You could spend your time, money and energy working on a local level in your
community to make an actual difference in someone's life. Tutor a poor kid, sweep up
a sidewalk, that sort of thing.
We get a lot of protests here in DC, because apaprently it means more if you yell
into a bullhorn somewhere between the White House and Capitol. Their primary result
is causing traffic problems for people like me with little or no interest in that
particular problem, which in turn gives people like me a rooting interest against
that cause. Thanks to protesters, I now support:
Global warming. In fact, I support the conversion of all existing power plants
to oil-burning facilities, and then the creation international markets that only
allow oil to be purchased with actual human blood.
A 5,000-year commitment in Iraq, and war as a solution to every international
problem.
Instead of impeaching George Bush, installing him as emperor for life.
Unequal pay, to the point where a man gets paid 95 percent more for doing much,
much less than a woman.
The 1915 genocide of Armenians by the Ottoman Turks. After sitting in traffic
for 25 minutes, I was actually close to being disappointed in the Ottomans for not
finishing the job, thereby eliminating any possible protests in the future.
Trivia!
Last call for trivia, peeps. It's Wednesday night at 7. Come out and play -- you won't be sorry, I promise.
I like to keep busy on the weekends, and the pass the savings on to you. So here we go ...
A History of the Postal Service By a Person Who Visited the Postal
Museum for 90 Minutes But Didn't Take Any Notes
1632: The British Crown attempts to establish regular mail service between New
York and Boston, at the request of colonial governors, who wish to exchage the
latest in Drunken Indian jokes. Couriers are repeatedly killed by sober Indians.
1768: Colonists, furious over an onslaught of catalogs from the British East
India Company, establish an independent mail system, only to be flooded with copies
of postmaster Benjamin Franklin's "Poor Richard's Secret" catalogs.
1776-1781: The independent postal system pays dividends, as revolutionary leaders
are capable of communicating well enough to defeat an opponent too dumb to realize
that it might want to shut down an independent postal system. It also allows John
Adams to send a non-stop and historically prolific series of erotic vingettes to his
wife Abigail, despite her pleas for him to stop.
1790: Newspapers are the primary type of mail, despite the lack of all news from
1790-1827.
1845: The postal service initiates "Star Routes," which employ contractors to
carry mail through the transit method of their choosing. These methods include dog
sled, carriage, and in one unfortunate instance, runaway slaves.
1850: The average American gets six pieces of mail a year, five of which are
letters indicating that relatives out West need money or have died in a hail of
arrows, or both.
1861: The Pony Express opens, with a series of riders carrying mail from New York
to San Francisco in an average of 11 days. The service shuts down in 1862 when
clients complain of receiving mail that smells like horse junk.
1900: Mail is delivered increasingly by train, as the average American now gets
70 pieces of mail a year. Improved freight capacity increases the popularity of
catalog shopping, ushering in a Golden Era for American shut-ins that would not be
surpassed until the invention of the World Wide Web. Free rural delivery
1918: The inverted "Jenny" stamp is printed (showing an upside-down plane),
instantly becoming the most valuable mistake in the world ... until your parents had
you, of course.
1935: The average American gets 3,428,000 pieces of mail a year, as part of a New
Deal program to have unemployed people cut down trees, make paper, and then send
resumes to everyone they know.
1970: Most "Star Routes" are given to long-haul trucking operations, providing
long-haul truckers with comfy piles of your mail on which to do truck-stop
skanks.
1993-present: Postage rates increase within five days of every time you buy a
coil of 100 stamps, so that the government can continue to fund operation of the
Postal Museum.
I don't know at what point you become a juggernaut, but the Golden Triangle Gun Club is trying. On Wednesday night they won their third consecutive Happy Hour Trivia by getting 22 out of a possible 31. They're like Michael Jordan, but less bald, less black and for trivia:
Their victory means they get free tickets to defend their crown on OCTOBER 1, when Happy Hour Trivia returns. We also had a tie for second. The Einsteins Plus 1 (no indication of who the plus is) and 2 Reds and 3 Browns both scored 18. The Einsteins narrowly earned second place by naming more general election losers in a dramatic tiebreaker. Here they are:
The first round was all election-related trivia (what won the Mars Candy election of 1995?) -- people did pretty well with that. The second round was a video where you had to match famous faces to their colleges, and results were once again decent (you can try it below). The final round had questions tangentially related to Chile (headliner Pablo Francisco is Chilean-American, I think), and people did AWFUL. The average score (out of 9) was something like 2.5. I would have guessed that the video round would be the stumper, but I was way, way off. But that's why you play the game! Thanks to everyone who came out, and I hope to see you in October.
I did another quick interview with a DC Improv headliner. This time, it's high-energy impressionist Pablo Francisco. We talked for about 10 minutes, just one day after the subject of Pablo's most well-known impression, Movie Guy Don LaFontaine, passed away. Take a listen, and subscribe through iTunes ... that's how these podcast things work. It's posted over at the Podcast page.
