IF: craving

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if you've got a passion for fashion
“A Brief History of Josh Pincus is Crying, As Seen Through Chinese Food”

I love Chinese food. I always have. Given a choice of “What’s for dinner?” (and pizza wasn’t available), I’d always pick Chinese food.

My craving for Chinese food began when I was a little kid. Except then, it was Chinese food as I knew it in my little sheltered world. In the late 1960s, my parents’ idea of Chinese food was limited to the offerings of two restaurants in the ethnically diverse Northeast Philadelphia. (By ethnically diverse, I mean Jews and non-Jews.) At that time, Northeast Philadelphia Jews kept these two Chinese restaurants in business. There was Kum Lin and, a short distance away, Kum Tong. They were owned by the same family and their menus each contained identical entries. My parents favored Kum Lin, I suppose, because it was a short driving distance from our house involving very few turns. My father preferred the quickest and least complicated route to any destination. He also had a very low tolerance for waiting in line at restaurants. Kum Lin offered almost immediate seating.

I think always I liked the exotic feel that Chinese restaurants exuded. The atmosphere at Kum Lin, even with its Northeast Philadelphia quaintness, was as mysterious as anything I’d witnessed in my eight year-old life. My family was greeted by the friendly hostess who silently directed us to a table. After carefully perusing the menus, they would order the same thing they always ordered. They requested what they perceived as romantically foreign cuisine. Delicacies they imagined were consumed by Emperor Zhengtong himself in the early reign of the Ming Dynasty. They ordered wonton soup, chicken chow mein and barbecued spare ribs. They were in the lap of Asian luxury. At eight years-old, I didn’t possess the developed palate or the adventurous culinary nature of my Mom and Dad. I sat up proudly and bid the waiter to bring me a hot turkey sandwich – the rarest of all authentic Chinese fare (Kum Lin, to my delight, offered four entrees on their American menu). While my mom munched on the translucent vegetable and chicken-y mixture and my dad gnawed on bony hunks of burnt orange-sauced meat, I savored those slices of white turkey flesh slathered in neon yellow gravy. I imaged that this is what they ate on Thanksgiving in Shanghai.

When I was a little older, my parents ventured out of the Northeast to Philadelphia’s Chinatown. This was a big step for my father, as it required driving more than fifteen minutes and going further south than Cottman Avenue (see previous reference here.) A trip to Philadelphia’s Chinatown was true adventure. Actually, anything outside of Northeast Philadelphia was an adventure. Philadelphia’s Chinatown runs from 8th to 13th and Arch to Vine in center city Philadelphia. Those ten city blocks are clogged with restaurants from almost every Asian culture offering authentically prepared and served food. Some eateries display sauce-smeared duck carcasses in their front windows. Others exhibit tanks of swimming sea-life just moments away from being that evening’s special. Most restaurants are marked by huge red and yellow signs identifying themselves as providing “the best food in Chinatown.” Even while surrounded by endless dinner options, my parents exercised their “devil-may-care” attitude and still ordered wonton soup, chicken chow mein and spare ribs. As restaurants in Chinatown did not offer American dishes, I reluctantly ate wonton soup and a large plate full of fried chow mein noodles covered in sweet duck sauce.

When I got my driver’s license and began dating, I wanted to impress Stefanie Werner. I took her to a small Chinese restaurant, not too far from Kum Lin. I wouldn’t go to Kum Lin in fear I would run into my parents and be embarrassed by their limited Chinese food ordering ability. Acting my role as the big-shot, I was put in my place, as I soon found out that Stefanie was a risk-taker when it came to ordering Chinese food. Her philosophy was “If you can’t pronounce it, order it.” Since I had only ever ordered a Chinese hot turkey sandwich, I was nervous. Stefanie ordered something called “Moo Shu Pork.” When it arrived, she pointed out the small chunks of heart and lung mingling with the vegetables. She deftly rolled a heaping spoonful up into one of the accompanying paper-thin pancakes and popped it into her mouth. She looked across the table at me, expecting me to repeat her action. I gulped, slowly copied her maneuvers and, with eyes tightly clamped, squeamishly took a bite of my assemblage. It was pretty good. A new avenue of eating just opened up and I got pretty courageous in my future Chinese food orders. I even learned to use chopsticks.

