The suggestion for inspiration on the Inspire Me Thursday website is “in good company”.
Lon Chaney Jr. was in good company with Bela Lugosi, Boris Karloff and his father, Lon Chaney Sr. However, Lon Chaney Jr. is the only actor to have played all four major Universal Monsters.
This week’s inspirational word on Inspire Me Thursday is “chair”.
My brother was born in 1957. The Pincus family was a nice, sweet, calm family for four and a half years. Then little Josh was born and all hell broke loose.
It began when I was brought home from the hospital. My parents thought it would be nice if the baby brought a present for his big brother. They stopped at a toy store on the way home from the hospital. My father ran in and, being 1961, had no problem purchasing a wood and metal rifle for his older son as a gift from his infant. My mother and father arrived home with brand new baby Josh. At first, my brother expressed disappointment at the sight of a baby. When my mom had explained that a “new playmate” would be coming, he expected one of his own age immediately ready to play. He never imagined it would come in the form of a whining and crying poop machine. The gift of the rifle softened his initial reaction — until years later, after mastering walking and hand-eye coordination, I broke that rifle.
The family home, in a budding Northeast Philadelphia neighborhood, was a great place. My brother had a huge backyard in which to romp and play and develop his eventual athletic ability. Access to the large front lawn was unobstructed and it offered a comparable open space. When I gained confidence in my walking skills, my parents were forced to construct a chain-link fence around the perimeter of their property, complete with a hinged gate with a large steel padlock. My mother often told of the endless hours I would spend trying to pick that lock and plotting my escape.
I started kindergarten at Stephen Decatur Elementary School in 1966. My mom began a small business of transporting my classmates from the neighborhood to kindergarten. She drove a station wagon that featured a large flat area behind the front seats when the rear seats were folded down. Approximately fifteen tykes were sloshed around the back of that car unencumbered by seatbelts or any sort of safety restraints. After all, this was the freewheeling 60s and child safety was not a concern. My classmates’ parents were happy not to be burdened with driving their kids to school themselves, so, for this service, my mom received a small weekly fee. My mom kept that service up for thirteen years, with the fee escalating only slightly.
My parents were a bit apprehensive about the start of my school career. They were very familiar with my out-of-control behavior, but few people outside of the family were. Once I entered the classroom and was introduced to my classmates, things were pretty uneventful. I listened to my teacher and did as I was instructed. I happily and complacently participated in playtime, storytime and whatever-else “time” that was part of the curriculum. One day, I witnessed a fellow kindergartner push another student. In full view of the entire class of wide-eyed, innocent pupils, the offending five-year old was led to a large wooden chair situated in a corner of the room. He was reprimanded by the teacher and made to sit in “The Big Chair” and think about what he had done. He sat as if in the pillory in a colonial townsquare, on public display, open to the class to bestow their silent mockery upon him. After a period of time, his sentence was served and he was free to rejoin the class activities. I, however, was intrigued by the Chair. It was so big and ominous, sitting at the far end of the classroom in a veritable “no man’s land”. During regular classtime, no one played near it. The teacher read stories far away from it. When we rested on our mats for naptime, the Chair stood silent and menacing in that dimly-lit room. As the days and weeks went on, several more of my classmates committed offenses worthy of a stretch in The Big Chair. As I observed them in their dire, sometimes tearful state, suddenly, it occured to me — I needed to sit in that chair. I thought about what horrible act, what heinous deed I could perform to get to sit in that Chair. I was determined.
Honestly, I don’t remember what I did. After all, it was 43 years ago. But, it was something. Something so awful that my teacher had no choice but to make me sit in that Chair. I was elated. I was led to the Chair as a death row inmate is led to his final destination. I climbed up the wooden rungs of its thick legs and planted my butt on its huge flat seat. The view from up there was not as rewarding as I had imagined. The feeling that those staring tiny and forlorn faces gave me was not what I had hoped for.
It sucked being in The Big Chair.
The word of inspiration on the Inspire Me Thursday illustration blog is “pear”.
