The Traveling Salesman's Halloween

"It's a rich territory, Milt, plenty of potential.  After what you accomplished up north, we think you're the man to really open it up."

Milt Belaris grinned and shook the ash off his cigar.  He had set some sales records and he wasn't surprised when the district sales manager called him in.

"I'm ready to give it my best, George," he said, calling the manager for the first time by his Christian name.

"I know you will, Milt.  We always said you could sell ice cubes to Eskimos, ha ha.  But"--he paused--"there is something I should tell you.  Something--well--peculiar about that territory."

"They're all a little funny, George, 'til you figure them out.  What's so odd about this one?"

"Well, it's strange, but drummers who go down there seem to disappear."

"You mean they skip?"

"Maybe.  But why?  Three or four companies--Watkins, Fuller, Raleigh--have sent men down there and they don't hear from them again.  Like they took their sample cases and just vamoosed."

"Farmers' daughters, maybe?"

"Beats me, Milt.  Have another cigar.  Take a couple for the road, stick them in your pocket."

"Don't mind if I do.  Fine cigars, George."

"White Owl, two for a nickel."

Milt was on the nine p.m. train out of Moose Jaw.  He jawed with some of the other travelers, read the sports page, watched the moonlight falling over wheat fields and pumpkin patches.  He took a few sips from a mickey of rye and calculated his commissions.  Looked like there'd be a lot more coming up.  And if he did good, why hell, he might be sitting in George's office.

Mist drifted over the prairies, clouds covered the full orange moon, and winds began to make farmyard scarecrows dance.  Turning to Alf, the Massey-Harris man, Milt said, "Looks kinda spooky, don't it?"

"Well, whaddya expect?  It's Halloween."

Milt had dozed off when the train jerked to a stop, waking him.  The conductor was in the aisle, saying, "Folks, got a bit of unexpected news.  Mechanical problem.  Gotta stop here until a crew comes out to fix it.  Probably be tomorrow morning before we get going.  Sorry about the delay, but there's a hotel in town and the railway will pay your bill."

"What town is this?" someone asked.

"Called Inferno."

"Never heard of it."

"Well, it's pretty small.  Not even on many maps.  Okay, folks.  Get a good night's sleep." 

Milt lugged his sample case off the train and went into the small wooden depot.  It was dark and cold and looked deserted.  But then he hard a voice.  A woman's voice.

"Good evening," it said.  "Welcome to Inferno."

Milt turned and saw a woman sitting in the shadows.  Slim, skinny even.  Long black hair, hanging down her back.  Couldn't tell her age.  "Thanks," said Milt.  "Which way to the fleabag in this burg?"

"You mean the Princess of the Plains Hotel?"  She laughed.  "Not really your style."  She lit a dark brown cigarette, and in the flame from her match Milt saw emerald eyes in a chalk white face.  Not bad, he thought.  

"What are you doing here, around--what is it, midnight?  No train coming through, is there?"

"No," she exhaled smoke.  "No, I like to come down here sometimes at night. Meet some interesting people.  There's not a lot to do in this town."

"Don't suppose there's somewhere you and I could go for a drink?"

"No bar or saloon open, if that's what you mean.  But I don't live far from here, and I'd be pleased to pour something to refresh you after your trip."

"Sounds good to me," said Milt.  He stuck out his hand.  "Milt Belaris, kitchenwares."

"My name," she said, "is Lily."  Her hand was cold.

The small house was down a narrow winding road, and they walked quickly through the rain. When Lily opened the door, a black cat reached out a paw to her.  "This is Lucifer," she said. "Lucifer, this is Milt."

"Well," said Milt, "looks cosy," although the scarlet decorations were not something he would have chosen. 

"Take off that jacket," said Lily, "it's wet.  I'll hang it up to dry and bring you a drink."  

Milt settled himself on a sofa and took out one of George's cigars.  Almost at once Lily was back with a tall glass.  "Try this," she said.

He drank some, and said, "It's good.  Don't know what it is--I'm a rye man, mainly--but this has a nice punch to it--yes, indeed."

"It's my own special cocktail," said Lily.  "Why don't I get you something to eat?  Some nice hot soup?  You're probably hungry."

"Well, I could tie on the old feedbag," said Milt.  "And look, glass is empty."

"I can fix that," she said.

Halfway through the second glass Milt began to feel light-headed, even began to imagine shapes moving in the room, shapes of things, of people, he knew weren't there.  Well, he thought, it's been a long day.  Might as well relax and enjoy it.

"Milt," said Lily, "those trousers are soaked.  Why don't you crawl into bed, under that big, warm comforter, and I'll press them for you and hang them with your jacket."

This is turning out even better than I hoped, thought Milt, and while Lily turned her back he pulled off his soggy trousers.  He was glad he was wearing the boxer shorts with the hearts and diamonds, and his best garters on his socks.  He crawled into bed and noticed Lucifer sitting in the doorway.  "What are you staring at?" he said.