For my first date with the future Mrs. Pincus, I took her to Ho Sai Gai, a popular restaurant in Philadelphia’s Chinatown. She had mentioned in our phone conversation that she kept strictly kosher. I had a very lenient (read: non-observant) Jewish upbringing, so “kosher” to me meant complaining like my grandmother. Totally ignoring her dietary restrictions, I took her to this establishment where she was limited to one or two choices from the menu. She settled on plain broccoli over plain rice. I ordered lemon chicken and innocently offered her a trayfe (non-kosher) sample. I was a bit insulted when she refused, behaving as though I offered her a freshly-severed rat head.

My wife spent several years at New York University. When we were dating, she raved about a small restaurant in New York City’s Chinatown called Szechuan Cuisine. She told of their specialty concoction, the likes of which I’d never heard. She described a bowl of cold, cooked vermicelli noodles drenched in thick, dry sesame paste and sprinkled with slivered cucumbers, accented with sesame seeds. “Cold Noodles in Sesame Sauce” was how it was expressed on the menu. Early in our relationship, we trekked to the Big Apple and, while I sat in the car at an expired parking meter, she dashed across Mott Street and returned with a little folded white box of ambrosia — covered in sesame sauce. It was delicious. Sadly, on a subsequent trip, Szechuan Cuisine had closed. The location boarded up.

After I got married, I, too, began to observe the laws of kashrut. To avoid lengthy explanations to uninterested waitstaff, my family and I just announce ourselves as vegetarians. Most Chinese restaurants have plenty of menu selections to accommodate those who wish to avoid meat. With big business becoming aware of more people changing their eating habits to include healthy foods, I was even able to find Chinese vegetable stir-fry at Angels Stadium in Anaheim. Three years ago, I, myself, became a vegetarian. There is a Chinese restaurant in my neighborhood that has an extensive vegetarian menu. Every year they give me a gaudy, gold-embossed calendar decorated with frightening drawings of dragons and fairies. But, the food is good.

My experiences with Chinese food have changed significantly over forty years. My craving for Chinese food has never diminished. Of course, in China, they just call it “food.”

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IMT: the lost art of letter writing

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The inspiration this week on the Inspire Me Thursday blog is “the lost art of letter writing”.
got a box full of letters think you might like to read

February 6, 1964

Dear Pete,

Hello, bloke. How’ve you been? I know it’s been about a fortnight since you went to visit your mum. (How is the old bird, by the by?) We haven’t been able to talk to you about some important things in the band. We been invited by a man called Ed Sullivan to appear on the telly in America. He’s got this gear programme and he asked Brian if we’d like to play for an American audience. Of course, Brian said “Brilliant!” It’s really smashing!

Hey, remember that geezer called Ringo what drums for Rory Storm and The Hurricanes? Well, he was kind enough to join us on the trip to America when we couldn’t track you down. We rang up your mum, but she said you borrowed the lorry to pop into town for a pack of fags. She said you wouldn’t be gone but a pinch. I guess in all the excitement, I forgot all about ringing you back. Anyways, we had to make a quick decision and Paul and George thought Ringo could go. I know he’s not a proper drummer, but we were in a bit of a pickle.

Don’t worry, Pete. I’m sure this trip won’t amount to much and we’ll be back gigging the Cavern soon. See you when we get back. We won’t forget about you.

Your mate,

John

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from my sketchbook: jaco pastorius

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The Greatest Bass Player Who Has Ever Lived
In 2006, Jaco Pastorius was voted “The Greatest Bass Player Who Has Ever Lived” by reader submissions in Bass Guitar magazine. His short, but extremely influential career ended abruptly, but not unexpectedly.