The poor pear. The pear has always gotten a raw deal. It’s been treated as a second-class fruit — the red-headed stepchild of the produce world.
New York City is “The Big Apple”, not the “Big Pear”. An endearing term for a loved one is “the apple of my eye”. The noble apple stands for heart-stirring patriotism. It’s as “American as apple pie”, for goodness sake! Car enthusiasts long to paint their ride “candy apple red”, ’cause that would make it cherry. Apple sauce and apple juice are always at the forefront of baby’s first foods. As kids get older, Kellogg’s offers them Apple Jacks and McDonald’s offers apple slices as an alternative for french fries.
Apples even have enticing names like “Granny Smith” (how warm and homey!), “Red Delicious” and “Golden Delicious”. Do you think Steve Jobs just arbitrarily chose “Apple” for the name of his company? He didn’t go with “Pear” for a reason. Pears have stupid, almost unpronounceable names, like Bosc or D’anjou. And I don’t even know if I spelled those correctly. Sure, there’s Bartlett, too. Ever know anyone named “Bartlet”? He was that fat kid in elementary school. You know, the bookworm that everyone made fun of. And, of course, no one wants to be referred to as “pear-shaped”.
And it’s not just apples that overshadow pears. There are grapes with their tag as “Nature’s Candy”. The sour lemon is renowned for its deliciously refreshing summertime beverage. The mysterious pomegranate is also known as a Chinese apple to add to its appeal. There’s the sensuous strawberry, favored by candy-makers to dip into chocolate. There are bananas, with their splits and cream pies and their comedic notoriety from their peels. Slip on a banana peel and it’s funny. Slip on a pear peel and you’ll break your fucking neck. Even the exotic kiwi is chosen from a fruit basket before the lowly pear.
So, give a little support to the poor genus Pyrus L in the class of Maloideae in the subfamily Rosaceae.
And pass me an apple.
The word of inspiration on Inspire Me Thursday is “cupcake”.
As mentioned many, many times on this blog, I love going to Disney theme parks. I went to Walt Disney World for the first time when I was nineteen. My wife and I went to Walt Disney World on our honeymoon. We took our son to Walt Disney World many times on family vacations. In 2004, we decided to stray from our usual pilgrimage to Walt’s Florida amusement enterprise in favor of a more adult experience. We planned a trip to Las Vegas. Our plans included a room at Excalibur, The Strip’s version of Camelot with slot machines. We took in a kitschy show called “The Rat Pack Returns”, a tribute to the heyday of 1960s-era Las Vegas. Longing for the familiarity of a Disney theme park, we planned to rent a car and drive four hours through the Mojave to Anaheim, California, the home of Disneyland, Walt Disney’s original park.
Everyone told us we’d be greatly disappointed in Disneyland. After years of extended visits to the sprawling mecca that is Walt Disney World, Disneyland would seem like a shopping-center parking lot carnival. We were warned of its puny size, its lack of atmosphere and its ancient and dated rides. Defying all warnings, we went ahead with our plans. We enjoyed three days in Nevada’s Sin City and, with our rental car loaded with suitcases and snacks, headed across the desert.
We came off of Interstate 91 at the Harbor Boulevard exit. My wife maneuvered our rental left onto Harbor Boulevard, past a post office, several fast food restaurants, a few unfamiliar West Coast gas stations and many hotels varying in degrees of luxury. Just ahead, a familiar sight emerged from unfamiliar surroundings. The unmistakable retro-future shape of Space Mountain sprang up from behind some trees, just a few feet from midday traffic. Just beyond that, the ominous Hollywood Tower Hotel, home of Disney’s signature Tower of Terror ride, loomed above the pedestrians waiting for the green light signaling a safe crosswalk. Jesus Christ! Disneyland is right THERE! Right there on the fucking street! Disneyland, for crissakes!