Soon the aroma of soup drifted in from the kitchen.  "Smells good," Milt called.  "My special recipe," said Lily.

Wonder what's in it, thought Milt.  Maybe I'll take a peek in the pantry.  Might even see if she could use some new kitchenwares.  Could be a sale, along with everything else.  He slipped out of bed and started for the door.  Lucifer hissed.  "Get outa my way," Milt hissed back.

He pulled back a curtain that led to the pantry.  Beyond it, in the kitchen, lily was stirring a huge, steaming pot.  Milt began looking at the jars of spices and herbs.  The usual stuff, curry, cinnamon, nutmeg, rosemary.  But--what was this?  Eye of newt?  Toe of frog?  Adder's fork, lizard's leg?  Milt shuddered.  He closed the curtain and crept back to the bedroom.

Wonder if my clothes are dry, he thought.  Milt opened the closet where Lily had hung them and saw not just his suit, but half a dozen men's suits, all shapes and sizes.  Wait a minute, he thought, I recognize that yellow checked jacket.  It's just like the one Fat Lew Wilvers had.  He checked the size:  52 short.  Milt could hear George's voice:  "Something peculiar--fellas went down there and just disappeared."  

Behind the suits were stacked suitcases.  No, not suitcases--sample cases.  Milt started opening them.  He found Fuller brushes, Watkins liniments, Raleigh spices, veterinary supplies, electric gadgets, yard goods.  Lucifer was scratching his bare leg, but Milt hardly noticed. 

"Soup coming up!" called Lily.  The smell was overpowering, menacing.

Milt grabbed his jacket and pants, and ran for the door, Lucifer after him all the way, leaping up, clinging to his leg.  Milt shook the cat loose and got outside.  

It was still raining as the moon appeared and disappeared behind the clouds.  Milt didn't care. With his clothes bunched under his arm, he ran all the way back to the railway depot.

Pass That Peace Pipe

"Pass That Peace Pipe" was a song in the musical comedy "Good News," a film written by Betty Comden and Adolph Green, who said it ranked as one of "the Big Three of Cinema" along with "Birth of a Nation" and "Battleship Potemkin."

This item is, however, not about passing the peace pipe, pleasurable as that might be.  It is about the custom in churches of passing the peace by handshakes.  Since the arrival of H1N1, and a renewed emphasis on hand washing, many congregations have felt uneasy about shaking hands.  Some churches have installed hand sanitizers.  Seen recently on television was a minister demonstrating her flock's alternative to shaking hands at the peace.  It seems to call for the worshippers to stand side by side, arms around each other's shoulder, while swinging and bumping hips.  It looks remarkably like a 1960s disco dance. 

The patrician William F. Buckley, Jr., expressed his horror at the very custom of exchanging the peace.  While attending a service at St. Patrick's Cathedral in New York, he reported, "some man to whom I had not been introduced turned around and presumed to shake my hand." Buckley added "I am only glad for Evelyn's sake he is not around to endure this."  (Evelyn being Waugh.)

And writing of crusty English gentlemen, one is reminded of a distinguished professor of Middle East studies at the University of British Columbia.  At a church service while visiting England, he turned and offered his hand to a tweedy squire of the Colonel Blimp era, and said "Peace be with you."  To which the resident worshipper responded "Go to hell!"

"And also with you," said the UBC prof. 

Pass that peace pipe.

Crisp, golden October day

     "The only day that was ever as good as you thought it was going to be was an October day."

--John P. Marquand, "So Little Time."

High Station in Life

Most audiences may remember Eric Peterson best for his television roles in "Street Legal" and "Corner Gas," or perhaps for his long run in "Billy Bishop Goes to War."  But I remember Peterson most happily for his performance in Larry Lillo's production of John Gray's "Health: The Musical." 

"Health" is a play for one character and body parts, the body parts being played memorably in the Vancouver Playhouse staging by Ian McDonald, Ross Douglas and Stephen Miller.

I began thinking of various productions in which I have admired the work of Peterson--probably the best known thespian to emerge from Indian Head, Saskatchewan--when I read a conversation between him and Gordon Pinsent in the National Post (October 8, 2009).

Peterson was about to receive the Pinsent Award of Excellence from Toronto's Company Theatre, and the two veteran actors were exchanging on-stage and back-stage stories.  Which brings me to the quotation which prompted this entry.  Pinsent had suffered some unfortunate experience on a Winnipeg stage, and was sent this note:

"Never mind.  High station in life is earned by the gallantry in which appalling experiences are survived with grace."

Peterson said, "I'm getting that tattooed on my chest."

Blog Wisdom or: A Nicol for Your Thoughts

Some newspaper columnist (maybe Jim Taylor) once wrote a piece about a nugget of wisdom handed him by an elder scrivener (maybe Eric Nicol).