I don't like watching convention speeches, or State of the Union speeches. As someone who does public speaking for a living I find them excrutiating. I don't care how pumped you are to be there -- you don't have to cheer "USA" after every other line. Let the guy talk. Speeches are a kind of art, and all the cheering just kills the flow. Plus it makes it unwatchable to anyone who doesn't already agree with the speaker.
Code Pink lady just got bounced. Nice deflection by McCain. Honestly, wackos: you aren't helping your cause. I doubt PETA converts many people; I doubt Code Pink changes the minds of anyone. Mostly you just annoy people and make you cause annoying by association.
McCain isn't a great speaker. I don't think that bothers me very much, because in a 24/7 media era eloquence gets burned out, and quickly. If every song on the radio was a power ballad, you'd get sick of music pretty quick. No longer would the vocals transport you to a world of romance and Camaros, and who would want that? I think part of McCain's problem is limited arm function, which if I'm recalling correctly is partly a consequence of being tortured. You don't read about that much, kind of like Bob Dole always having to hold a pen to cover up his injured hand. Democrats, here's your angle: what if that 3 a.m. phone call comes, and the phone is on a high shelf? Or, at the first debate, Obama should try to High five him.
OK, here's the list of regular people with problems. I don't know when this started but it needs to stop. Now. In a country of 300 million people, you can find a sob story to justify any program. "I fight for Chris White, who is sitting on his couch with no steady job, trying to eke out a living by sharing the gift of laughter with his fellow Americans. And that's why we should all give him $10."
Small point, but when he said "a culture of life," McCain paused and puffed some air into his upper lip, which made him look like he was suppressing vomit. I'm pretty sure that was unintentional.
And here's the fantasy part ... I will keep taxes low on everyone! And I will reduce government spending. Straight up: we need to blow up Social Security and Medicare. That's the only way this happens. McCain's sort of dancing around it, but basically, this won't happen in divided government. No chance.
Hmmm ... good mention of education. I think this issue is a winner. If I was writing the GOP platform, I'd basically say: "Here's the deal. Kids get the money. Kids get health care, kids get education help, kids get whatever they need." You're aren't going to work miracles when the kids have crappy parents, but it's the most equitable thing. "But ... if we do this we can't afford as much for the adults. So pick, your kids or you."
Hmmm hmmm ... now he just made a pretty good ideological case for change in Washington, that all the big programs were designed for an outdated economy, and now they're bloated bureaucratic messes. I think people can relate to this, because anyone who waited too long at the Post Office hates bureaucracies. So, everyone. They're like dark matter. They make up about 99 percent of the weight of government, they are somehow intimately tied to the workings of government, and people still have no idea how the damn things work.
Well, that torture stuff was pretty good, without being over the top. Also, McCain is a lot less pissy toward Democrats than Obama was to Republicans. Instead, McCain gave the dirty work to Palin. This might work out well, because in all the elections I remember (thousands!) the VP race fades into the background, since most people just don't care all that deeply. But I think the highlight of the evening has to be the playing of "Barracuda" after the speech. Huh.
They could have taken the age issue off the table if McCain had just crowd surfed right after the speech. Another missed opportunity.
Big news (for me at least): As of today, I am now scheduled to duke it out in the Seattle Comedy Competition this November. That means at least a week in the Pacific Northwest and hopefully more -- plenty of time to visit all the sites I've only dreamed of when they were mentioned on "Frasier." It'll be my first trip to the West Coast longer than a three-hour layover at LAX.
More on this as it gets closer, but I'm pumped! Oh, and if you live in Seattle and want a great houseguest in November, I'm your man.
Movie Review: Man on Wire
If you met Philippe Petit or any of his friends at a party, you'd either want to
talk to them for hours or punch them in the face. Or maybe both! He's a street
juggler and they're people who enjoy hanging out with street jugglers, i.e., people
really in touch with their feelings, and also probably in touch with large piles or
recreational drugs.
But they were arty types with ambition, in that they figured out how to get Petit
on a highwire which they strung between the towers of the World Trade Center. "Man
on Wire" is a documentary on how they pulled it off, from the initial inspiration
all the way to the actual event in August 1974. They have interviews with the
conspirators, some video footage of other (smaller) "art crimes" they committed, a
ton of photos and some Unsolved Mysteriesesque recreations of the WTC job.
The logistics are interesting. They had to figure out how to get a guidewire
across the towers (an arrow with a wire attached), how to get all of their gear past
security and up to the roof of the tallest buildings in the world, and how to rig
safety lines, all in the dark and fast enough that they wouldn't get arrested before
performing the actual stunt. I'm guessing they also had to figure out how a street
juggler and his posse could afford numerous trans-Atlantic plane tickets, but the
movie doesn't get into that.
But the neat part is just the audacity: why anyone would bother doing such a
thing in the first place, and why other people would bend over backward to help. The
conspirators don't seem to have answers, and in fact that can't even imagine why
people wouldn't want to try it. The thought that someone might have fallen
1,600 feet to the ground was a concern, but not enough to get in the way of the
dream.