We located our hotel, checked in, hurriedly dumped our luggage and rushed across the street to Disneyland. Disneyland! Right across the street from our hotel! It was a mere minute and a half walk to the entrance gate. Just beyond the gate was the familar elevated railroad platform, although this one was emblazoned “Disneyland” instead of “Walt Disney World”. We walked through the tunnel underpass and were greeted by another familiar, yet slightly unfamiliar sight. Main Street USA looked like an old friend, yet also like a stranger. The turn-of-the-century buildings were slightly rearranged from our memory. The Camera Shop was at the end of the street. There was a magic shop on the corner instead of a candy store. And the candy store was in the middle of the block, across the street. It was like Twilight Zone Disney. And that’s how the rest of the park presented itself, as a slightly skewed version of our beloved Florida Magic Kingdom. However, the more time we spent exploring and experiencing Walt Disney’s original dream, the more endearing and charming it became. There were rides (like Pinocchio’s Daring Journey) that were exclusive to Disneyland and old favorites (like Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride) long removed from its Florida counterpart. We fell in love with Disneyland and enjoyed it so much, we returned for four consecutive summers.
In the early summer of 2008, my wife returned to Walt Disney World for a two-week trip with her family — a trip on which my son and I were not invited. While I went to work, I kept in regular cellphone contact with my wife. She told of new attractions, new additions and reminded me of Disney World favorites almost brushed from my memory. She also reminded me of those cupcakes. The Walt Disney World bakeries offer an over-sized, butter cream frosting topped, parchment cup full of heaven. And they are everywhere! In every park. In every hotel. At every restaurant. I had forgotten about them until I was reminded of their deliciousness. When she finally returned home, along with more stories of Walt Disney World adventures, I began to think about making another visit to the park I thought I’d never visit again.
Last week, my family and I returned from a week at Walt Disney World. I can honestly say, I was a little disappointed. Walt Disney World caters to the masses. It has become the destination for the lowest common denominator. Don’t get me wrong — the place is magnificent. The detail and theming of the resort hotels is beautiful. The staff throughout Disney property is wonderful and will bend over backwards to make sure their guests are exceptionally happy. The problem is the tourists. Walt Disney World draws a noticeably different clientele from Disneyland. Disneyland is a quaint, yet overly clever, amusement park in the middle of a major city suburb. Southern California residents can wake up in the morning and say “Hey! Let’s go to Disneyland!” A trip to Walt Disney World is as involved as plotting a military coup. Our hotel in Anaheim was — no exaggeration — a few steps from the Magic Kingdom. Our accommodations in Walt Disney World, because of the massive size of the Disney-owned property, was a long walk to a bus stop followed by a fifteen minute bus ride, followed by another long walk to the front gate of a theme park. All in 95% humidity or sporadic thunderstorms. At the end of a grueling thirteen hour day of tiring fun, the process of returning to our hotel was an additional and unwelcome nearly sixty minutes.
Sure, there is plenty of ingenious design in Walt Disney World, but the majority of it is lost on the screaming kids in their Bibbity-Bobbity-Boutique makeovers, the angry dads in their horrific Hawaiian shirts and Bluetooth headsets and the preoccupied moms in their Kate Gosselin haircuts, methodically marking off each conquered attraction on their park guide map. Walt Disney World is the perfect vacation objective for the WalMart-shopping, Larry the Cable Guy-watching, Hannah Montana-buying nuclear family. And Disney knows it.
While we did have a good time in Walt Disney World, seeing new attractions and experiencing new sights, I don’t see myself returning any time soon. I look forward to a trip to Disneyland next year. Although, Disneyland doesn’t have those damn cupcakes.
The ispirational word this week on the InspireMeThursday website is “holes”.
“There’s nothing wrong with you that a gaping hole drilled into your skull under unsanitary conditions couldn’t cure.”
Trepanation. An innocent enough sounding term.
Trepanation is an antiquated and misguided medical procedure in which a hole is drilled into the human skull, thus exposing the meningeal layers surrounding the brain in order to treat health problems related to intracranial diseases. Evidence of trepanation has been found in prehistoric human remains and in civilizations all over the world.