The younger writer had just been given a column a day.  The older writer said, "Five columns a week, eh?  Well, two of them should be good, perhaps three."

The younger writer reeled back against his Underwood portable.  "Oh no, sir," he cried, "I'll make all of them good."

"You may think so," said the sage, "but it's impossible to write a good column every day."

Same with blogs.

70-Year-Old Cigarette Ash

Browsing through the library of a camp on Shuswap Lake several summers ago, I came upon a 1943 edition of John P. Marquand's "So Little Time," a Marquand novel I hadn't read.  The camp director was persuaded to sell me the book, along with a collection of Dorothy Parker's poems, and I brought it back to Vancouver and set it on a shelf with other Marquands.

Finally, now having plenty of time,  I pulled "So Little Time" from its place between "B.F.'s Daughter" and "Point of No Return," and began to read.  There were no surprises in the style--it's vintage Marquand--but what did surprise me, what I found more evocative--were traces of cigarette ash caught here and there along the spine.

The book was published in 1943, and showed no signs of having been read since then.  I began wondering about the smoker who had enjoyed this novel almost seventy years ago.  An artist friend had given me another novel, "People of the Book" by Geraldine Brooks, in which a book conservator finds elusive and tantalizing clues--a fragment of a butterfly's wing, wine and blood stains--in a rare and ancient volume.  There is slim chance of ever finding the people of the book, or the cigarette smoking reader of "So Little Time," but it does engage one's curiosity (as did the Chinese writing I found the other day in a library copy of Harold Bloom's "Hamlet: Poem Unlimited"). 

As many people have, I have pressed flowers and leaves in books, and am pleased when I find, for example, a sprig of still bright yellow forsythia from a house where we once lived.  So perhaps I will leave some unexplained souvenirs in my books.

Meanwhile, I go back to pondering the identity of the person behind the 70-year-old cigarette ash.  I thought at first I should brush the ash away; now I think I should leave it where it is.

Olympiad: The 2010 Religion

The religious fervor stirred by the approach of the 2010 Olympics to Vancouver and environs will be inflamed further by the lighting tomorrow of the sacred Olympic Torch by a suitably semi-clad "High Priestess" in Olympia (Greece, not Washington).

But perhaps even more significant is the Olympic scarf worn by BC Premier Gordon Campbell, which strongly resembles a priestly stole or a Talmudic prayer shawl.  He wore it to his NBC interview and he wore it when he and John Furlong presented UN Secretary-General Ban Ki Moon with a pair of Olympic mittens ("Now you too can be caught red-handed, ha ha").

The scarf is also similar to a style made famous by the Middle Eastern fashion-plate Yasser Arafat.  Even so, a scarf has yet to be presented to such powerful figures as Mahmoud Ahmadinejad and Hamid Karzai.  A trip to China has yet to be confirmed ("Have some more oolong, Furlong?")   

Despite all this, there are some Olympic apostates, who have failed to embrace the new religion.  But for these dissidents, there is hope:  Pope Benedict XVI has announced that rules will be relaxed to allow non-Olympians to join his somewhat older church.

Einstein: The Movie

Since the revelation that Albert (E=MC2) Einstein played goal for the Canwood (SK) Canucks, furious bidding has begun for the film rights.  Working title:  "Einstein:  Space-Time at the Blueline."

Our casting director immediately thought of Robert Downey, Jr. for the lead.  "Robert Downey, Junior, IS Albert Einstein!" he cried.  But then, Eddie Izzard was suggested.  "Eddie Izzard also IS Albert Einstein!"

"Perhaps," the C.D. continued, "we could get Jennifer Tilly, with a cute little sauerkraut accent, as a young Frau Einstein, who never ceases to believe that Al can one day make it to both the NHL and Princeton's Institute for Advanced Study."  Ms. Tilly or Kirsten Dunst, Elke Sommer now being out of the demographic.

Other key players:  Peter Falk (or possibly Jack Nicholson) as Coach Punch Umlaut, Michael "Kramer" Richards as an early twentieth century Eddie Shack, a bruiser for the Pincher Creek Protons, Lang Lang as the rink organist, John Turturro as Zamboni driver Rick Fermi, and, as sportscaster Ace Pfefferneuse, Don Cherry (also on line as wardrobe consultant).

As Al moves the Canwood Canucks back and forth along the space-time continuum, we see him both as a Stanley Cup goalie (playing under the nom de net Turk Broda) and leading his team to the 2010 Winter Olympics in Vancouver.  

"I smell Oscar," I said.  "So do I," said the casting director.  "Oscar, go take a bath."

Arf! Arf!

An entertaining article on canine names by Randy Shore in the October 19 Vancouver Sun led me to think of the names of dogs I have known.  My first dog, a Scottish terrier, was named, not surprisingly, Bruce.  My wife's first dogs were named Paddy (a springer spaniel) and Billy (a blonde cocker spaniel).  The name Billy was also her father's name, but if he was disconcerted by her choice of that name for her four-legged pal, he did not show it. 