I could have used more interviews about the inspiration and maybe a little less
on the preparation, but in the end I guess the photos of a man walking a tightrope
at the top of Manhattan speak for themselves. It's just not something you'll ever
see again, and I guess in some ways that's explanation enough.
I'd also like to see more about Petit, who apparently celebrated his achievement
by promptly cheating on his girlfriend with the first skank he saw and then
abandoning all the friends who made his fame possible. (A few of them seem broken up
about it 30 years later.) He's all sunshine and lollipops in the interview, but
there's something really not right there, and you have to wonder what.
Anyhow, I'd recommend this. Even if you aren't a big documentary fan, there's
something to enjoy here.
Close watchers of my schedule (hi Mom) will notice that I'm due in Houston this week for shows at the Laff Stop. Close watchers of the Weather Channel will notice that Hurricane Ike is due in Houston this week. Not for shows at the Laff Stop, but the two might conflict.
The last time I was in Houston was in 2005, a few days after Hurricane Rita had left town. I stayed in a Motel 6 filled with Katrina evacuees. I was only in town for a day but the place was deserted.
I think we can conclude from this ample evidence that God is trying to keep me from Houston. I don't know why, but I'm thinking buried treasure is involved. I pledge, with some other, friendlier God as my witness, to FIND GOD'S SECRET GOLD STASH! And then after I buy a mansion, it's a round of margaritas for everyone who reads this blog.
I sprained my ankle on Sunday. This year I've been fencing, kayaking, Segwaying and hiking through the mountains; I've done about 15 miles of street running and trail running a week, sometimes on snow and ice; I hit in a batting cage for the first time in about 8 years and I've run around the park throwing a frisbee. I sprained my ankle stepping off a curb.
I wasn't looking down, and the street was recessed because there was a sunken manhole cover. I went down in a heap. Yes, I can TELL people I did something cool to sprain it, like kick a Hell's Angel in the junk, but I'll always know that I stepped off a curb.
Instead of getting professional help, I took a page from 7th grade health class (the page right before venereal disease) and tried RICE. R is for Rest, I is for Ice, E is for elevate. I don't remember what the C is for, because 7th grade health class was 19 years ago, but you can pretty much insert anything you want. Cocaine, castor oil, Cameo albums ... I went with cookies. It seems to be working, because the swelling is down. I also figured out a way to wrap my ankle in such a way that it offers no extra support, no extra stability, and no pain relief, while at the same time cutting off all circulation to my foot. As hard as that sounds, I've actually experimented and discovered FIVE variations. I'm like Florence Nightengale, but for making people's feet wither and die!
If you're the guy ...
... that's watching "Batman and Robin" on TBS enough for them to keep airing it, please stop. For the love of god.
I got rained out. Ike changed its course, heading straight for Houston, and so I won't be making my headlining appearance at the Laff Stop until early 2009.
Why does everything bad happen to me? I mean, those people who are facing massive property damage from at Category 3 hurricane have it bad, but I had three days of show cancelled. My life sucks.
I'm kidding, by the way. Best wishes to all those on the Texas coast -- here's hoping that Ike fizzles. Don't mess with Texas, god.
New Podcast: Gary Valentine
I wasn't able to go to Texas, so I was free to record another episode of the DC Improv Podcast! I talked to Gary Valentine on Thursday morning, and you can hear the results right here on the podcast page. Or you can just subscribe via iTunes. Do it!
The pictures are coming back from Houston, and YIKES. People of Texas, I am sorry that God's personal vendetta against my career caused you such difficulties. Best of luck cleaning up and getting back to normal -- hopefully I'll get to visit in early 2008.
One thing I don't entirely understand is why parts of Houston were made with construction paper. The fourth largest city in the country sits on a hurricane magnet, but for some reason the state's tallest skyscraper isn't built to hold up to hurricane force winds. In the linked story, they say that 30 stories of windows on one side of the JP Morgan Chase Tower were ripped off the building. That must be great, working hard your whole life to get a window office, and then having it suddenly converted to a porch office. It's like a promotion made by god!
Also, the very new football stadium (opened 2002) lost something like half of its retractable roof, which I'm guessing isn't an easy fix, because there is no "retractable roofing" aisle in Home Depot. Fortunately, there are probably 30-40 local high school with stadiums big enough to host a Texans game.
Old Time Baseball
There are so many reasons to like the Phillies, but this may be the best one: Chase Utley's game hair.
Here's a guy who clearly knows how to handle a blowdryer, but before games either sweats profusely into his helmet or is putting moustache wax in his hair. Between the hair and his jaw line, he looks like a player from 1902. We should start a petition asking him to grow a handlebar moustache and play in the field without a glove.
Also in baseball news, I had tickets to a no-hitter! Specifically, I had tickets to the Astros-Cubs game on Sunday, which thanks to Hurricane Ike was played in Milwaukee. And Carlos Zambrano went ahead and threw a no-hitter for the Cubs in what would have to be some of the oddest circumstances in baseball history.