In modern times, trepanation is used for epidural and subdural hematomas, and for surgical access for certain other neurosurgical procedures, such as intracranial pressure monitoring. Modern surgeons generally use the term craniotomy for this procedure. The removed piece of skull is typically replaced as soon as possible.
The practice of trepanation for other purported medical benefits continues has developed a small cult following. This movement was furthered by the writings of Bart Huges, a self-proclaimed ”expert” on the subject of trepanation, although he did not complete his medical degree. Hughes claims that trepanation increases “brain blood volume” and thereby enhances cerebral metabolism.
Heroes among the supporters of trepanation are Joey Mellen and Amanda Fileding. Mellen and Fielding made two attempts at trepanning Mellen. The second attempt ended up with Mellen in the hospital, where he was sent for psychiatric evaluation. When he finally returned home, Mellen decided to try again. Amanda Fielding performed self-trepanation, while Mellen filmed the operation. Fielding stood before a mirror and pierced her skull with a common power dill. With her head wrapped in gauze and a blood-soaked smile on her face, she offered the play-by-play of her procedure, eventually closed the wound and, several hours later, accompanied Mellen to a restaurant for dinner. She never lost consciousness.
The inspirational word this week on Inspire Me Thursday is “glasses”.
Although he had been to countless Oktoberfest celebrations, Günther could never get the hang of clinking glasses.
The inspirational word on Inspire Me Thursday this week is “owl”.
Despite his claims of being a night owl, Stanley fell asleep in the spinach-artichoke dip at 7:18 pm.
The word of inspiration on Inspire Me Thursday is “cheeks”.
When Harpo Marx was a kid in New York, he perfected “The Gookie” — his signature, sure-fire, laugh-getting face. Harpo worked “The Gookie” into every comedy act and movie for his entire career. The face — involving the puffing of the cheeks, the crossing of the eyes and a fat, lolling tongue sticking out of the mouth — had its beginnings in an unusual spot.
Gookie rolled cigars in a storefront on Lexington Avenue. Harpo was fascinated by this man. He was stocky, with skin the color of the cigar leaves he rolled. He wore elastic bands around his dirty shirt sleeves to keep them from interfering in his work. While he worked, he unconciously made the face. Harpo would stand and stare for hours, making mental notes with which to perfect the “Gookie” face. Harpo would then go home and practice making the face in the mirror. One day he felt he had it down perfectly. He stood in front of ther cigar store window and rapped on the glass. When the annoyed cigar roller looked up, Harpo “threw him a Gookie”. He became enraged. His anger caused him to make the face with even more intensity. This was the reaction Harpo was looking for. Harpo taunted Gookie with his own face for years.
Harpo credits Gookie for inspiring his acting career.
The word of inspiration this week on the Inspire Me Thursday website is “chalk”.
They’re out to get you, better leave while you can
Don’t wanna be a boy, you wanna be a man,
You wanna stay alive, better do what you can
So beat it, just beat it
The Inspire Me Thursday inspirational word this week is “ticket”.
I live in Philadelphia and I’ve been going to baseball games for a very long time. I struggled alongside the struggling Phillies in those years in the late ’90s when they out-and-out stunk! I also sat in the stands as the Phillies fought their way to their second World Series Championship in 2008. To paraphrase James Earl Jones from “Field of Dreams”: There has been one constant through the years…” The parking lot ticket scapers. These guys fascinate me. I see them every game as I drive through the gates to park the car. They prowl the lots displaying a homemade sign of torn corrugated pasteboard. They exhibit their stock of tickets like a burlesque fan dancer. They also look like they don’t have two nickels to rub together. They address everyone who passes by them with, “Need tickets?”, followed by “Selling tickets?” I don’t understand. Can’t they make up their minds?
It not like Phillies tickets are a rare commodity. Sure, they sell out games now that they have a World Series trophy, but usually tickets are pretty easy to come by. Most games have tickets available at the door.
I’m almost positive that the guys in the torn shorts and stained t-shirts aren’t authorized ticket resellers.
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