Later, together, we happily housed three generations of miniature dachshunds:  Rudolph (Rudy), Brunhilde (Hilda), Arnold, Pinky (I know, curious name for a black and tan dog) and Gretel.  I was then working for an advertising agency where a senior artist was named Arnold. He was not amused by our choice of name for one of our dachshunds.  "Every time someone wants a funny name for a pet, a dog or a pig," he exploded, thinking of the TV sit-com "Green Acres," "what do they choose?  Arnold!"

Other dogs in our family circle have been christened Sally, Blaze, Miss Dash and Buddy. Occasionally all have been present at family celebrations, and they seemed to enjoy, or at least tolerate, each other's company.

I have been trying to persuade the dogs to start a blog of their own:  The Dog Blog.  Stay tuned.

Tee Shirt Therapy

I was feeling a trifle overdrawn in the pep and energy department, as Bertie Wooster might say, but then I put on my "Bad Influence" tee shirt, and my mood was instantly elevated!  Astonishing how a change of garb can cheer a chap (and astonishing how easily one can slip into Woosterspeak).

The "Bad Influence" tee shirt, produced to promote a film of that title, was given to me by my movie biz son, who gave me also a "Talk Radio" tee, both of which I enjoyed wearing around a summer church camp.  My jazz saxophonist son gave me a Jazzmanian Devils shirt, heralding "Gangsters of Swing," a tee which has brought me odd looks in the elevator.  My daughter the writer made me a tee lettered "The Blue Streak," which I wear while slogging around the track or the Squint Lake trails.  And the New York dance critic Elizabeth Zimmer sent me a Nathan's Famous tee shirt which shows a jolly frankfurter, swathed in mustard, surfing.

I once gave my wife a tee shirt lettered "Still Perfect After All These Years," which she felt to modest to wear.  So I wore it.

Thinking of tee shirt therapy, I was reminded of a currently mildly popular song, in which the key line seems to be "Everything's okay-I've got my sweater on."  Switch "sweater" to "tee shirt," and I'll sing along.  Wearing my Pavarotti tee shirt.

Archbishop Gives Downbeat for Same-Sax Blessings

In a startling, provocative and unprecedented move, the Diocese of Saint Bechet has voted in favor of same-sax blessings.  Archbishop Coleman "Bird" Mulligan declared he will give episcopal approval to a rite celebrating the union of reed instruments--specifically baritone, tenor, alto, soprano, sopranino and C-melody saxophones. 

"We recognize," he said, "that there still are many who suffer from saxophobia, but we pray that they will remain united with us and discover the beauty in diversity, as demonstrated, for example, in the classic Woody Herman recording 'Four Brothers.'

"One must think," he continued, "of our gift of life as a head arrangement, stating the theme in unison, but opening up to allow individual solos and improvisations, then returning to a glorious conclusion, or, as some of my flock might put it, a big finish."

Some traditionalists and dissidents, unhappy since the string bass replaced the tuba, and the electric guitar ("the devil's instrument") took over from the acoustic, threatened to break away and start a paper-and-comb band of their own.  Roving pundit Conrad B. Guelke reported "Deep-seated dissonances rumbled and many of the disaffected trumpeted that they would cease to string along."

However, Archbishop Mulligan, grooving in a major key, hoped that "the time may come when all woodwinds will band together--clarinets, oboes, bassoons, flutes, piccolos, English horns, and saxophones of every persuasion--and join the noisy gongs and clanging cymbals.

"As wise Rabbi Goodman, whose centenary we celebrate this year, once said, 'Let all the cats join in.'  Until then, peace--and stay cool."

In the Kitchen with Wallis

A reader asks, "Is it possible to have too much fennel in anything?"  The answer is no, and I was reminded of the Duchess of Windsor's dictum:  "One can never be too rich or too thin," to which we may now add "or have too much fennel."

The Duchess's personal cookbook was auctioned at Sotheby's some years ago, and reading excerpts from it made it clear why this woman could never have been Queen.  Her various marriages were small potatoes.  Small burned potatoes.  Far more serious are the revelations in her recipe collection.  Undoubtedly this is what Prime Minister Baldwin and the Archbishop of Canterbury were privy to. 

Imagine if Wallis had become chatelaine of Buckingham Palace, and all the crowned heads of Europe had come for dinner, and she served them "Sole in Half-Mourning" (I am not making this up), after an appetizer of "Avocado Pears Tahiti" (avocado halves filled with rum and brown sugar), and ended the meal on a final sugar rush with "Gateau Egyptian."

Here is the recipe, more or less exactly as it appeared in "My Personal Cookbook" by the Duchess of Windsor: 

Make a light sponge cake that is fairly deep.  Scoop out the centre.

Cover the outside of the cake with cold blackberry jelly.  Fill the centre

with whipped cream.  When ready to serve, pour hot blackberry jelly over all.

