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September 03, 2005

When That’s Where You Left Your Heart

In 1999 or 2000 (I don't remember which exactly, because the years are starting to run together ... another sign of old age) I took a road-trip with some friends to Manhattan. We had a grand total of seven hours to spend in the city. None of us had ever been there before. We had almost no money, so we planned to walk around, sight-seeing.

Manhattan being as large as it is (but flat and easily walkable), we got dropped off down by Greenwich Village and had to decide which way to walk ... up toward Rockefeller Center and Times Square? Or down toward the Battery and the World Trade Center?

We made a quick decision. In retrospect, I wish we had chosen differently, because seeing the Time-Life Building wasn't that much of a thrill.

That's something like what I've been feeling this week, and I'm ashamed of myself because of it. New Orleans has always been high on my list of places I'd like to see (others include London, Sydney, Chicago, Montreal and South Bend, Ind., the latter for reasons best left unexplained). Late at night, while I've been obsessively reading the news from the Gulf Coast, which has been equal parts heartbreaking, frustrating and inspiring, I keep hearing a little pouty 5-year-old version of myself whining, "What if New Orleans isn't there any more? Now I'll never get to see it!"

Never mind the fact that hundreds of thousands of people who live there may never get to see their homes or loved ones again; my subconscious is worried about future tourism possibilities. So I yell at the 5-year-old, and he goes off in some corner of my brain and sulks. (And probably crayons the inside of my skull.)

I'm also embarrassed to admit, but when I heard that thousands of people were missing and that the Ninth Ward of New Orleans was under water, my first thought was: Did Fats get out?

I know next to nothing about New Orleans, but I do know who lives (or lived) on St. Charles Avenue, in one of the city's poorest neighborhoods, in a pink and gold house. It's a man who I think clears his throat better than most people sing, 77-year-old Antoine "Fats" Domino.

So on Tuesday, I started running searches for "Fats Domino" on Google News. Nothing. Wednesday, nothing.

Well, that's good, I thought. He's still alive. Right?

And then on Thursday, reports began leaking out: "Fats Domino is missing." His daughter said her dad had decided to ride out the storm in his house on St. Charles, but that she hadn't heard from him since Monday. The water was up to the rooftops on St. Charles.

My stomach twisted up into a knot, and not for the first time since the hurricane hit Louisiana and Mississippi. While the destruction and loss of life in New Orleans was bad enough, it's hard for me to imagine. Fats dead? That I could understand, and it hit me hard. It was like an old family friend was gone.

There are a lot of reasons I like Fats, and it's not just because of his music. (Which, despite what the oldies radio stations seem to think, is more than "I'm Walkin'" and "Blueberry Hill," and includes a large body of work, no pun intended, like some beautiful ballads and wonderful rollicking blues tunes.)

I happen to think he's a good person; there's been not a whiff of scandal around him. The subject of his song "Rosemary," for instance, is Fats' wife. They've been married for five decades and have eight children together. And supposedly, he's been very generous over the years to the people who've worked with him. They, in turn, are very loyal to him. Call me naive, but I hope that's all true.

But stories about Fats are not easy to come by, because he's very private, and that's something else I frankly admire about him. And despite being fairly wealthy (especially by the standards of other '50s R&B artists) he still lives close to his roots, in a poor neighborhood. About his only concession to being famous has been the house painted in the wild 1950s hues, which is now apparently destroyed.

Supposedly, he's been very approachable to other people in the Ninth Ward (especially kids and aspiring musicians), and while he still plays concerts, he's not doing big "rock and roll reunion" concerts. He plays clubs and music festivals in New Orleans.

So when a friend asked me this week, "with all of his money and connections, why wouldn't he leave?" I said it was simple: If you know the legend of Fats, and the strength of his character, you'd know that he would stay with "his people," who didn't have the means to get out.

Then came the rumors on the Internet. A newspaper photographer had snapped a picture of someone in the Ninth Ward matching Fats' description being helped into a boat. And today: Exhausted and upset but safe, Fats, his wife, two daughters and a son-in-law indeed were rescued. They went to a shelter and are now staying with LSU's quarterback in Baton Rouge.

Is he worried about his house, with all of the music memorabilia?

Maybe. But that's not what he told the Washington Post. "I'm worried about all the people in New Orleans," Fats said. "Tell them I love them and I wish I was home with them. I hope we'll see them soon."

I almost cried. And I swear that's true. Except for the "almost" part.

Make no mistake about it, the news from New Orleans, Biloxi, Gulfport and other communities is still very bad, and there is a long way to go before the people who lived and worked there can put their lives back together.

Yet in some little way, the news that Fats is alive and well made me a little happier, and gave me a little hope that things are going to turn out OK.

...

P.S. I've added a link to the Salvation Army's donation page. The experts are saying that if you want to help, don't collect food or clothing, which are hard to distribute. Give a little bit of money, instead. The Sallie Ann and the Red Cross are two of the better agencies, in my personal experience, and if you're inclined to donate, I have no hesitation about recommending them.

