You may have run into someone at the mall or in the supermarket who looked a bit familiar, but you were sure you did not know him. Then he comes up to you and starts talking as if you are old friends. If you are lucky he will say his name or give away a clue to help you place him. Of course, you do not want to admit you do not know the guy’s name, but sometimes you just have to fess up. If it does not seem important to you, the conversation may end without you know who you just talked to.
It can be particularly embarassing if it is someone you recently worked with. I seem to put a lot of people’s names out of my brain as soon as a leave a job. The problem with that is you keep running into the same industry people at industry events and other jobs. Sometimes you just can’t seem to leave a job behind.
It’s not just former colleague names that can be a problem. You can forget family names too. After all, how can you be expected to remember cousin Harvey or Harry or Hargrove or whoever, if you only see him at one holiday party a year? Sometimes it is better to forget old Harris or Harper anyway. If you are lucky, Harlin or Harlow doesn’t remember you either. Maybe it’s Harpo.
Foggy?
Anyway, we all seem to suffer from the case of walking into a room and then forgeting why we went in there. If it is the kitchen, I may just grab some food. If it is the front room, I may just decide to turn on the TV. If I have gone to the basement, I usually get distracted by the cat, so I can blame any forgetfullness on him. If I go to the bathroom… well, I usually remember why I am there.
Unlike many people who fear their memories are fading with age, I just think I have too much on my mind and I let it wander. I don’t give into the notion that I am “losing it.” I know plenty of young people who forget names or why then went into a room. OK, I know a few.
Some of us can’t remember what we had for lunch 30 minutes ago, but can remember all the words to a song from 30 or 40 years ago. I have seen people do karaoke from memory, and not by looking a the small monitor with the lyrics. It is in this spirit we bring good news.
In case you have forgotten some of the best rock and roll songs, we are here to prompt your memory. This weekend we will have the top 10 Rock and Roll songs. That’s right! The best Rock and Roll songs. What do you think they are? No need to worry your grey matter over this. We are on the case.
I have been searching for weeks to bring you this list, Righteous Brothers! We will work The Kinks out of your brains and restore you to The Human League. No need to go down to the Beach, Boys, because the memories will wash over you. We will bring the Top 10 and you can Kiss a few bonus plays too. The work was a Risky Business, but we managed to dodge the Silver Bullet. Set your channel to SERENDIPITY Sunday.
Happy Birthday, Great War. It’s 105 years since the day you officially started. World War I (WWI), also known as the First World War, was a nearly global war. It officially began on July 28, 1914, though its real beginnings were rooted in events beginning decades, even centuries earlier.
It was an ugly, devastating war. Four years of slaughter that — technically — ended on November 11, 1918.
The official number of military casualties is 22,477,500 killed, wounded, or missing in action. The combined number of military and civilian casualties is more than 37 million. If, as I do, you consider World War II as chapter two of the same conflict, the number of dead becomes even more incomprehensible.
For the past couple of weeks, Turner Classic Movies (TCM) has been “celebrating” the centennial of the first world war, inviting historians and military people to do the introductions and closing comments on the films. General Wesley Clark has been doing TCM’s intros and outros, the last of which was for Oh! What a Lovely War.
He referred to the movie as a musical comedy. While it has amusing moments, calling it a musical comedy doesn’t really cut it. If comedy can be dark, this is one dark comedy.
It’s also surprisingly informative. I can date my interest in World War I and modern American history to seeing this movie when it was released in 1969.
In his closing comments following the movie, General Clark said he hoped we had learned our lesson from this and all the other wars of the past century. I turned to Garry and said, “And what lesson, exactly, might that be?”
“Obviously,” said my husband, making a sour face, “We have learned nothing.”
I agree. Well, I guess we did learn a few things. We learned to build more efficient weapons, including weapons of mass destruction. We can kill more people faster — but no deader — than we did 100 years ago. Much of our military technology emerged during and post-WWI.