Of course, I didn't GO to the no-hitter, but my grandkids will have to pry for a good 10 minutes to get that part of the story. You'd think I could get a refund for a game that was played more than 1,000 miles from the venue where it was originally scheduled, but you're forgetting the official wording of the Major League Baseball refund policy: "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHA! Seriously?"
The Week Ahead
I hate to mention this on my blog, because a volcano will probably appear in the downtown area, but I will be in Toledo this week at the brand new Funny Bone. Wednesday to Sunday.
What's there to do in Toledo for a week? You'll find out shortly after I do.
You can only drive through a town so many times before stopping there and looking at the art museum, so I'm in Toldedo this week at the Funny Bone, working with Kenny Smith. I met Kenny back in May in Indianapolis, and I approve of him. You have my blessing to go to this show.
They have a very nice setup at the Funny Bone, including a video projector, so I decided to try out the "Flashdance" finale from "I Take Requests 2." I'm going to try it all week long, as part of a social experiment. People will either: a) find it hilarious; b) find it lacking; or c) think I am gay and be disturbed to the point of hating my guts. If I travel enough, I should have a pretty good statistical breakdown of karaoke enthusiasm and severe homophobia in various pockets of the Midwest.
If anyone wants to cough up some grant money I'm all for it!
Grave Situations
Today I was pulling into a cemetery in Cleveland, because it's what I do for fun. As I turned into the paved gate area, a guy wearing a reflector vest and a hard hat flagged me down. He smelled, but it was hard to say if it was a "working hard in the sun" smell or a "drinking hard in the shade of a dumpster lid" smell. He said he was supposed to meet "his crew" at the top of the cemetery (it's on a hillside), and could I give him a ride?
On the one hand, we live in a cynical and angry world, and it's nice if we on occasion give people the benefit of the doubt. On the other hand, it sucks to get carjacked and left for dead. Other factors to consider: The parking lot was about 50 feet away, so if I said no, I'd be parking the car, THEN GETTING OUT, in plain view of the guy; reasonable or not, that would cause some serious personal guilt, because that is how being a white Catholic male works. Also, I had a suitcase, a video camera, and a laptop bag in plain sight in the car when the guy flagged me down.
There were some calculations to make (is it hard to get a secondhand reflector vest and hardhat? don't they sell them at Urban Outfitters for $300?) and I didn't really have the time to make them, and so somehow I just decided to give the guy a ride. As we're driving, he clearly knows his way through the cemetery -- a positive sign that he might be telling the truth. He also asks me about my video camera, my digital voice recorder and why I'm in from out of town (DC plates) -- a sign that he's interested in my possessions and might be wondering if anyone's looking for me.
But we're in a cemetery, and who ever gets killed in a cemetery? Plus, if you were killed, it would be very convenient; they could just roll you over to the nearest ditch. So I didn't freak out. However, when we get to the top of the hill, the guy suddenly "remembers" that his crew might be over at a gas station, and could I drive a few blocks from the cemetery? That's when I said I was pressed for time and said he'd have to walk.
He very nicely said thank you and goodbye, then got out of the car.
On paper, I did a nice thing. In practice, I have to decide if I should be angry at myself for possibly putting myself in danger, or if I should be disappointed that I didn't trust the guy from the start. Thoughts? The flagellating starts at midnight, so hurry.
If you knew that a guy could write Latin with one hand and Greek with the other, at the same time, and you had to guess what kind of building that guy grew up in (this is a regular party game around my house), you'd guess monastery or Skinner Box or something along those lines, right? What are the odds that the guy comes from a log cabin?
Well James Garfield beats those odds! He probably should have saved his luck for that whole assassination thingy, but nevertheless, here's Lord Jim's birthplace in the suburbs of Cleveland, where he became the last of the log cabin Republicans, before that meant something completely different:
More specifically, it's a replica of his birthplace, because the original is long gone. Considering the modest digs, the guy did very well for himself: he was a minister, a teacher, a general, a politician and an orator. So you shouldn't ever feel bad about cramming your kids into small spaces, like tiny bedrooms, or the trunks of cars. It might help them to one day be president.
Cleveland also has the omega end of Garfield's existence, at beautiful Lake View Cemetery. The Garfield Monument was a bit of a shock, in both size and detail:
That's a 180-foot tower made of Ohio sandstone, at a cost of $135,000. The monument was dedicated in 1890, just nine years after J.A.G. kicked the bucket (he died on September 19, which means I missed the deathaversarry by two days). There are parapets and gargoyles, and from the tower balcony you have a boffo view of downtown Cleveland and the shores of Lake Erie. And if that's not impressive enough, there are life-sized bas-relief panels around the exterior showing important aspects of Garfield's life:
That's a panel reflecting Garfield's profound love of siestas. The interior is also a jaw-dropper: a rotunda features a striking statue of Garfield, surrounded by stained glass windows and mosaics of figures representing war, peace, the 13 original states and Ohio. For example, Delaware's window has a woman collecting a $5 toll from a Pennsylvanian trying to drag a sales-tax-free refigerator across the state line. I'd love to show it to you, but the cemetery doesn't allow publication of interior photos without special permission, and I don't want to break any rules that might result in my being attacked by the zombie of Eliot Ness (also buried at Lake View). Regular zombies are tenacious; Eliot Ness' zombie would be REALLY persistent. The crypt below has Garfield, his wife Lucretia, and his daughter and son-in-law.