From unlikely beginnings in Norristown Pennsylvania, Jaco Pastorius moved with his family to Fort Lauderdale, Florida at a young age. He started his first band in high school as a drummer. A football injury to his wrist ended his drumming aspirations and he took up the electric bass to fills a void left by a departed band member. Jaco, however, longed to play the upright bass. He tried to save money to purchase one, but his meager savings didn’t increase quickly enough. At the time, Fender didn’t make a fretless bass. One day, he pried the frets out of his electric Fender bass with a butter knife. He filled the gaps in with wood putty and covered the neck with marine varnish. He listened to and his playing was influenced by jazz bassists like Jerry Jemmott and Harvey Brooks. He performed with his friend, jazz guitarist Pat Metheny. Jaco recorded and released his self-titled debut album in 1976.

Soon after the release of his debut, he joined the band Weather Report. Jaco entered Weather Report during the recording sessions for Black Market, and he became a vital part of the band because of the quality of his bass playing, his skills as a composer and his exuberant showmanship on stage. One night before a gig, Jaco was offered a drink to loosen up. Jaco had never drank liquor before due to his father’s own struggles with alcohol, but after two drinks, he started throwing things and became erratic. Jaco’s drinking grew more out of control as the years progressed. On the verge of being fired in mid-tour, Jaco apologized profusely to Weather Report keyboardist Joe Zawinul, and was admitted back into the group.

In the mid 80s, Jaco began to experience increasingly severe mental health problems. These were worsened by drug and alcohol use, and he was eventually diagnosed as suffering from bipolar disorder. He had to be pulled off stage during the 1984 Playboy Jazz Festival because of his drunkenness. His unpredictable behavior made him an outcast in the musical community. He was relegated to performances at smaller venues, but as his behavior became too much, he was banned by one club after another.

In 1987, after sneaking onstage at a Carlos Santana concert, he was ejected from the premises. He made his way to the Midnight Club in Wilton Manors, Florida. Jaco kicked in a glass door after being refused entrance to the club. He was then severely beaten by the club’s bouncer. Jaco was hospitalized for multiple facial fractures, damage to his right eye and right arm, in addition to irreversible brain damage. He fell into a coma and passed away on September 21, 1987 at 35.


Weather Report, featuring Jaco Pastorius on bass, performs their infectious version of “Birdland” fom 1978.

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from my sketchbook: allan sherman

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I know a man, his name is Lang and he has a neon sign. Now Mr. Lang is very old so, they call it....
When I was five or six, my favorite singer was Allan Sherman. I listened to my parents’ Allan Sherman records. They had his first five releases. I knew every lyric to every song. I knew the order of every song on every album. My Mom and Dad roared with laughter at Sherman’s songs and laughed even harder at their six year-old mimic. But the funniest thing of all was that I had no clue what Allan Sherman was singing about. I had no idea that these songs were parodies of traditional and popular melodies. I didn’t understand the double meanings and intricate wordplay that Sherman worked into each of his songs. I just thought they were funny songs with funny words sung by a funny man with big funny glasses.

When I was older, I remember being embarassed the first time I heard Ponchielli’s Dance of the Hours and sang the familar lyrics of “Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah”, thinking it was just an orchestral arrangement of the classic Allan Sherman composition. As the years went on, I heard more and more original versions of songs that Allan Sherman so expertly satirized. And I finally understood why they were funny.

My son grew up listening to a local Philadelphia radio show called Kids Corner. The host, Kathy O’Connell  regularly plays “You Went The Wrong Way, Old King Louie”and has introduced a new generation to Allan Sherman. Someday, those kids will understand why that song is funny.

I'm singing you the ballad/Of a great man of the cloth/His name was Harry Lewis/And he worked for Irving Roth/He died while cutting velvet/On a hot July the 4th/But his cloth goes shining on
Allan Sherman passed away from emphysema just before his 49th birthday.
I visited his grave on August 11, 2008 – my 47th birthday.

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IMT: altered ancestors

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Shake hands with your Uncle Max, my boy, and here is your sister Shirl, and here is your cousin Isabel, that's Irving's oldest girl
This is the story of my great-great uncle, Aloysius Josh Pincus, the man for whom I am named.

