his twenties, standing just inside the doorway. He was at the bottom of a stairway to the second floor. Scarlett was at the top of the stairs, squatting. She was wearing a skirt, high heels, with her legs open, exposing her crotch. She was giving the guy a beaver shot! I walked through the door and she stood up. Show was over. The young guy gave me a look, as if to say, “Whoa, did you see that?!” I acted as if I’d seen nothing.
Unbeknownst to anyone, during her second year as principal Scarlett had met another rich man and left her husband. The day after school was out for summer she put her letter of resignation on her supervisor’s desk, then left town. I heard she had moved with her lover to Texas. When they got the news at the school there was jubilation, a “ding dong, the witch is dead” style celebration.
The district immediately appointed another principal, a much more levelheaded and serious woman, who had to undo the damage done by Scarlett. For one thing, Scarlett had spent all the school’s money. I never heard the word embezzlement, but there was an implication that she had spent a lot of it off the books. The new principal had to be given special funds to set up school for the upcoming school year.
I was surprised to see Scarlett coming out of the district office the very next March. It was a cold day and she was wearing a mink coat that came down to her ankles. Through the grapevine I found out she had been asking to come back to work. The love affair hadn’t worked out and she had returned from Texas. This time the door was shut to Scarlett. She never worked for our school district again, and whether she got another job in education I don’t know. Over the years until my retirement I worked with many women in administrative positions. Most of them were serious educators, with the school their priority.
Even so, some were sexy, and attracted attention. For the next twenty-five years I heard the occasional story about female principals (and several stories about male principals, too, who got themselves in trouble in greater numbers than the women). None of the stories ever approached tales of the legendary Scarlett.
Scarlett (not her real name) was a female principal who was very sexy. When she got her job in the early eighties the talk was that she'd slept her way to the top. It's the kind of sexist stuff you expect to hear when an attractive woman gets promoted. But in Scarlett's case, after knowing her for a couple of years, it wasn't hard to believe. Scarlett had been a teacher when my wife got her job in the district and they worked in the same school. “Scarlett,” she said, “had hair down to here,” (indicating her waist) “and her skirts up to here,” (indicating her butt). Scarlett was also a rich girl with a rich husband. They lived in a big house, and Scarlett had a governess for her child.
Not Scarlett but a good facsimile. Long hair and short skirt picture is for illustration purposes only.
The school they gave Scarlett was one of the oldest schools still in use in the county, built before World War I. This is a picture of the actual school in 1916. Sixty years later when I first saw the school it hadn't changed much. Modern schools have gone from three-story to one-story for safety purposes. At this school in its last years a child fell down a stairwell and was killed. It precipitated the decision in 1995 to close it down. A few years later an arsonist destroyed the empty building.
If the first mistake the district made was promoting Scarlett to principal, the second mistake was assigning her, a rich woman wearing expensive clothes and jewelry, spike-heeled designer shoes, tight skirts and frilly tops to a school in the lowest socio-economic area of the county. Over 90% of the children attending the school lived under the poverty line, qualifying for free or reduced lunch.
In that area a car ten years old was considered new, fashion was what you got at Kmart if not the local thrift shop, and bling…well, forget that. It’d take an electron microscope to see the diamond in a wedding ring. Not like Scarlett’s large diamond rings, which caused temporary blindness from reflected sunlight. Scarlett was nothing if not condescending to the citizens who populated her school. There was no doubt it wasn’t her first choice of assignments.
Scarlett’s secretaries, Julianne and Cindy, had plenty to tell me about her. Among the many stories (too many to tell here) was the one where she called fellow principals to her school for a special luncheon. Scarlett had invited only male principals. Just before the luncheon Scarlett slipped into her office and changed her clothes. Her secretaries’ jaws dropped when she walked out in a white pants suit, through which they could see her colorful bikini underwear. As Julianne told me, “She put on quite a show for the guys!”
My own story of Scarlett’s exhibitionism came when I walked up to the front doors of the school. There was a school maintenance vehicle parked on the sidewalk. When I got to the entrance I looked through the glass doors and saw a maintenance man, a hunky guy in his twenties, standing just inside the doorway. He was at the bottom of a stairway to the second floor. Scarlett was at the top of the stairs, squatting. She was wearing a skirt, high heels, with her legs open, exposing her crotch. She was giving the guy a beaver shot! I walked through the door and she stood up. Show was over. The young guy gave me a look, as if to say, “Whoa, did you see that?!” I acted as if I’d seen nothing.