So when this long-suppressed cookbook was discovered, Wallis and David were packed off to France, where the Duke spent the rest of his days eating her cooking and pondering his decision.

Back at Buck House, holders of the Royal Franchise sometimes suggested punishing the former Edward VIII by reducing his allowance.  But George VI wouldn't hear of it.  "No, no," he said.  "The poor bloke's suffering enough." 

fast-breaking Literary News

This day, October 14, is the date on which Victor Hugo, in the year 1822, married Adele Foucher.  The highlight of the wedding breakfast was the sudden leap into violent insanity by Victor's older brother, Eugene, perhaps set off by a sub-standard pain au chocolat.  It was possibly the most memorable wedding reception scene until Steve Buscemi's turn in "The Wedding Singer." 

(Incidentally, Victor Hugo wants to know when the royalties from "Les Miserables" will arrive.)

Also this date, in 1919, Robert Benchley, Dorothy Parker and Robert Sherwood, forbidden by "Vanity Fair" to discuss their wages, walked around the office wearing signs around their necks revealing their salaries.

Finally, words for writers (this writer, anyway) to cherish, from Katherine Mansfield, the superb short story writer born this date in 1888 in Wellington, New Zealand:  "I imagine I was always writing.  Twaddle it was, too.  But better far write twaddle or anything, anything, than nothing at all."

And if you can get paid for it, all the better.

Thanksgiving sans Turkey

Another splendid Thanksgiving repast, with no disasters such as that noted by one CBC Radio host, who complained of too much fennel in his stuffing, if it's possible to have too much fennel in the stuffing.  I was a trifle disappointed that my sea urchin and butterscotch chip muffins were slow to disappear.

But, our gathering was distinguished by many imaginative dishes, including a corn souffle heavy on cream, carrots roasted with walnuts, a chilled squash and onion salad in thyme vinaigrette, possibly an entire farmyard of yams, lobster mushrooms the size of footballs sauteed with butter and garlic, mashed potatoes and stuffing that had to be brought to the table by forklifts, lovely blackened red snapper, tart and crunchy berry-nut squares, and the ne plus ultra of pumpkin pies.  My one regret was my failure to deliver pumpkin ale, my neighborhood Nerve Tonic shop having sold out, but there were some crisp Alsatian whites and a robust Alison Ranch red.  (Alison Ranch--sounds like the heroine in a cowboy  movie.)  

Have I forgotten anything?  Oh, yes--the turkey.  Well, it was a magnificent bird, roasted to a fine golden brown, looking just like the turkeys in Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving covers for the Saturday Evening Post.

But one person suggested that the turkey was really unnecessary--just the reason to bring all these other gustatory creations together.  And other guests chimed in--who needs turkey, they asked.  There were one or two turkey eaters who disagreed, quickly scooping up the last twelve or fourteen pounds of bird, but they were in the minority. 

So, this is where the Turkeyless Thanksgiving Trend may have begun.  You read it here first.  (Pass that drumstick, please.)

In Praise of Re-Reading

I know some people question the value of re-reading books one has read several times before, and their argument that there are so many important books still unread is sound.  When I was very young, sometime in the reign of Ethelred the Unready, to paraphrase John McPhee, I felt I should read every book in the library.  I later realized this was both impractical and unwise; not that it hurts to read really bad writing, as that helps one to develop discrimination (said he, pedantically). 

But re-reading a book has the same value as listening again to a piece of music, or watching a film one has seen before, or re-examining a painting.  There is, if the work has depth and complexity, always something more to find.

Recently I have been re-reading the novels of John P. Marquand, most of which, I suspect, are out of print, although he was a popular author in his time, and several of his novels ("H.M. Pulham, Esquire," "The Late George Apley," "B.F.'s Daughter," "Melville Goodwin, USA," plus his series of Mr. Moto thrillers) became successful films.

Marquand wrote comedies of manners, gentle satires, mixed with an elegiac affection for times past.  My personal favorites are "Point of No Return" (which ran for hundreds of performances as a Broadway play with Henry Fonda), the under-rated "Sincerely, Willis Wayde," and his very funny golf club yarn, "Life at Happy Knoll." 

Most are long, leisurely books, comforting to the reader.  They remind me of the Trollope novels Jack Burden reads to the emotionally traumatized Anne Stanton at the end of Robert Penn Warren's "All the King's Men" as a kind of literary chicken soup. 

So I suppose I will go on re-reading the books that mean much to me, while working my way through whatever is current and whatever past that remains unread and necessary.

And always pleased to read your recommendations, to see what undiscovered treasures there may be on your reading list.