The whole package was way beyond my expectations -- it's GARFIELD. He's a trivia answer now. But back then he was our leader, and the second president assassinated in a 15-year span. It's not hard to imagine how a tidal wave of national grief could leave behind such a stunning memorial. There has to be some good part to getting shot in the spine for your country, right?
Lake View
Here are some bonus photos: Eliot Ness, and a random grave that I like for obvious reasons. Not pictured is John D. Rockefeller, who has a VERY large granite obelisk marking his family plot. It's about the size you'd expect from America's first billionaire, but at the end of the day, it's an obelisk. BOOOOORING. They could probably convert it to an oil derrick with a little chiseling. Somebody get on that.
I don't do many book reviews here, because I don't read many books. I could lie and say I don't have the time, but I'm basically unemployed for a living. But I recently finished two books! Hooray me! The first one was called "Jefferson and Monticello," and it was given to me as a birthday present by my good friend Jared Stern. My birthday was in late December, so yes, it took me nine months to read this book. I could have had a baby in that time, but the book seemed more in my long-term budget.
The basic idea here is that we can learn about Thomas Jefferson as a person by studying his experiences as an architect and builder (it took him most of his adult life to get Monticello finished; he lived in a construction site). This is very interesting when we learn about his attention to detail, devotion to perfection, love of privacy and dealings with his slaves. It is not as interesting when we are reading highlights of brick inventories from 1806.
Overall I liked it. If I ever get a time machine, right after I punch Benedict Arnold in the mouth, I'm going to take Jefferson forward in time to visit a Home Depot near Charlottesville. He'd love it.
Book Review: Jitterbug Perfume
I got into Tom Robbins a few years back because one of his books was called "Fierce Invalids Home From Hot Climates." I read it based entirely on the title. Since then I've tacked on "Skinny Legs and All," "Still Life With Woodpecker," and now "Jitterbug Perfume."
The story is about the quest for eternal life, and perfume, but a plot synopsis isn't really worth your time. Here's what you need to know about every Tom Robbins novel:
1) There's usually at least one smart, beautiful woman who is always open to at least mildly deviant sex.
2) There's mildly deviant sex. Usually a lot of it.
3) The characters often talk about philosophy like highly educated people on acid, only with some kind of twangy accent, often following the mildly deviant sex.
4) They're always about really big, important themes, like the meaning of life, or the power of belief, or the meaning of religion; and these issues are often explored through mildly deviant sex.
If nothing on that list embarrasses you, go grab a Tom Robbins novel. You'll probably enjoy it.
Louder
One of the saddest things is a musician playing to no one. I don't mean a person practicing alone -- I mean a performer, in a bar, playing to people who aren't listening. If you're at the local coffeeshop singing some heartfelt ballad you wrote after a horrible breakup, and no one even takes out their iPod headphones, why are you still playing? Shouldn't you be at home, working on a heartfelt ballad about how no one listens to your heartfelt ballads?
Some musicians aren't like comedians, though, in that they'll keep on chugging no matter what. You can't tell jokes to yourself, but apparently you can sing a 45-minute set of your original material while acting all the while like you're onstage at Woodstock.
Oh, and the volume will be at Woodstock levels, too. Here's a tip, bar musicians: if the room is is 2,000 square feet, you don't need to try that hard. Your drummer doesn't need a microphone, and the guitar amps don't need to be on 11, because the crowd is probably 15 feet away. It's hard to enjoy live music with blood pouring from your ears.
It seems strange that Toledo, a minor league baseball town, has a major league art museum. But they have glass money! Apparently in the 1890s, Toledo was the glass capital of the world, and so a glass baron built a pretty nice museum.
I checked it out Friday, because I like art, but mostly because it is free. Like most museums, they have a pretty good sampler of the European styles, but I thought the best stuff was American. There was a dynamite Thomas Cole painting called "The Architect's Dream"; he painted it for the guy who designed the U.S. Patent Office (now the Smithsonian portrait gallery) and Federal Hall in New York. It shows a miniature architect, reclining on top of a pillar, and a dreamscape featuring a sample of all kinds of classically awesome buildings. Neat, right? Well, the architect apparently hated it and refused to pay. Thank god for glass money. I also got prints of an Andrew Wyeth and a Georgia O'Keefe, which will proudly go into my collection of Posters I Have Not Bothered to Frame Yet.
The nice "Toledo" touch to the museum is the glass annex; it's across the street, and it's made of ... well, glass. It houses a nice collection of art glass, from the fancy modern stuff all the way back to the old decorative church stuff. The coolest thing in there was probably a woman's gown, with a train, made entirely out of glass -- minus the woman. Like an invisible lady was wearing it. Neat.