Britney Spears demonstrates what I saw that day.
Unbeknownst to anyone, during her second year as principal Scarlett had met another rich man and left her husband. The day after school was out for summer she put her letter of resignation on her supervisor’s desk, then left town. I heard she had moved with her lover to Texas. When they got the news at the school there was jubilation, a “ding dong, the witch is dead” style celebration.
The district immediately appointed another principal, a much more levelheaded and serious woman, who had to undo the damage done by Scarlett. For one thing, Scarlett had spent all the school’s money. I never heard the word embezzlement, but there was an implication that she had spent a lot of it off the books. The new principal had to be given special funds to set up school for the upcoming school year.
I was surprised to see Scarlett coming out of the district office the very next March. It was a cold day and she was wearing a mink coat that came down to her ankles. Through the grapevine I found out she had been asking to come back to work. The love affair hadn’t worked out and she had returned from Texas. This time the door was shut to Scarlett. She never worked for our school district again, and whether she got another job in education I don’t know. Over the years until my retirement I worked with many women in administrative positions. Most of them were serious educators, with the school their priority.
We’ve come a long way since the schoolmarm of old!
Even so, some were sexy, and attracted attention. For the next twenty-five years I heard the occasional story about female principals (and several stories about male principals, too, who got themselves in trouble in greater numbers than the women). None of the stories ever approached tales of the legendary Scarlett.
Friday, June 01, 2012
"The Last Train"
Yesterday we had a shaggy dog story, today we have a story that ends with a turn of phrase. Having one phrase with two different meanings is confusing as hell to people who are trying to learn the English language. We really don't think about it. We have spoken it, heard it, and we understand the context.
Fredric Brown, who with just a few words could deliver a punch like a heavyweight boxer, wrote this short-short, "The Last Train," for the January, 1950 issue of Weird Tales. Up to the last paragraph it isn't weird in any sense, but in the last couple of lines takes on a totally different meaning. Just as the shaggy dog story sets us up for expectations that are unrealized, this story sets us up for an ending that is totally unexpected.
Brown was one of the top genre writers of his day. He wrote pulp stories, mystery, fantasy, weird and horror. He wrote paperback originals. He wrote the classic What Mad Universe, where an editor ends up in an alternate universe based on a science fiction fan's imagination. He wrote the story, "Arena," which has been filmed several times, including as a Star Trek episode. I read once that Brown, when plotting his novels, would take off on long bus rides and work out his plots. Whatever a writer needs to make something work is good. Obviously, those trips through America on a Greyhound bus helped his creativity.
Brown was born in Cincinnati, Ohio, in 1907. He died at age 65 in 1972.
Fredric Brown, who with just a few words could deliver a punch like a heavyweight boxer, wrote this short-short, "The Last Train," for the January, 1950 issue of Weird Tales. Up to the last paragraph it isn't weird in any sense, but in the last couple of lines takes on a totally different meaning. Just as the shaggy dog story sets us up for expectations that are unrealized, this story sets us up for an ending that is totally unexpected.
Brown was one of the top genre writers of his day. He wrote pulp stories, mystery, fantasy, weird and horror. He wrote paperback originals. He wrote the classic What Mad Universe, where an editor ends up in an alternate universe based on a science fiction fan's imagination. He wrote the story, "Arena," which has been filmed several times, including as a Star Trek episode. I read once that Brown, when plotting his novels, would take off on long bus rides and work out his plots. Whatever a writer needs to make something work is good. Obviously, those trips through America on a Greyhound bus helped his creativity.
Brown was born in Cincinnati, Ohio, in 1907. He died at age 65 in 1972.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
“The Mysterious Card”
The definition of a shaggy dog story* is one of escalating events that build the reader’s expectation for a pay-off at the end, and then doesn’t deliver. It's a deliberate way of telling a story, usually told as a joke. “The Mysterious Card,” by Cleveland Moffett, published in Black Cat magazine in 1896 and scanned from a 1969 reprint, is not a joke but is still a shaggy dog story. It was popular because sometimes people are happy to be fooled by the unexpected, even if the unexpected is shaggy.
From the anthology, Great Untold Stories of Fantasy and Horror**, 1969, edited by Alden Norton and Sam Moskowitz. (Note: Moskowitz's introduction to the story is garbled due to some production error that slipped by the proofreader.)