Just prior to the turn of the twentieth century, Aloysius ran the soda fountain at Blehall’s Pharmacy, a sprawling retail establishment housed on the street level of a massive and ornate building at the corner of 14th and Broad in center city Philadelphia. The multi-department store offered a variety of merchandise that met the needs of the developing downtown community. A small stock of a multitude of items allowed Blehall’s to be in mild competition with the powerhouse department stores like Gimbel Brothers, Lit Brothers and the iron-fisted, fearsome Wanamaker Triplets. But it was Aloysius’s soda fountain that gave Blehall’s a competitive edge. Owner Emil Blehall operated the retail end of the store. He allowed Aloysius complete control of the fountain, a decision with which he was quite comfortable.

The fountain area, a beautiful marriage of dark oak and elegant white marble with sparkling swan-head seltzer dispensers, was tucked along the back wall of Blehall’s, adjacent to the pharmacy. Customers filling prescriptions would often bide their waiting time with a slice of pie or a quick liquid refreshment. Aloysius’s fruit beverages were wildly popular and famous throughout the city. Excited praise for his wonderful citrus and dairy blended concoctions reached as far as the Jersey shore. Sure, the sandwiches served at the fountain’s small counter were good — sometimes even rivaling the surrounding luncheonettes and pushcarts— but, it was Aloysius’s nectar amalgams that brought the crowds in.

But Aloysius Pincus was never satisfied. He was on a constant quest to find new and innovative flavors. He took tediously long trips. He traveled around the world — by train, motorcar, carriage, barge, and sometimes horseback — to find exotic essences and extracts that would add a unique zing to his standard offerings. Besides fulfilling his loyal customers’ cravings, Aloysius was driven by another purpose. He needed to bring down Julius Orangestein, the bane of his existence.

Julius Orangestein was the inventor of the renowned “Orange Julius,” a sweet fruit and milk beverage that was gaining popularity on the West coast. Orangestein had set up a single 10 foot by 10 foot stand in an empty lot in downtown Los Angeles and thirsty patrons came from miles, sometimes standing in line for hours. Cheerful teens in bowties and paper hats rapidly took customers’ orders and served them as fast as they could. They squeezed and poured and blended the ingredients with lightning-quick choreography. Orangestein stocked the barebones stand with three blenders, milk from northern California cows and bushels and bushels of southern California oranges. In an area at the rear of the stand rested a large and ominous chest freezer. The freezer held the secret to the success of the Orange Julius. The fresh-faced employees would first fill the blender canisters with the juice from several squished oranges and add a few glugs from a pitcher of milk. Then, with their backs to the customer, they would scoop something from the freezer and, in one fluid motion, place the container on the base and whirr the mixture into cold, frothy heaven.

Aloysius was determined to outdo his cross country rival. He tirelessly worked long after Blehall’s posted closing time, until the wee hours of the night. He mixed and blended the assortment of fruits, berries and other exotic additives he collected on his globe-spanning journeys. He experimented with different measurements of the ingredients and after much tasting and trial-and-error, Aloysius was content. This was his chance to show up old Orangestein before he had the opportunity to move his product eastward. Aloysius felt he had a few advantages over Orangestein. He used ingredients to which Orangestein had no access. He had also befriended a young and eager appliance salesman named Hamilton Beach and purchased exclusive distribution rights to his new blending machine. So, armed with his culinary knowledge, special ingredients and Beach’s “Electro-fied Blenderizer,” Aloysius defiantly took on his enemy.

The next day he displayed a huge hand-painted sign on a large easel near the fountain counter. The sign announced the arrival of the newest delight — “The Delicious Aloysius.” So well respected was Aloysius’s soda fountain prowess, the queue for the new beverage stretched for blocks within the first few minutes of the store’s opening. The general reaction from the crowd was positive, but soon a few contrary comments caught Aloysius’s ear.

“This is good,”  began one bearded gentleman after a sip of his Delicious Aloysius, “but I just returned from Los Angeles and it really is no comparison to the Orange Julius.”