Ad-Biz and Decorating with Books

With the sudden and unexpected success of the television series "Mad Men," a saga of life in an advertising agency, circa 1960 ("Mad," in this case, being an abbreviation of "Madison Avenue," the best known turf of NYC ad-people) I began thinking of (a) my own time in the trenches of ad warfare, and (b) Frederic Wakeman's "The Hucksters," the novel that first found glamor in the advertising business.  (Herman Wouk's first novel also was about advertising.  The agency in Wouk's "Aurora Dawn" was named Grovel & Leach.)

But that, as Jack Wasserman used to say, is not the item.  Here it comes:  I was toiling in an agency in Edmonton and lunched one day at a cafe with a name like La Creperie, if French had been allowed in Alberta.  It was a period when restaurants were decorating walls with books. Interior designers would go into used book stores and buy books by the yard.  It didn't matter what they were.  You might find Freud's "Analysis of Dreams" next to "The Dummy's Guide to Septic Tank Installation."

The lunch was pleasant enough, but the great moment came when I spied, in a row of books on the wall beside me, a copy of  "The Hucksters."  When the server asked if I wished for anything more, I said, "Yes.  That book."

She paled, said, "I'll have to go get Dwayne, the assistant manager," and fled.  Presently Dwayne appeared at my table, looking very stern.  "I understand you made an improper suggestion to the waitress," he said.  "I just want to buy the book," I said.  "Whatever price you care to put on it.  Within reason." 

"We do not," he said, "sell the furnishings.  Good day."

Back in Vancouver, I related this story to my colleagues.  A few weeks later, one of the account executives, who had been in Edmonton on assignment, returned, and produced the very copy of "The Hucksters" I had coveted.

"How did you persuade them to let you buy it?" I asked.

"What do you mean, buy it?  I just grabbed it and stuck it under my coat."

I still have this purloined copy of "The Hucksters."  I just hope Dwayne and the Vigilantes aren't reading this  blog.

Obama meets Philip Marlowe

Considering Barak Obama's unique role in a milieu of cynicism and acquisition and violent rhetoric, I was reminded of some lines in Raymond Chandler's classic essay, "The Simple Art of Murder."

Chandler was writing about the qualities of a detective hero (his was Philip Marlowe), but these words--probably the best known of any Chandler wrote--seem to apply equally well to Obama:

"Down these mean street a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid.  He must be a complete man and a  common man and yet an unusual man.  He must be, to use a rather weathered phrase, a man of honor....If there were enough like him, the world would be a very safe place to live in, without becoming too dull to be worth living in"

Do you think the Nobel committee has been reading Raymond Chandler?  

Oslo! Obama! Okay!

Excellent news out of Oslo this morning, and I don't mean a new recipe for lingonberry torte, although that would have been all right, too.

When White House Chief of Staff Rahm Emanuel, before setting off for his 5:00 a.m. swim, heard that US President Barack Obama had been awarded the 2009 Nobel Peace Prize, he said, "Oslo beats Copenhagen."

Andy Borowitz suggested the award may have been given for the President's successful beer summit and cited "the healing power of beer."

When the President told his daughters, they countered with the equally powerful report that today is Bo's birthday--Bo being the girls' Portuguese water dog. 

Bo was okay with the news.  He is a very cool canine.

There are, however, a few right-wing dogs in the manger.

-----

"We shall find peace.  We shall hear angels.  We shall see the sky sparkling with diamonds."

--Anton Chekhov

Sorry, You Did Not Win the Nobel Again This Year

The august members of the Swedish Academy have announced the winner of the 2009 Nobel Prize for Literature:  the 150,782 kronor ($1.4 million) goes to Romanian-German writer Herta Muller.  And that doesn't herta bit, ha ha.

Over the years, a number of persons have been nominated for this award, one of them being Bob Dylan, who once again has to say "It Ain't Me, Babe."  It is said that Graham Greene's name came up year after year, but one member of the academy declared Greene would never get the prize, so long as he could wield a veto.  I suppose Greene had once declined to sign an autograph or been unpleasant to the man in an elevator.  A European critic, Helmut Karasek, has said "My mantra is always that Philip Roth should get the prize." 

Nobel Prize acceptance speeches are often memorable, and it's to be expected that one would spend a little time preparing a nice thank you before setting off for Stockholm to pick up the big bucks (or kronor).  Perhaps the best thing said in one of these speeches was this, from Ernest Hemingway, winner in 1954:  "No writer who knows the great writers who did not receive the prize can accept it with other than humility."

Hemingway did not go to Stockholm; he was still recuperating from an airplane crash, and the speech he wrote was delivered by the US ambassador to Sweden.  

But Hem did get off a line in an informal speech carried  by Havana radio.  He said "I want to let my friends know it's no good coming down to bum off me, because the money hasn't arrived yet."

Einstein in Goal

Thanks to the recent foray through sunny southern Saskatchewan by my daughter (check her blog at www.deborahhodge.com) I have come upon this treasure of sports news:  Albert Einstein once played goal for the Canwood (population 374) Canucks.