Copyright © 1969 Alden H. Norton
*There’s disagreement as to what the original shaggy dog story was, but one of the stories vying for original went something like this. (My version is told without all the build-up of the original.) An American sees an advertisement in a local newspaper. A rich man in London is offering a reward for his lost shaggy dog. The man goes out looking, finds a shaggy dog, and has a series of adventures getting it across the American continent, on a ship to England, then from the port to the rich man's home. The butler opens the door. “Sir,” says the American, “I have found your shaggy dog.”
The butler sniffs as he closes the door in the American's face, “My master's dog is shaggy, but not that shaggy.”
**The title is misleading and hyperbolic. The stories aren’t exactly great, nor are they untold. They are fantasy and horror, though, or in the case of “The Mysterious Card,” unclassifiable as either genre...just...shaggy.
From the anthology, Great Untold Stories of Fantasy and Horror**, 1969, edited by Alden Norton and Sam Moskowitz. (Note: Moskowitz's introduction to the story is garbled due to some production error that slipped by the proofreader.)
Copyright © 1969 Alden H. Norton
*There’s disagreement as to what the original shaggy dog story was, but one of the stories vying for original went something like this. (My version is told without all the build-up of the original.) An American sees an advertisement in a local newspaper. A rich man in London is offering a reward for his lost shaggy dog. The man goes out looking, finds a shaggy dog, and has a series of adventures getting it across the American continent, on a ship to England, then from the port to the rich man's home. The butler opens the door. “Sir,” says the American, “I have found your shaggy dog.”
The butler sniffs as he closes the door in the American's face, “My master's dog is shaggy, but not that shaggy.”
**The title is misleading and hyperbolic. The stories aren’t exactly great, nor are they untold. They are fantasy and horror, though, or in the case of “The Mysterious Card,” unclassifiable as either genre...just...shaggy.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Tom Lea with the U.S. Marines on Peleliu
I'm a couple of days late with my Memorial Day posting. I think we should remember our dead every day, not just on the last weekend of May.
It's hard to forget what people went through in World War II when looking at the dynamic paintings of artist Tom Lea. During his time as a combat artist he painted images that sear themselves in our minds. These dramatic paintings were done to show the carnage of the fight for the island of Peleliu in September, 1944. A painting comes from the soul of an artist. Maybe that's why there were combat artists, to show us the soul of war.
The uniforms change, but the effects of war don't. Recently I read that 45% of our current veterans apply for some sort of disability.Lea's painting of a marine with the "thousand-yard stare" reminds us that no one who fought in any war punched a time clock at the end and went home without having their lives changed.
Lea went on to a successful career in art. I have some of the books he illustrated, including my favorite, Apache Gold and Yaqui Silver by J. Frank Dobie. Lea died in 2001 at age 93. There's more information on him at the Tom Lea Institute web site.
This article is from the June 11, 1945 issue of Life.
Copyright © 1945, 2012, Time-Life.
It's hard to forget what people went through in World War II when looking at the dynamic paintings of artist Tom Lea. During his time as a combat artist he painted images that sear themselves in our minds. These dramatic paintings were done to show the carnage of the fight for the island of Peleliu in September, 1944. A painting comes from the soul of an artist. Maybe that's why there were combat artists, to show us the soul of war.
The uniforms change, but the effects of war don't. Recently I read that 45% of our current veterans apply for some sort of disability.Lea's painting of a marine with the "thousand-yard stare" reminds us that no one who fought in any war punched a time clock at the end and went home without having their lives changed.
Lea went on to a successful career in art. I have some of the books he illustrated, including my favorite, Apache Gold and Yaqui Silver by J. Frank Dobie. Lea died in 2001 at age 93. There's more information on him at the Tom Lea Institute web site.
This article is from the June 11, 1945 issue of Life.
Copyright © 1945, 2012, Time-Life.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Jesus by the numbers
Lord help me, I'm addicted. I'm a collector.
I'm not rich. I'm a collector on a budget. Friday Sally and I visited a couple of thrift stores and I walked away with an armload of used paperback books, average cost about 75¢ per book. I don't need 'em, don't always even want 'em, but when I see books with these kinds of covers I must have 'em. The collector sickness comes out in me, and I feel the familiar tug of the compulsion, that damned addiction.
Must...have...books...
I like horror stories. I like ghost stories. I like anthologies. For some reason I can't get enough copies of W. W. Jacobs' classic, "The Monkey's Paw." Here's yet another book containing that story. How many copies of that story do I now have? Who cares? I'm a collector, not a counter.