I don’t see this as progress. If you want to know why I’m so cynical, why I have trouble believing in a benign deity, look at the casualty figures from the collective wars of the past century.
I love this movie. Not only because of its historical veracity — it’s accurate — but because the music is wonderful. The cast includes everyone who was anyone in British cinema at the time — Laurence Olivier, John Gielgud, Maggie Smith, Vanessa Redgrave, Dirk Bogarde, Ralph Richardson and more, all having a great time.
I’ve seen this many times and I guess so has Garry since we can both know the words to all the songs.
Directed by Richard Attenborough (his directorial début)
I saw “Oh! What a Lovely War” when it was released in 1969 and never forgot it. Based on the long-running British stage production, it’s World War I — in song, dance, and irony. Its catchy score sticks in your brain.
The songs are those sung by the troop during that long war. The cast includes everyone who was anyone in British stage or screen during the 1960s. The credits were a veritable whos-who of English actors.
World War I is hard to understand, even when you study it. No matter how many books I read, I’m not sure I do or will. Its causes are rooted in old-world grudges that make no sense to Americans.
So many ancient hatreds — thousands of years of scores to be settled.
My mother summed it: “Everyone was armed to the teeth. They wanted war. They just needed an excuse. Europe was a giant bomb waiting for someone to light a match.”
Hers may be as good an answer as any other. When the war began, it was the old world. The crowned heads of Europe ruled. When it finally ground to a halt in 1918 (it didn’t really end — WWII was the second chapter of the same war), the world had changed beyond recognition. The European monarchies were gone. A generation of men had been slaughtered; the death toll was beyond belief. The callous indifference to the loss of life by those in command remains incomprehensible.
More than 9 million men were killed in battle. This does not include collateral damage to non-combatants and death by disease or starvation. It paved the way for major political upheaval throughout the world.
Says the movie at the beginning: “The principal statements made by the historical characters in this film are based on documentary evidence, and the words of the songs are those sung by the troops during the First World War.”
The first World War could be called an orchestrated, organized international effort to murder a generation of men. They did a good job.
The statements of the historical characters — all lodged a safe distance from the fighting — are ludicrous. General Haig, looking at the staggering loss of life on both sides, really said: “in the end, the Germans will have 5,000 men and we will have 10,000, so we will have won.”? He said it. And meant it.
The arrival of the Americans and their takeover of the endless war — bringing it to a conclusion while there was still something left to save — is a great cinematic moment. I wonder how long it would have gone on without American involvement? Would Europe exist or would it all be a wasteland?
The war is told with music and dancing. Songs mixed with pithy comments from generals, kings, Kaisers, and soldiers. It’s a long movie — 144 minutes — and I can promise you that you will have a far better and more visceral understanding of this war and what those little red poppies the Veterans organizations give out (do they still do that?) to commemorate the war to end all wars. Until the next war. And the one after that.
The music is ghastly, funny, catchy. The movie is out of print. It was only in print for a couple of months. I had been looking for it for a long time and was thrilled to snag a copy. A few copies are still available through Amazon. If you are a history buff and love great movies, grab one.
Great directing, biting sarcastic humor, terrific music and informative, this movie is in a category all by itself. It was unavailable for more than 20 years. You won’t be disappointed and you won’t forget it. In the 45 years since I first saw it, I haven’t forgotten it.
Richard Attenborough’s directorial début was this musical satire that deftly skewers the events of World War I — including the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, a Christmastime encounter between German and British forces, and the signing of the Treaty of Versailles — by portraying them as absurd amusement park attractions. The all-star cast includes Laurence Olivier, John Gielgud, Maggie Smith, Vanessa Redgrave, Dirk Bogarde, Ralph Richardson; look quickly for Jane Seymour in her screen début.
144 min. Widescreen (Enhanced); English Dolby Digital mono; Subtitles: English; audio commentary by Attenborough; “making of” documentary.