Several more men, those who traveled extensively for business, echoed the first man’s sentiment. Soon, Blehall’s Pharmacy was buzzing with curiosity and praise for the Orange Julius. Aloysius was incensed. Damn Orangestein. Damn him and his Orange Julius.

The World’s Fair was held in Chicago from May to October of 1893. People from across the country came to see the newest innovations in technology – a veritable glimpse into the future. Julius Orangestein and Aloysius Josh Pincus each planned to introduce their product on a national level at the event. They were given similar-sized stalls in the food section of the Fair, among the booths introducing Cracker Jack, Cream of Wheat, Juicy Fruit gum and hamburgers. Aloysius had secured a ride to the fair from his friend Milton Hershey, who came to observe and possibly purchase a European exhibitor’s chocolate manufacturing equipment. Hershey had designs on adding chocolate to his failing caramel business, hoping that would give it the boost it needed. Aloysius began setting up his stand, making it presentable for the Fair’s opening the next day. He was lugging trays of boxed chokeberries and fresh maypops, when he looked up and saw Julius Orangestein directing some workmen at a stand one away from his own. The workers were guiding equipment, wooden crates of produce and serving paraphernalia, all piled on a huge chest freezer set upon four wheeled dollies. Aloysius fumed. He realized he would have to spend the next six months with his mortal and commercial foe, separated only by the ten feet that was the Fair’s Aunt Jemima pancake mix headquarters. Suddenly, Aloysius had an intriguing thought. He eyed the mysterious freezer. He was now determined to uncover the secret of Orangestein’s prosperity.

The Fair was bustling on opening day. The crowds were excited by the buildings, lit electrically thanks to a joint venture by Nikola Tesla and George Westinghouse. They visited the wondrous exhibition halls that touted marvels of the future and offered visual insight into the lives of those from foreign lands. They sampled the varied food offerings. Both Aloysius and Orangestein were doing brisk business. From the piles of discarded cups, it looked as though Orangestein was doing slightly better. Aloysius still kept his pace, serving his namesake drinks, but he also kept Orangestein and his staff in his peripheral vision. While he worked, he stood on tiptoes and craned his neck to sneak a peak each time the chest freezer lid was raised a slender crack, just enough to extract a portion of the secret ingredient. To his dismay, the staff was well-trained. Aloysius wasn’t able to catch the tiniest glimpse of the elusive component that set the Orange Julius head-and-shoulders above the Delicious Aloysius.

After one night – opening night – Aloysius could not stand it any longer. He could not stand the competition. He could not stand the animosity. And he could not stand Orangestein’s triumph. He decided to make his move. By late evening, the food vendors were tidying up their stands and securing their wares and equipment for the night. Everyone was in a hurry to get a good viewing spot for the spectacular fireworks display and even the exhibitors didn’t wish to be left out. The food area was deserted. Aloysius silently slunk through the aisles amid the locked stands. He dropped to the ground and squeezed his way under the brightly-colored, thick oilcloth surrounding the wooden frame that was the Orange Julius stand. In the dim lighting, the clean blenders glowed ethereally. The oranges were crated and stacked neatly, waiting for the next day’s business. The silver milk cans stood like silent sentinels. At the rear of the stand, the freezer hummed malevolently. Aloysius crept to it. The only obstacle that stood between Aloysius and the freezer’s contents was a small hasp through which a tiny padlock had been threaded. A new secretarial-assistance item of twisted tin called “The Paper Clip” was introduced at the Fair and Aloysius used a straightened one to deftly pick the lock, which he then tossed aside. He carefully but eagerly lifted the heavy lid and — at long last — looked inside. He was astonished. He was furious. It was so…. so obvious!  He reached in and tried to grab a handful. It was cold, frozen solid. A metal pick with a gnarled wooden handle lay on the surface. Aloysius grabbed it and feverishly chipped away. After several minutes of labor, he lifted a helping in his cupped hand and raised it to his nose and mouth. He inhaled. Sweetness filled his nostrils. He licked. Tartness flowed across his taste buds. Again, he was overcome by both anger and bewilderment. All at once, Aloysius leaped to his feet and burst through the protective white sheet that encircled Orangestein’s closed concession. He scrambled down the sawdust-covered walkway, first muttering, then screaming.