Posted at 5:36 pm by jt3y
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September 01, 2005

Can You Say ‘Gouge,’ Boys and Girls?

Someone called me yesterday to report that gas prices in his neighborhood had gone up twice during the day ... once in the morning, once in the afternoon. I didn't believe it until I saw it with my own eyes. (Details at the Gas Gauge.)

It is not true, by the way, that "Pay at Pump" signs are being replaced by "Rape at Pump," but you might want to keep your car keys poking through your fingers, and your pepper spray within easy reach, just in case.

By the way, does anyone but me think that it was a bad idea for the government to allow all of the big oil companies --- Chevron and Texaco, Exxon and Mobil, Conoco and Phillips, BP and Amoco --- to merge? If competition lowers prices, then it seems to me that a lack of competition causes prices to go up.

Anyway, I don't like it, but I'll deal with it, probably by cutting out some non-essential activities, like bathing. (Rimshot.)

It's going to be harder to face the inflationary pressure this is going to put on everything else, especially food, most of which moves by truck. It's not sufficient to just tell people to "carpool" or "use public transportation." Should they stop eating, too? When milk (which is hauled in tractor-trailers and comes from cows raised by dairy farmers who use trucks and tractors) hits $4.50 a gallon, should we tell the kids to put water on their cereal?

Luckily, salaries are rising to keep pace with costs.

What's that, you say? They're not? Oh, never mind.

One could say that we're too dependent on automobiles and fossil fuels, and one would be correct, but pointing out that obvious fact doesn't help in the short term. (That doesn't stop some people, of course.)

On the other hand, bloody little is being done in the long term, either, and maybe another gas crisis will finally motivate people to demand that the government develop alternative fuels.

And maybe they'll demand better public transportation and zoning codes that encourage dense development with sidewalks that people can actually use.

And maybe monkeys will fly out of my earholes.

In a related story, Pat Cloonan reports in last night's Daily News that the Port Authority is cutting nearly half of the daily runs that the 61C bus makes from Our Fair City through Duquesne and Homestead to Picksberg via Oakland.

The Port Authority says that people can still use the 56C or the flyers to downtown Picksberg, but that's not who uses the 61C most heavily, in my experience. The usual riders from the Mon-Yough area are students commuting to school in Oakland and people commuting to jobs at the hospitals and the Waterfront in Homestead. The 56C helps them not at all.

So, let's review: The same week that gas prices jumped 50 cents a gallon, the Port Authority is cutting one of the few alternative means of transportation for people from the Mon-Yough area to get into Allegheny County's second-most important business district.

The Port Authority is making these cuts to reduce costs at a time when the state Legislature refuses to find funding for public transportation.

Is this a good time to remind everyone that many of your local state legislators, including Rep. Ken Ruffing of West Mifflin, Rep. Paul Costa of Wilkins Township, Sen. Joe Markosek of Monroeville, and Sen. Jay Costa Jr. of Forest Hills just voted themselves giant pay raises?

Why, I think it's an excellent time!

(That's "Ruffing", two "Costas" and a "Markosek." You may want to keep those first two names handy next year when you go to the polls.)

It is nice to see, of course, that the public sector is finally taking lessons from the private sector. In this case, the state Legislature has apparently taken a lesson in gouging people from the oil companies.

Posted at 06:17 am by jt3y
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August 31, 2005

Your Attention Please

Due to jobs from paying clients that I'm way behind on, Almanac updates are going to be spotty for at least the next few weeks. Your indulgence is appreciated.

I'm also well behind on working on the book. I wanted the manuscript to be complete in time for the Murphy centennial, but at this rate, it's going to take me until the bicentennial. I'm thinking that the hour or so per day that it takes me to maintain the Almanac might be better invested in that project. The crowds of G.C. Murphy retirees outside my house with pitchforks and torches has absolutely nothing to do with my decision.

In the meantime, I'm trying to find someone to write the Almanac a few days a week. I've asked Officer Jim, but he's reluctant. I guess his job oppressing the masses and reinforcing the capitalistic-militaristic cabal that keeps the fascists in control takes a lot of his free time. And when he comes home after a long day of holding his jackbooted foot on the neck of the proletariat, I'm sure he just wants to kick back.

(Oops! Sorry. Some of the propaganda from those protests in Oakland got posted here by accident.)

Anyway, the Almanac may drop down to twice or three times per week in the near future.

In the meantime, who says that the Mon Valley is always behind the trends? A spot check at the Mon-Yough Gas Gauge reveals that $3 per gallon gasoline has arrived.

Elsewhere in the news, the stories from New Orleans get worse and worse. The latest reports indicate that the entire city may be abandoned for up to four months, and some areas east of New Orleans, like parts of Gulfport and Biloxi, Miss., are virtually gone.

Personally, I didn't realize just how bad it was until President Dubya canceled the rest of his vacation. When Fumblefingers decides to stop clearing brush and goes into the office, then I think we all realize that a major crisis has happened.