I love English paperbacks when I can find them. I've never been able to actually read a book by Edgar Wallace, a popular author of the 1920s (he died in 1932), but I had to have this Pan Book from the UK. What a fantastic cover:
But books aren't always enough. I must also have funky things that move me. For instance, incredibly tacky paint-by-number artwork, like this 16" x 20" Jesus. Sally and I found this in a consignment shop yesterday and I walked around the store thinking about it before making myself the owner. I knew if I didn't get it I'd be kicking myself all night. Compulsion won out.
I'm not religious, but crappy pictures of Jesus make me a hallelujah-shouter. What can I say about paint-by-numbers except god bless the wannabe artists who sit down at those numbered canvases and make their own art with little paintpots and cheap brushes. Older paint-by-numbers are sought after collectibles, like black velvet paintings. They are crass, kitsch, and they are wonderful.
Here's a brief history of paint-by-number: American History "Every Man a Rembrandt"
The collecting addiction is hard to get over, but then, I've never really tried. I just feed the addiction by acquisition. To continue with my addictive behavior I have to make room for all of these items. I've felt many times I couldn't squeeze one more thing into our small suburban tract home, but I always do.
I'm not rich. I'm a collector on a budget. Friday Sally and I visited a couple of thrift stores and I walked away with an armload of used paperback books, average cost about 75¢ per book. I don't need 'em, don't always even want 'em, but when I see books with these kinds of covers I must have 'em. The collector sickness comes out in me, and I feel the familiar tug of the compulsion, that damned addiction.
Must...have...books...
I like horror stories. I like ghost stories. I like anthologies. For some reason I can't get enough copies of W. W. Jacobs' classic, "The Monkey's Paw." Here's yet another book containing that story. How many copies of that story do I now have? Who cares? I'm a collector, not a counter.
I love English paperbacks when I can find them. I've never been able to actually read a book by Edgar Wallace, a popular author of the 1920s (he died in 1932), but I had to have this Pan Book from the UK. What a fantastic cover:
But books aren't always enough. I must also have funky things that move me. For instance, incredibly tacky paint-by-number artwork, like this 16" x 20" Jesus. Sally and I found this in a consignment shop yesterday and I walked around the store thinking about it before making myself the owner. I knew if I didn't get it I'd be kicking myself all night. Compulsion won out.
I'm not religious, but crappy pictures of Jesus make me a hallelujah-shouter. What can I say about paint-by-numbers except god bless the wannabe artists who sit down at those numbered canvases and make their own art with little paintpots and cheap brushes. Older paint-by-numbers are sought after collectibles, like black velvet paintings. They are crass, kitsch, and they are wonderful.
Here's a brief history of paint-by-number: American History "Every Man a Rembrandt"
The collecting addiction is hard to get over, but then, I've never really tried. I just feed the addiction by acquisition. To continue with my addictive behavior I have to make room for all of these items. I've felt many times I couldn't squeeze one more thing into our small suburban tract home, but I always do.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
The Droodles man and other seductions
The other day I showed a photographic comic strip called a fumetti, starring humorist Roger Price. In the early '50s Price created the hugely popular Droodles. There was even a television show based on them. I found an article in a 1960 issue of Good Housekeeping by Price on the subject of Droodles.
I've been going through old magazines for a family friend. She had several boxes of them in her garage, kept by her mother. She'd like me to sell them on eBay for her and we'll split whatever money they earn. I'm reluctant to get involved with eBay again. I wasted enough of my life on the eBay merry-go-round, but for a favor, I guess I'll help out, and may even make a few bucks. But before I sell the magazines I'm going through them carefully, making scans of things I like. I've been surprised what I've found in women's magazines.
The Maidenform Bra ad is from a 1957 issue of Good Housekeeping. It's fairly stunning. That campaign ("I dreamed I (fill in the blank) in my Maidenform Bra") was really famous at the time. My initial impression of the ad is that her bra is glowing as some sort of fog lamp.
Good Housekeeping used some cartoons and cartoonists of the day, but they didn't have Chas Addams. It didn't stop them from publishing a half-page piece on him, also in 1957. I like the images created in my head reading about his old house, and driving to it in his Mercedes-Benz.
When I see the name Alex Ross I think of a contemporary artist who does paintings about comic characters like Superman and Batman.
There was apparently an earlier artist named Alex Ross, who did this spectacular illustration for the November, 1957 issue of Good Housekeeping. It's another thing I like about these old magazines—illustrations for stories by the top artists of the day.
Finally, in 2008 I had a posting about subliminal sex in advertising.