It is said that Al (as he was known in the Schnapps League) came to peaceful Canwood to escape the sturm und drang of Europe while working on his theory of relativity.  Some may say this story is apocryphal, but that simply means if it isn't true, it should be.

Checking the little known biography of sports reporter Ace Pfefferneuse I have found that Al not only set a record for shutouts while in Canwood, he also came up with the famous equation E=MC2, which, as you know, reveals that a small amount of matter can release a huge amount of energy.  This breakthrough came to Al after he was beaned by a puck traveling at roughly the speed of light. 

Al's theory of relativity, known in scientific circles as the Canwood Conundrum, tells us many things, including the curious fact that the faster one moves, the more slowly time runs.  Hockey coaches ever since have worked to apply this principle in key situations; e.g., power plays.

The favorite pre-game energy builder of Roberto Luongo, the current Vancouver Canucks goaltender, is lobster linguine.  Einstein's choice was knackwurst and sauerkraut. Often when an opposing player would close in on the net, Al would breathe on him.  Not only would the player fall down, a patch of ice would melt.  

It was, it's said, the secret of Albert Einstein's sensational saves.

You say Bayzul, I Say Basil

I have a great admiration for football commentators, especially Matt Dunigan, who recently was dubbed "patron saint of concussed quarterbacks."  But I do have to throw a flag on the subject of mispronunciation:  15 yards for every announcer who continues to pronounce "route" as though it rhymes with lout, tout, shout and snout.

Route, in football parlance, is what the receiver runs to catch the ball.  Fine.  But it is "route," rhyming with toot, boot, hoot and loot.  How about root?  There's something for football commentators to lock into their memory banks.  Route is root, as in root for the home team.  (Not that they would do that, for that would make them homers, which is a topic for another day.)  "Rout," which does rhyme with shout, etc., is what happens when one team crushes another by 34 points.

Okay, now that the pronunciation curmudgeon is fired up, here's another complaint:  all the Food Network hosts (including the great Bobby Flay, but I can forgive him anything) who pronounce "basil" as "bayzul."  Anyone who ever watched "Fawlty Towers" knows that basil rhymes with dazzle, not hazel. 

The CBC used to have an invaluable man who daily would issue pronunciation guides for on-air personnel.  Apparently such a position no longer exists.  There was a long period when CBC announcers would do serious damage to their necks attempting to pronounce "Bach" as something like "Bawh-khh."  They did not, however, try to get "Van Gogh" right, which, properly pronounced, sounds like someone with a serious case of catarrh clearing his throat.

I worked for many years with an announcer whose pronunciation was flawless in several languages.  At a time when the men's fashion line Gino Paoli was popular, he insisted on saying "Powli" rather than "Pay-o-lee," which was then the accepted reading, payola being something radio announcers understood.

Getting out of here now.  But I must pass on my favorite turn on pronunciation questions.

This, we're told, was scribbled on a wall of the Yale music school, where the subject under discussion was Carl Orff's "Carmina Burana":

You say Carmeena, I say Carmyna

You say Buranna, I say Burayna

Carmeena, Carmyna,

Buranna, Burayna--

Aw, let's call the whole thing Orff.

 

Leave it to Steve

"Hi there, fellow Canadians, and welcome to 'Leave it to Steve,' broadcasting live from the keyboard in the fabulous John Diefenbaker Lounge.  I hope you enjoyed my rendition of 'With a Little Help from My Friends,' dedicated to my new best friend, Jack.

"I see we have a request here for the great Mose Alison tune 'Your Mind is on Vacation,  But Your Mouth is Working Overtime.'  The request says 'Please play this for John Baird.'  Signed 'Mike.'  Ha ha!  Very funny, Mike!  Watch for a tax audit coming your way very soon.  And here for you is 'I Can  Dream, Can't I?'   

"A little instrumental noodling next, on 'Sleepin' Bee,' for our friends in the Senate.  And then

a personal choice of mine for Danny Williams of Newfoundland-Labrador:  'Mean to Me.'

Mean to me--why must you be mean to me?

It seems to me you like to see me cryin'.

"Moving on now to a number requested by Jim F. for Bank of Canada governor Mark Carney.  It's the old Steve Allen rocker 'You Gotta Have Something in the Bank, Frank.'

"Finally, we're going to wind up the show with a song that I think has a special message for all you voters.  Ready?  Here it comes:

I only want what's the best thing for you

And the best thing for you would be me.

I've been convinced after thinking it through 

That the best thing for you would be me.

Every day, to myself I'd say, point the way--

What would it be?

I ask myself what's the best thing for you

And myself and I seem to agree

That the best thing for you (big finish coming)

The best thing for you--would be me!

"That's it for now from 'Leave it to Steve.'  Good night and good voting!"

The Potemkin Village

There has been criticism of the federal government's current advertising program, a frequently aired television commercial saying, in effect, that the national economy is in the pink, not the red.  It is a very well produced commercial, shot in various parts of Canada, with excellent actors expertly playing actual Canadians.  And it should be good, if the $40 million price tag placed on the campaign is correct.  