Back in the Day
As noted above, Toledo was the glass capital of world for a few shining decades. Many cities in the east have such distinctions:
Syracuse, New York: the number one producer of salt in the 19th century, earning the nickname "Salt City."
Columbia, South Carolina: For the 1910s and 20s, the world's leading producer of men with beards in white suits wearing monocles
Springfield, Massachusetts: From 1900-1936, Springfield was known as the "Rust Center of the North"
Norfolk, Virginia: the Western hemisphere's number one exporter of chlamydia, 1835 to 1874, before the tragic collapse of the chlamydia market
Cincinnati, Ohio: "Home of the Race Riot," 1915-1945
Altoona, Pennsylvania: from 1963-1973, the I Heart Altoona T-Shirt Capital of the Universe
Americans, in choosing the leader of the free world, usually pick the person they want to have a beer with, even when that person is a recovering alcoholic. That fun-loving attitude is why the terrorists hate us! In 2008, we're looking at happy hours with either crazy POW stories or rip-roaring tales of community organzing, and drinking budies who love basketball and hunting or whatever Joe Biden loves (tax-free shopping?). Tough call.
Cough, cough.
In 1920, though, it was a no-brainer: the country wanted to throw down with Warren Gamaliel Harding, who won in a landslide. You might think the country would have a beer with ANYONE in the middle of Prohibition, but not so -- after a visit to the Harding home, in Marion, Ohio, you can see that the guy was Mr. Personality.
Or at least what passed for a personality in 1920. He was part of just about every club in Marion: the Freemasons, Elk's lodges, or anything else that involved wearing a fez. He loved baseball and golf; he played coronet and led the local brass band (which, like today, is considered the coolest thing possible). He owned the local newspaper, played poker, helped pump up the town's economy and gave a pretty good speech, while never really pissing anybody off -- he knew how to straddle the fence, never really committing to any one viewpoint. And supposedly he was handsome! A lot of people say he had "movie-star" looks, which some speculate is the reason he captured the women's vote (their first under the 19th Amendment). Of course, this is consdescending and insulting, because any sensible person knows that no woman has ever chosen one man over another because he was good looking. No, they always go for the guy with a stable personality and a great sense of humor. Always.
Cough, cough.
He wasn't all peaches and cream: he cheated on his sick wife with at least one woman, possibly two, and maybe had an illegitimate child. But you'd still have a beer with the guy, right? He'd definitely know the bartender, so you'd drink for free; he'd probably have all the hookups for football tickets; if you were a guy he'd be attracting enough heat from the ladies that you'd definitely have a shot at his leftovers. Bam, 60 percent of the vote. Cake.
The Marion house is about as authentic as you could hope for; he bought it for his wife Florence as a wedding present, and they lived there (or in D.C.) until they were both dead. It turned into a museum right after. The whole thing is pretty modest -- he was a journalist, and even owning the local paper he wasn't going to be loaded. His wife's dad owned the local bank, but her father disowned her when she married Harding, supposedly because Harding might have had black blood in his family tree. Or because the dad was just a jerk. One of those.
The inside has some definite personality, since it's decked out with the furniture from their marriage and the momentos he was able to pile up from his political years. Harding collected elephant statues, and Florence was apparently a superstitious nut case, so if you ask they'll point out all the supernatural elements: an owl pattern carved into the bannister, a four-leaf clover from the White House lawn and a funky wooden chair for the mediums that would have visted during the seances (remember, no television in the 1920s). There's also a "haunted clock" that supposedly stopped at the exact time of Harding's death, but this is clearly a load of garbage, because no self-respecting spirits would be happy with stopping a clock. If the house imploded and got sucked into a pinpoint, then yeah, haunted. Stopped clock, not so much.
But the place isn't a mansion -- it's like my parent's house, but with a smaller kitchen and less closet space, and also my parents don't live there. The Hardings actually leased it out when they were living in D.C., meaning the people had the president as a landlord. This must have been awkward: "Yeah, I know you're busy negotiating global naval disarmament and all, but the kitchen faucet is leaking." Heh.
Historically speaking, the most important thing is the front porch, site of the last front porch campaign this country will ever see. People would walk four miles from the train station to hear Harding, wearing white pants, a straw hat and a dark jacket, yell things from his steps. Harding bought a kit house from the Sears catalog for $1,000, put it up in his backyard and let reporters use it as a pressroom, and as a journalist he would hang out with them. It was like a Straight Talk Express without wheels (now it's the gift shop/museum). Compare that with Ohio governor James Cox, who toured more than 30 states, was the first candidate to use a microphone at public rallies, and got his ass kicked. Hands down.
But it's tough to keep your reputation spotless when you're dead, and after Harding keeled over the wheels fell off. He had made about four awful cabinet appointments: his Attorney General took bribes, his Interior secretary took bribes (Teapot Dome) and his Veterans Bureau guy (who only had a job because Harding MADE the bureau) stole a few million dollars. It all came out in the wash after Harding's 1923 death, and by 1927, when this structure was ready to go ...