When I looked at this ad from a 1960 issue of Good Housekeeping I was startled to see that it looked like a joke picture of a woman simulating a urinating man. She's holding the phallic nozzle close to her crotch, then there's the water in a stream of which any man would be proud. Am I just seeing things or was this photo carefully composed to remind the reader of this act? If you were the author of the book Subliminal Seduction you'd say it's no accident.
I've been going through old magazines for a family friend. She had several boxes of them in her garage, kept by her mother. She'd like me to sell them on eBay for her and we'll split whatever money they earn. I'm reluctant to get involved with eBay again. I wasted enough of my life on the eBay merry-go-round, but for a favor, I guess I'll help out, and may even make a few bucks. But before I sell the magazines I'm going through them carefully, making scans of things I like. I've been surprised what I've found in women's magazines.
The Maidenform Bra ad is from a 1957 issue of Good Housekeeping. It's fairly stunning. That campaign ("I dreamed I (fill in the blank) in my Maidenform Bra") was really famous at the time. My initial impression of the ad is that her bra is glowing as some sort of fog lamp.
Good Housekeeping used some cartoons and cartoonists of the day, but they didn't have Chas Addams. It didn't stop them from publishing a half-page piece on him, also in 1957. I like the images created in my head reading about his old house, and driving to it in his Mercedes-Benz.
When I see the name Alex Ross I think of a contemporary artist who does paintings about comic characters like Superman and Batman.
There was apparently an earlier artist named Alex Ross, who did this spectacular illustration for the November, 1957 issue of Good Housekeeping. It's another thing I like about these old magazines—illustrations for stories by the top artists of the day.
Finally, in 2008 I had a posting about subliminal sex in advertising.
When I looked at this ad from a 1960 issue of Good Housekeeping I was startled to see that it looked like a joke picture of a woman simulating a urinating man. She's holding the phallic nozzle close to her crotch, then there's the water in a stream of which any man would be proud. Am I just seeing things or was this photo carefully composed to remind the reader of this act? If you were the author of the book Subliminal Seduction you'd say it's no accident.
Monday, May 21, 2012
“In the event of something 'appening to me...”
Robin Gibb died May 20 after a battle with cancer. Cancer brings down the rich and poor, large and small. It is an equal opportunity assassin.
Memories of Robin Gibb go back to before I knew who he was, just that there was a group called the Bee Gees. I sat in the snack bar of the PX in Monteith Barracks, Fürth, Germany, on Sunday mornings in 1967. I'd have breakfast and read the Stars and Stripes newspaper. There was a jukebox in the corner and someone was always plugging in dimes, playing the hits of the day. One day I heard "To Love Somebody," and wrote my brother about the song. He was back in the States and he had his ear to the car radio, always picking up on what was new.
In a reply he wrote that he liked the Bee Gees' song, "New York Mining Disaster-1941." It was on the PX jukebox and I heard Robin's vibrato loud and clear. I liked their music, but turned against the Bee Gees during the constant airplay of their disco period hits. They redeemed themselves to me later on. They came back on stage with their incredible catalog of hits, not just for dancing, but also for listening and appreciating. That vibrato was a lot of the Bee Gees sound. I don't believe the Bee Gees performed after Robin's twin, Maurice, died a few years ago. I remember rumblings of some problems between brothers Barry and Robin, but didn't pay much attention. I hope whatever the problem, that it was resolved before Robin died.
Memories of Robin Gibb go back to before I knew who he was, just that there was a group called the Bee Gees. I sat in the snack bar of the PX in Monteith Barracks, Fürth, Germany, on Sunday mornings in 1967. I'd have breakfast and read the Stars and Stripes newspaper. There was a jukebox in the corner and someone was always plugging in dimes, playing the hits of the day. One day I heard "To Love Somebody," and wrote my brother about the song. He was back in the States and he had his ear to the car radio, always picking up on what was new.
In a reply he wrote that he liked the Bee Gees' song, "New York Mining Disaster-1941." It was on the PX jukebox and I heard Robin's vibrato loud and clear. I liked their music, but turned against the Bee Gees during the constant airplay of their disco period hits. They redeemed themselves to me later on. They came back on stage with their incredible catalog of hits, not just for dancing, but also for listening and appreciating. That vibrato was a lot of the Bee Gees sound. I don't believe the Bee Gees performed after Robin's twin, Maurice, died a few years ago. I remember rumblings of some problems between brothers Barry and Robin, but didn't pay much attention. I hope whatever the problem, that it was resolved before Robin died.
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