“Frozen!,” he yelled, “He freezes it!”

The majority of the crowd had their sights trained on the colorful explosions in the sky. The ones in close proximity to Aloysius turned their gaze towards him, dumbfounded. Some were even drawn out of the Streets of Cairo exhibit, finding the commotion outside more compelling than Little Egypt doing her “hootchie-cootchie” dance. They wondered what prompted this lunatic’s ranting. He continued to shout. His legs flying in all directions, his outstretched hands filled with glowing pale orange crystals, some dropping as he ran.

He headed towards George Ferris’s 264-foot tall Observation Wheel. Aloysius hollered as he ran. “He freezes it!,” he shrieked,” That’s his secret!”

As the Wheel moved in a slow “loading and unloading” pattern, Aloysius jumped into the last empty gondola. The Wheel began to make its single non-stop revolution and picked up speed. The shocked onlookers on the ground murmured and pointed as Aloysius fidgeted in the gondola, anxious to announce his discovery to as many as would listen. He was giddy at the notion that he was about to unleash information that would ruin Orangestein, earning the Delicious Aloysius its rightful position as favorite blended fruit and dairy drink. Aloysius, a man possessed, precariously stood up in the gondola. “It’s frozen, goddammit!” cried Aloysius, “Orangestein freezes the orange j… ”

He trailed off. An errant piece of Orangestein’s secret ingredient had fallen from Aloysius’s hand and landed on the metal footrest of the gondola. Aloysius slipped on it and plummeted to the ground, never able to finish his revelation. And never able to finish Orangestein. The Delicious Aloysius was soon forgotten and the secret of the Orange Julius remained a secret.

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IF: adapt

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The illustrationfriday.com word this week is “adapt”.
There's a man outside with a wooden leg named Smith.
A man is sitting at a table in a bar having a beer. He looks up and sees a interesting looking guy standing at the bar. The guy has a wooden leg, a hook for a hand and an eyepatch. He’s dressed in stereotypical pirate garb. The man thinks this is a once-in-a-lifetime encounter and gets up enough courage to ask the guy if he’s a real pirate.

The guy answers, “Arrrr, matey, that I am!”

The man is fascinated. He begins questioning the pirate for more information. “You must have some great stories of adventure.” he began, “Like, how did you get the wooden leg?”

“Avast ye!,” the pirate says, “I was out on me ship, raising sheets on the yardarm. Some rough winds knocked me overboard. I got into a tangle with a forty foot shark. I drew my dagger and fought the beast as best I could, but he chomped off me leg. Me crew dragged me waterlogged body back on board. We docked in Port Au Prince in the Gulf of Gonâve. The village barrelmaker, who doubled as a doctor, fitted me the the wooden leg.”

“Wow! What a story! How about the hook? How’d you get the hook?,” the man eagerly inquires.

“Shiver me timbers!,” the pirate begins, “Just off shore at Barbados, me ship was shanghaied by a band of cut-throats as mean as me own. I engaged in swordplay with one of the motley bunch and, in the fit of battle, the scalawag sliced me hand off at the wrist. Me crew finally forced the scurvy dogs to retreat. At our next port, a silversmith forged this hook as a replacement for me own lost mitt.”

“Incredible!,” the man says, caught up in the pirate’s epic tale, “How about the eyepatch? How’d you get that?”

The pirate sort of shuffled, stares at the floor and answers, “Uh, a seagull crapped in me eye.”

The man was shocked. “That’s IT ?, ” he says, “A seagull? You tell me great stories of shark attacks and sword fights and the best story you can tell for your eyepatch is a seagull crapped in your EYE ??? “

The pirate answers, “It was me first day with the hook.”