... no one wanted to touch it with a 10-foot pole. Coolidge wouldn't go anywhere near it, and Hoover didn't risk a dedication ceremony until 1931. Harding was a pariah just a few years after being one of the most popular presidents on record. There were documents more or less proving that Harding wasn't personally involved in any of the scandals, that he was just finding out about the situation at the time of his death ... but they were in the basement of the Marion house, and apparently no one got around to cleaning the basement for 40 years. If history tells us anything, it's that NO ONE WANTS TO CLEAN OUT A BASEMENT. Super-guide Beth at the Harding house puts it this way: Harding was the boss we all want, the guy who picks you for the job and then only pokes his nose in your office when there's a problem. It can work great, unless the people you pick happen to be despicable human beings. Then you're boned.
But at least he's making time with the ladies in heaven. So here's to you, Warren G ... you were a regular dude, reaching for the stars, but in over your head. And when things got ugly, you had the decency to step aside. By having a heart attack. Regulate.
FUN HARDING FACTS!
Harding's parents were homeopathic doctors, leading to the lifelong rumors that he was a homeo.
Borrowed $100 from his parents to buy a share of the local newspaper with two partners. He bought out one partner and won the other share in a poker game. As president he had regular poker games at the White House, and he actually lost Puerto Rico to the British prime minister for a few hours in 1922.
An avid consumer of tobacco, Harding would chew a cigarette in situations where it would be impolite to smoke, but somehow still polite to chew a cigarette. People got weird during Prohibition.
His wife Florence was a divorcee with a child; they met when Florence was giving piano lessons to Harding's sister. She pursued him at the skating rink, where his brass band would play, and pressured him into marriage. His bank-owning father-in-law threatened to foreclose on anyone who attended the wedding, and did so to his best friend. His wife had Bright's disease and was constantly ill. Why Harding got married is not entirely clear to me.
Endeared himself to the public by defying fashionistas and wearing white pants at front porch speeches -- EVEN AFTER LABOR DAY!
Harding attended Central College in Iberia, Ohio, which had 7 students and 3 teachers. He was the starting first baseman, starting second baseman and starting right fielder for the baseball team. He became a teacher in a one-room schoolhouse for one year, but as the student-teacher ratio was not 2.3 to 1, he found the conditions barbaric.
Harding was prone to nervous breakdowns and had spent time at a sanitarium in his 20s. His confirmed affair, with the wife of a friend, began when Harding recommended the stressed-out friend to that same sanitarium; Harding's wife was indisposed in the hospital (she had severe kidney problems), and so Harding and Caroline Phillips comforted each other, by having a lot of sex for more than a decade. The letters documenting their relationship have been sealed by court order until 2023. On the positive side, Harding did get a $100 referral bonus voucher toward future sanitarium trips.
Created the White House budget office, thereby establishing fiscal restraint and careful financial planning that have endured to this very day.
It is now widely believed that Harding had a heart attack, with his condition possibly worsened by the stress of the scandals he was learning about (he confided to his Secretary of Commerce, Herbert Hoover, that he was tremendously worried). But initially, it was thought that he had food poisoning from eating bad crabs in Alaska, which is why every year on the anniversary of Harding's death, all crab shacks use rolls of black butcher paper.
The greatest experiment in democracy has had 42 leaders: men of wealth, poverty, intellect, ambition, humility, egotism and charm.
For all their differences, 41 of those leaders shared a home. The White House serves as a museum, and an office, and a banquet hall. But it is undeniably a home. There have been births, deaths, weddings, romances, affairs, friends visiting from out of town and in one instance, a senior prom. Even as history plays out in the rooms all around them, even as they're making that history, the presidents are still people living lives like yours or mine. Only with better food, and servants.
Visiting the White House today, you see what is now the public side: the parlors and dining rooms and reception areas. The family quarters are off-limits, and they should be; when you're a guest in someone's home, you can't just poke around the bedrooms (and in this case, if you tried, five guys in suits would materialize and shove their knees clear through your kidneys in about a third of a second). But what an experience! The Red Room, the Green Room, the Blue Room ... each packed with two centuries of stories. To think of the dignitaries, geniuses, crooks and world-beaters (and members of the Philadelphia Phillies) that met in those rooms to rub elbows with the American presidents, at functions from state dinners down to friendly card games, is astonishing. On Tuesday, for the first time I got to enjoy the view of Lafayette Park from the south; Lincoln might have peered out at the Andrew Jackson statue each morning as he set about the business of reforging the nation. You can stand just feet away from the spot where Harry Truman was urgently sworn in, taking over for the White House's most tenured resident. I stood on the spot where President Bush will welcome the next occupants of the mansion in January in the peaceful transition that is still the envy of so many other nations. There's an intersection of public and private life in the White House that's almost impossible to comprehend.
On almost every wall, there's a portrait of one of the presidents. I've seen copies of the paintings before, in the Smithsonian or hanging in the private homes. But in the White House, I think they have an added meaning. Whether good or bad, each man has become part of the decor in the one home owned by every American. The resident of that home is surrounded every day by images of greatness and weakness; of men who conquered circumstance and men who were overwhelmed by it; of concrete reminders that presidents have the power to become a part of history, and that the American experiment will live on long after their portait is hung.