Would you be surprised, by the way, to learn that millions of dollars in flood prevention projects in New Orleans were cancelled because of the administration's tax cuts, and to pay for the war in Iraq? Or that $800 million was diverted from the Federal Emergency Management Agency to pay for Homeland Security boondogles?

On the other hand, I'll bet folks in southern Louisiana and Mississippi are really enjoying their tax cuts right now.

There are a lot of ex-McKeesporters living down along the Mississippi Gulf Coast, so chances are, someone you know or used to know has been affected. If you have a couple of extra bucks, consider clicking that banner at the top of the page to donate to the Red Cross.

Posted at 07:48 am by jt3y
Filed Under: default | seven comments | Link To This Entry

August 29, 2005

Dumber Than a Sack of Dead Spiders

When I worked at the News (and those Newsers who check out the Almanac will back me up on this story, I think), we used to regularly receive letters from a city man who was offended by the comic strip "Nancy."

In particular, this man found offensive two certain parts of the anatomy of Nancy's Aunt Fritzi. If you're not familiar with the strip, let's just say that if "Nancy" is ever cancelled, Fritzi Ritz will be able to find work as a comic-book superheroine.

Anyway, each time Aunt Fritzi would appear in the paper, this man would clip out the offending "Nancy" strip, circle Aunt Fritzi's bosom, and write "SMUT" on it. Then he'd send it to the newsroom, where the lovely and talented Gerry Jurann would share the missive with the reporters and editors, and we'd all roar with laughter. For all I know, the guy is still sending them.

I realized recently that I'm rapidly approaching that stage in my own life. I'm starting (starting?) to fit the pattern of a sad, lonely man who will one day be found dead under a pile of moldy newspapers. When the police are alerted that my mailbox is full of unopened pension checks, they'll send the volunteer fire department to bust open the front door, and find me in a rotting recliner in the living room with a half-finished letter to the editor in one hand. Clutched in my other desiccated hand will be a clipping of "Spider-Man," but instead of "SMUT," I'll have written, "IDIOTIC."

"Spider-Man," which I can't avoid because it's now in all three of the papers I regularly read, is the slowest-paced adventure comic strip of all time. The plots, such as they are, move at a pace that a turtle would find tiresome, and worse yet, the Sunday strips (seen in the Trib) tend to recap all of the action (or lack thereof) from the previous week.

The excruciating plot over the past few weeks has involved Peter Parker, the titular hero, being hired full-time by the Daily Bugle and being sent to the doctor for a physical. Naturally, he's worried that the doctor will discover that he's Spider-Man, he does whatever a spider can, he's got radioactive blood, et cetera.

But in Sunday's installment, he suddenly realized that he had worn his Spider-Man costume under his clothes, and the doctor wanted him to take off his shirt. Naturally, this is a major crisis, and no doubt it will take King Features Syndicate months to resolve it.

Now, I'm willing to buy the bit about him having the radioactive blood, because it's essential to the whole Spider-Man character. I can't quite figure out, however, why Peter Parker would spend days worrying that the whole turn-your-head-and-cough routine would inadvertently reveal his status as an arachnid-American, but some how he forgot that he was wearing his goddamned red and blue Spider-Man costume under his freaking clothes.

Apparently, he got the proportionate strength of a spider, but the proportionate common sense of an intestinal parasite.

This is profoundly stupid even by "Spider-Man" comic strip standards. It threatened to open a stupidity black hole in Sunday's paper that sucked into its vortex all of the other comic strips around it. No offense to the people in Louisiana, but I hear there were high wind warnings Sunday all the way from "Beetle Bailey" to "Marmaduke."

Suspension of disbelief is one thing --- it's a comic strip, for crying out loud --- but this was disbelief being suspended from the top of the U.S. Steel Building by 1,500 feet of dental floss. Or spider webbing, if you prefer.

I'm dreading the moment that I open tonight's paper. Because chances are "Spider-Man" has taken another plot twist so utterly moronic as to make people dumber merely for delivering the newspaper.

If you saw a teen-aged kid on your street lying on the ground, drooling, he or she wasn't on drugs. He or she was a carrier whose central nervous system shut down after inhaling all of those concentrated "Spider-Man" stupidity fumes. Personally, I'm going to cover my mouth with a protective mask as I check out the comics page, just to limit my own exposure.

You might be wondering, "Why even take the risk?" Because you never know when you might get a chance to ogle Fritzi Ritz.

UPDATE: Josh at The Comics Curmudgeon posted his own thoughts in the latest "Spider-Man" plot twist early Tuesday morning: "Peter Parker, meanwhile, proves that he has the proportionate IQ of a spider: not only did he forget to remove his 'spider threads' before the inevitable 'customary' medical exam semi-nudity, but he’s chosen to reveal said threads to provide a visual counterpart to his cretinous internal monologue. Sorry, Spidey, but for this desperately retarded move, you deserve a few days locked in a cage in some sort of clean room down at CIA headquarters. Good luck with that. Anyway, to sum up: Spider-Man is dumb."

Posted at 06:49 am by jt3y
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