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from my sketchbook: doug kenney

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Some People Just Don't Belong
Doug Kenney was one of the founders of National Lampoon magazine. He served as writer and editor from its inception in 1972 until 1977, when he left to pursue his dream of screenwriting. Along with Chris Miller and Harold Ramis, he co-wrote the screenplay for National Lampoon’s Animal House. Kenney even had the small role of Stork and delivered one of the film’s classic lines — “Well, what the hell we supposed t’ do, ya moron?” – his only line of dialogue. Animal House became one of the most popular and most profitable comedies in motion picture history, making Kenney one of the most sought-after writers in Hollywood. He was a millionaire several times over. But, it was clear that all was not well. He would often disappear for days at a time, his marriage was failing, and his abuse of drugs was spiraling out of control. He longed to be doing what he considered to be serious work – writing a novel or producing a movie – and he increasingly thought of himself as a failure. He once threw and entire manuscript away after a writer friend gave it a negative review. Kenney co-wrote Caddyshack, with Brian Doyle-Murray and Harold Ramis. When it opened to negative reviews in 1980, Kenney became extremely depressed. At a press conference, he verbally abused reporters. Friends asked Kenney to seek professional help, concerned about his increased usage of cocaine. Close friend Chevy Chase took him to Hawaii, hoping the relaxing environment would help. However, Chase had to leave the island. After Chase left, Kenney called and invited him to come back. That was the last time anyone heard from Kenney.

Kenney’s body was found on August 31, 1980, one month after Caddyshack’s release. Three days earlier, he had parked his rented Jeep along the road, walked past the sign that warned of the nearby cliff edge, and plunged 40 feet to his death. Kenney died on impact, as his ribs were broken and his skull fractured. The death was ruled an accident.

Harold Ramis said “Doug probably fell while he was looking for a place to jump.”

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from my sketchbook: karl wallenda

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Gonna free fall out into nothin/Gonna leave this world for a while
Karl Wallenda was born in Germany in 1905 to a circus performing family. He himself began performing at age 6. In 1922 he put together his own act with his brother Herman, a family friend, and a teenage girl, Helen Kreis, who eventually became his wife.

The act toured Europe for several years, performing some amazing stunts. When John Ringling saw them perform in Cuba, he quickly hired them to perform at the Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Circus. In 1928, they debuted at Madison Square Garden. The act performed without a net and the crowd gave them a standing ovation. At a performance in Ohio, the group fell off the wire, but were unhurt. The next day, a reporter who witnessed the accident wrote: “The Wallendas fell so gracefully that it seemed as if they were flying” — thus coining the name of The Flying Wallendas.

Karl developed some of the most amazing acts like the seven-person chair pyramid, a stunt they continued to perform until 1962. That year, while performing at a state fair in Detroit, the front man on the wire faltered and the pyramid collapsed, killing Wallenda’s son-in-law and nephew. Karl injured his pelvis, and his adopted son, Mario, was paralyzed from the waist down.

Despite other deaths of family members while performing, Karl decided to go on. He repeated the pyramid act in 1963 and 1977. Karl continued performing with a smaller group, and doing solo acts.

On March 22, 1978, at age 73, Karl attempted a walk between the two towers of the ten-story Condado Plaza Hotel in San Juan, Puerto Rico, on a wire stretched 121 feet above the pavement. Karl lost his footing in the 30 mile per hour winds and fell to his death.

Karl’s grandson, Rick Wallenda, went back the following year and completed the walk successfully.

that one's outta here!
Karl Wallenda walking across the top of Veterans Stadium, former home of the Philadelphia Phillies in 1972.

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from my sketchbook: sarah holcomb

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Mom, Dad, this is Larry Kroger. The boy who molested me. We have to get married.
Sarah Holcomb only appeared in four movies in her brief three-year career. Chances are, you’ve seen half of them.

At 18, Sarah made her film debut in National Lampoon’s Animal House as Clorette DePasto, the underage virginal daughter of shady mayor Carmine DePasto. She meets Larry (played by future Academy Award nominee Tom Hulce) when he is stealing from her employer, The Food King Supermarket, as part of a fraternity prank. Larry asks her to the infamous toga party and, afterwards, deposits her on her family’s front lawn, drunk and in a shopping cart.

After roles in two forgettable films, 1979’s Walk Proud and 1980’s Happy Birthday, Gemini, she returned as Danny Noonan’s inexplicably Irish girlfriend Maggie O’Hooligan in Caddyshack.