For a woman who is essentially religiously neutral, firmly clinging to my position of “no opinion” like a limpet on a wet rock with the tide coming in — I really love church music. I cannot help myself. Play me some Christmas carols and I am singing (croaking?) along with heartfelt enthusiasm.
Blame my elementary school teachers, not to mention all those little Christian girls with whom I grew up.
My parents neglected to mention I was Jewish. They failed to mention religion at all for the first 8 years of my life. I knew we didn’t have a Christmas tree. I knew my mother didn’t eat ham or bacon, but the rest of us ate it and my father cooked it.
I wanted Christmas and felt deprived every year when my friends had millions of presents and a big tree and we had Rudolf the Red-nosed Reindeer and Frosty the Snowman, two electrified plastic statues in our front window — the family’s nod to the holidays.
No menorah. No synagogue. No indication of any kind of holiday in progress except for our two plastic friends.
I didn’t know what a Jew was. I knew what a Catholic was because several friends went to St. Gerard’s, the nearby Catholic school. I knew what nuns and priests were. I could say the rosary, because Mary taught me.
I knew what Lutheran was, because Carol got time off every Wednesday afternoon to go for religious instruction. I had heard about Sunday School. And Mass. And services.
One day, at school, they showed a series of films designed to teach us to not be anti-Semites or racists.
It was a strip film with sound. Joe was on a trapeze trying to do a flying somersault. The catcher, clearly Jewish because he had a big star of David on his chest, was the catcher. But Joe, a blatant anti-Semite, wouldn’t take Joe’s hands and fell to the floor. Splat.
“Don’t be a shmo, Joe. Be in the know, Joe. Be in the know, and you won’t fall on your face.”
Then we got a lecture on being nice to Jews. I went home and asked my parents, “What’s a Jew?”
Mom turned to Dad and said these immortal words, “Albert, we have to do something about this.”
Shortly thereafter, my peaceful Sunday mornings were interrupted by boring classes at the nearby synagogue. I would come home pumped up on bible stories which my mother, the atheist, would promptly debunk. It wasn’t long before I was allowed to stop attending. It was clearly not “my thing.” If they’d let me out on Wednesday afternoon at 1 pm like the Christian kids, I’d have gone with more enthusiasm, just to get off from school early.
That being said, my enthusiasm for church music remains unabated. I love hymns, the organ, choirs. The blending of voices tugs at my heartstrings. I sang my heart out in the glee clubs of childhood and the All-City Chorus (Mozart’s Requiem — I was an alto) in High School. And in college I was a music major.
It made my mother more than a little nervous as I wandered around the house singing the Mass in Latin. I did explain to her that the history of Western music is church music. From plainsong to Hayden, Bach, Mozart and all the others who have followed.
Organized religion is the primary consumer of choral music. I am by no means the only person who can be lured into a church by a good choir.
If Sunday morning services were all music without the rest of the yada, yada, I’d be there. From gospel to the local children’s choir, it’s all beautiful to me.
I suppose finally discovering I was of Jewish origin should have grounded me somehow, but it didn’t. Not really. It set me on a much longer path that I am still walking. Forever the seeker, I have learned it’s the journey that matters.
Way back when … No, wait. Let’s take that from the top.
WAY back when I was halfway between toddler and kindergarten, it was discovered that I had some kind of musical ability. My brother was taking piano lessons, but I could play them and he couldn’t. Turned out, he was tone-deaf. All he wanted was a ball, a bat, and lemme outta this house!
Through the wood glider
So he got the ball and bat and I got the piano lessons. Tickling the ivories, it was called because back then, piano keys were made of ivory. Or had been. By the time I got my grand piano — a 14th birthday gift from mom — they were hard plastic. Steinway didn’t want any more dead elephants on their conscience.
I got pretty good at tickling those ivories, but not good enough to be a serious performer. The truth was, I didn’t really want to be a musician. I was going to write great novels and be famous, live alone in a house on a cliff in Maine overlooking the Atlantic Ocean.