Thanks ...
I do want to thank Flip Orley, the comedic hypnotist who went to a Nationals game with me over the summer; when we got to talking about hobbies and Flip found out I liked the presidents, he contacted a friend who's a White House speechwriter, and that speechwriter was astonishingly generous in taking me and my girlfriend on the tour.
There are ways to get White House tours that don't involve hypnotism or high-powered political operatives, but what fun is that?
Prudent investors go long, ignoring the weekly and monthly fluctuations of the financial markets and instead betting on the grander trends over the course of decades.
Well, my decade-long strategy of having no investments, no mortgage and no actual assets has finally paid off! You can't lose things you don't have. Plus you KNOW the government will find a way to give more money to poor people when this is all said and done -- that's me! I'm poor! Hooray me!
I'm like a cross between Warren Buffett and Jimmy Buffett. To all my friends and readers sweating out sudden crushing blows to your portfolios, I extend my sympathies, but on the other hand, HA HA HA HA HA! Did I mention that it's 2 p.m. and I'm typing this in my pajamas watching cable TV while you have a JOB?
This is living.
Numbers Hurt Chris Head
I'm not really a finance guy, but it does seem strange that: 1) Everyone wanted to get a house for cheap; 2) Everyone figured their houses should appreciate something like 30 percent a year (at least around Washington). I don't think you need an MBA to figure out that those things don't go together. When the economy as a whole is following the same patterns as the Beanie Baby sector, shouldn't that be a heads up?
And no, I am not currently sitting in a pile of Beanie Babies. I wish I was, but I'm not.
I Take Requests 4 -- SOON!
October 11, the next big show at the Lounge! It'll be here before you know it. I'm working on the grand finale today, and so far I've worn a tuxedo and burned my finger baking. It's quite the finale.
I am still working on my two new challenges -- Blackberries, and also Fishsticks. I had a tape for Blackberries but the sound was too echo-y to post. You'll have it soon.
Go get your tickets and make plans with friends to attend. I really hustle to make it a great show and I don't think you'll be disappointed.
The ominpresent "technical difficulties" made this one take longer than I liked, but here are four minutes of comedy on BlackBerries. This will, of course be a part of "I Take Requests" on October 11, so come enjoy the fun! You know you want to.
Ren Fest '08
I went to the Maryland Ren Fest this weekend. It was basically the same as last year's trip, except for the repeated downpours and vast oceans of mud. So in that respect it was probably more like the Renaissance! Although this was actual mud, and not human waste lying in the street. Sigh.
Still unlike the Renaissance: lots of people in Caribbean pirate costumes (it was, like last year, pirate weekend). Most people in pirate costumes felt the need to express their piratenicity by comments such as, "look at the landlocked people," or "one side, land people." Not once did anyone say "landlubber," because they were awful pirates. Why can't there be historically accurate theme weekends? Like plague weekend? Huh?
I did enjoy, once again, the food of the Renaissance: a sausage on a stick, a Tropicalada fruit drink, "Suicide" Chocolate Cake, fried Oreos, and a pickle. Truly it was a better era, where men explored all aspects of the culinary universe. This is obviously why they all died younger back then, of heart disease.
We need to invent time travel, so that some we can take a bunch of costumed RenFest regulars, take them back to 1603 London and then videotape the results. After that, maybe we can focus on stopping Hitler, but definitely we're starting with the RenFest thing.
There's a new episode of the podcast! It's an interview with Dov Davidoff, who was one of the most interesting dudes I've met in five months of doing these interviews. I knew nothing about the guy going into this, but he has the very intriguing combination of restless intellect and (from what I could tell) mild social perversion. Neat guy. His personal history is absolutely fascinating. Here's the MP3 file (24 minutes).
Check it out, you'll be glad you did. And this week, I'll be talking to Jim Florentine, so be sure to subscribe through iTunes so you get the next episode.
Trivia Tomorrow!
Happy Hour Trivia returns on Wednesday night! We've got three October-themed rounds for you: Monster Mash, Octoberfest, and Dead Wrong (a video round shot entirely in cemeteries). If you're in the DC area, all you have to do is buy a ticket to watch Jim Florentine at the DC Improv on October 1, then show up early to play in the lounge. All the particulars are at the trivia page.
Legal Stuff: If you have questions about this Web site, why? You should spend your time questioning the moral nature of any god who would let Chris White exist. But anyhow ... copyright 2009, Chris White Sucks Inc.
1918: The inverted "Jenny" stamp is printed (showing an upside-down plane),
instantly becoming the most valuable mistake in the world ... until your parents had
you, of course.
In 1920, though, it was a no-brainer: the country wanted to throw down with Warren Gamaliel Harding, who won in a landslide. You might think the country would have a beer with ANYONE in the middle of Prohibition, but not so -- after a visit to the 
August 2009: Jefferson.
Fall 2009: comic interviews on the podcast. 