Then she disappeared.

Animal House screenwriter Chris Miller remembered that Sarah was much younger than the rest of the film’s cast and crew. He related how drugs and alcohol were plentiful and flowed freely on the set. He admitted in his autobiography that, in hindsight, it was a very bad influence on her impressionable mind. The same was true on the set of Caddyshack. This time, however, Sarah’s excessive drug consumption aggravated her previously undiagnosed schizophrenia.

In 2007, a railroad worker named Bobby wrote on his blog about his encounter with a woman he believed to be Sarah Holcomb. According to Chris Miller, she is “living a quiet, obscure life far from the madness of Hollywood under an assumed name and does not wish to be found.”

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IF: cracked

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This is John Cameron Cameron downtown.
When I was a kid, my mom introduced me to what would become my life-long appreciation for novelty records. As long as there have been different genres and trends in popular music, there has been someone making fun of it. In my mom’s era, there was Spike Jones. My mom had several of Jones’ 78s and she loved to play them for me.

As an adolescent, I came to hear more of Spike Jones and his zany contemporaries on the syndicated Dr. Demento radio show. Dr. Demento was the radio name of Los Angeles DJ Barry Hansen. It was on The Dr. Demento show that I first heard Dickie Goodman. And Dickie’s recordings cracked me up.

Dickie Goodman (along with partner Bill Buchanan) originated the “break-in” record. Goodman and Buchanan were struggling songwriters in the early 1950s when they thought about how funny it would be if a flying saucer interrupted a radio DJ while on the air. Goodman came up with the idea of an on-the-spot reporter asking questions and having the answers be clipped lines from popular songs of the time. Within several days, Goodman and Buchanan spliced together “The Flying Saucer”, a modern reworking of Orson Welles’ “War of the Worlds”, using clipped lines from recordings as responses to the questions posed by John Cameron Cameron (played by Goodman).

The recording was wildly popular, spawning a slew of imitation and “answer” recordings. And after selling 500,000 copies in just three weeks, it caught the attention of the Music Publishers Protective Association. The MPPA claimed “The Flying Saucer” was guilty of at least 19 different instances of copyright infringement and unauthorized usages. The record companies, however, became reluctant to pursue a lawsuit. It seemed “The Flying Saucer” actually increased sales of records included in its recorded collage. As an example, a snippet of “Earth Angel” was part of “The Flying Saucer”. Public requests for the Penguins song forced DooTone Records to reissue their hit. A publishing representative told Time magazine, “It’s the greatest sampler of all. If you’re not on ‘Saucer,’ you’re nowhere!” But the publishing companies thought the “break-in” record was a fad and would soon disappear along with their worries.

After much negotiation, an agreement was finally reached. The publishing houses would split 17 cents in royalties from every 89 cent copy of “The Flying Saucer”. But much to the record companies’ chagrin, “break-in” records sprung up like weeds. Goodman and Buchanan released their next snippet-filled record ― an account of their court battles ― slyly titled “Buchanan and Goodman on Trial”. The record companies were up in arms again. A judge ultimately decided that the recordings fall under the laws of parody and Goodman and Buchanan were completely within their legal rights.

After Goodman and Buchanan parted ways, Goodman continued to release and chart with solo “break-in” records. In the middle 1960s, Goodman tried his hand at non-“break-in” records. He recorded non-novelty music as a solo and with several bands to little or no success. With the success of Jaws in 1975, Goodman returned to his roots and released “Mr. Jaws”, another “break-in”. It reached number 4 on the Billboard charts, ranking higher that the Jaws theme. He followed this with several more “break-ins”, including another hit with “Hey E.T.”

Goodman  had a serious gambling problem. His long affinity for racetracks and horse betting consumed all of his income. On November 6, 1989, with his wife gone, his savings gambled away, and bill collectors hounding him, Goodman died from a self-inflicted gunshot.

Click HERE to listen to Dickie Goodman’s recording of “Mr. Jaws”  from 1975.

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