I woke up this morning with an earworm. Not your normal earworm. Mine was a 1920s earworm. It was a song my mother sang often and for once, she actually got the words right. Ask any member of my family and they will assure you: my mother never ever remembered the words to any song — except this one. She would sing words from other songs to whatever melody was bouncing around in her head.
So I get up this morning and this is what I’m hearing, but without the scratches:
And by golly, the words I had in my head were dead on. Next, the obvious question arises:
How did Google get its name? – Mobilis In Mobile
The mysterious mysteries of the Internet!
You may have read this kind of “official answer: “Google derived its name from the word “googol”, a term coined by then nine-year-old Milton Sirotta, nephew of the American mathematician Edward Kasner. … Google was named after Barney Google.”
Barney Google – The History
But will you ever feel the same way about Google again? I bet you won’t! And it all began with an early morning earworm!
It was a 1960 pop single that kids used to sing outside of school and on the streets. Usually, it was making fun of adults: teachers, parents, politicians, and others who they dissed from the temerity of youth.
It’s not something we — of a certain age — say about those who do most of their socializing via texts and emails. We value the word, conversation, face-to-face sharing of thoughts and beliefs.
As a youngster at large family gatherings, I remember the older men — uncles, cousins and male hangers-on, emboldened by liquor and loud Carribean music casting insults at the women in the house. When they were inevitably chastized, one of the men usually would bellow, “Woman, you talk too much.”
Most of the men, shielding themselves from a proper physical response, would giggle in a protective huddle. Much like a bad football team after committing an egregious foul.
“You talk Too Much”? In my youthful mind, I wondered how my elders dare say such an obviously disrespectful thing. I couldn’t in my boldest young bombast even consider saying that to an elder. Certainly not my Mom. I’d be picking up my teeth scattered around the room after the two slaps on my cherubic face.
It IS something I now mumble at the political blabbathons as Presidential wannabees stumble over themselves, verbally shooting each other in the feet and leaving us — the losers — as we try to zero in on a preferred candidate to take on the current White House squatter whose rent is overdue. Yes, you people, you talk too much and don’t say things that will make us believe in you and your candidacy.
I’m growing increasingly angry with baseball’s TV sports talk jocks who think their jibber-jabber is more important than the high anxiety postseason games. The nonstop verbal poop is often insulting when it’s obvious these people don’t know the basics of our national pastime.
This 77-year-old retired TV Newsie with 40 plus years on the job, YELLSprofanities at the Sports yakkers. The nicest thing I can offer is: “You talk too much!”
I wrestle with the image of my sportscaster hero — the iconic Vin Scully — who truly was a wordsmith, mixing in Shakespeare, baseball play-by-play and John Keats — without missing a beat and allowing minutes of silence to heighten the import of an excellent, game-changing play. Alas, Vin Scully, closing in on 90, chose to retire still at the top of his game.1
In my best Brandon DeWilde “Shane” plea, Vin Scully, come back! We need you now more than ever! EVERYBODY needs you. Come back, Mr. Scully, please!
Those of you of a certain age can, perhaps, see and hear Archie Bunker yelling at his wife and son-in-law: “Hey, youse! Ya givin’ me a headache. Stifle ya-selves. You talk too much”.
No, Pilgrim, I’m not going there. As sure as the turning of the earth, I’m not going there.
I am retired which is, by definition, adrift. This is a good thing and the real reason we retire. After a life of deadlines and commuting, some drifting seems like a good idea. So here I am. Just drifting along with the tumbling tumbleweed … with memories of those great cowboy movies of childhood.
Hi Roy! Hi Trigger! Hey, Bullet! Hope y’all are doing well. I miss you. All of you. You were the good guys. We trusted you. Where are you now, when we need you?
Meanwhile, I’ll just be drifting. Considering one thing and another, I might also be asleep.
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