Critics have said this money might have been put to better use, but if I were still in the public relations game, and advising the government, I would tell them the campaign could be justified as psychological stimulus, as essential as economic stimulus to get the bucks rolling again. 

I would also recommend a follow-up commercial in which Prime Minister Harper, backed by a chorus line of cabinet ministers, sings "We're in the Money." 

Meanwhile, thoughts turn to what became known as Potemkin Villages--fake villages, which were really mock-up building fronts, like Hollywood sets, constructed by Grigori Potemkin to please Catherine the Great, and defined, in the Merriam Webster Dictionary, as "an impressive facade or show designed to hide an undesirable fact or condition."

Heads You Lose

A recent book called "Frozen," written by a former executive of a US cryogenic facility, contains the alarming suggestion that the head of Ted Williams, the legendary Boston Red Sox slugger, has been separated from the rest of his person and used by employees of the facility for batting practice, an irony the Splendid Splinter might or might not appreciate.  Williams's family had placed him in deep freeze (at a cost, it's reported, of some $120,000 a year) in the hope that advanced medical technology would someday allow him once again to come out swinging. 

I cannot verify this story, but I can report that my friend Darwin, traveling through Afghanistan some years ago, watched teams of horsemen playing polo with the head of a departed enemy.

Mortality is much on everyone's mind, it seems.  Two of Philip Roth's recent novels, "Everyman" and "Exit Ghost," deal with this disagreeable fact of life.  I recommend both books, although perhaps not as gifts for someone in hospital.

One summer I attended a lecture series on death and dying given by Elisabeth Kubler-Ross in Naramata, from whence now come many fine wines.  Ms. Kubler-Ross told of a trend in US funerary arrangements allowing non-persons to be posed in familiar attitudes, at a table sipping tea, for instance, or bending over a billiard table.  Friends could then come by and chat, although it would necessarily be a one-sided conversation, unless the departed had left a tape recording, which seems, in light of the rest of it, not unreasonable.  

My friend Bernie Vinge had an elaborate scenario for his funeral:  it called for the Mormon Tabernacle Choir parachuting over his shorefront home, humming "Ein Heldenlieben," following which a fiery arrow would be shot into the Viking ship carrying our hero to Valhalla.  To be sure his wake would go according to plan, Bernie had a dress rehearsal at his favorite watering hole.  He stretched out on a pool table, glass in hand, while his fellow pubsters stood 'round and mournfully sang.

I do hope all this has brought you comfort.  As for the Ted Williams story, I thought it was important to give you a heads up.

Chicago--No We Can't

Despite the star-heavy US presentation in Copenhagen, despite the duet of President Obama and Oprah ("Chicago, Chicago, that toddlin' town!  Chicago, Chicago, we'll show you around") the IOC didn't love it.  

Instead, the 2016 Summer Olympics will be held in Rio de Janeiro, August 5-21, and Olympians will arrive at the Antonio Carlo Jobim International Airport in the dead of winter.  Average August temperature:  15 degrees celsius, 70 degrees fahrenheit.

So, with Chicago out, we will not watch the Olympic torch being carried into Capone Stadium 

by gentlemen in black fedoras.  We will not witness the St. Valentine's Day Marathon.  We will not see the eagerly anticipated Broad Jump.

It could have been so different, if only the selection process had rested on the presenters shooting hoops, one on one.  Surely Magic Obama would have taken Yukio Hatoyama, King Juan Carlos, and Brazil's Lula de Silva.   

But it was not to be.  And friends, this is the kind of thing that makes Chicago IL.  

Pointless Digressions redux

It all began--as Ted, the dim-witted anchor on The Mary Tyler Moore Show liked to begin his reminiscences--it all began in the lounge of a West Hastings hotel when Brian Brenn, over a glass of wine, suggested that I might consider a program on the Vancouver radio station AM-1040, of which he was then manager.  Mr. Brenn and I were alumni of CHQM, that fine 1960s vintage crafted by Bill Bellman.  The old QM was a terrific place to be, despite sloping floors, low ceilings, bad coffee, and an air conditioning system composed of an electric fan blowing over a block of ice in a wash tub.

I proposed several ideas for AM-1040, the most promising being "Sports Reports from Mars," but this seemed not to be what audiences were desperate to hear.

Well, I had other ideas, equally strange, since I had been doing this kind of thing for years, as a means of avoiding actual work.  It all began--he said again--in a radio station that might have been the setting for Garrison Keillor's "Prairie Home Companion."  It was the kind of station that had quiz programs like "Third Degree."  Contestants were forced to sit on uncomfortable chairs staring into a bright light while the good quiz-master and the bad quiz-master took turns grilling them.

It occurred to me that in a milieu like this, I might be able to digress my way through life.  And that's why I gave the inspirational messages I produced for AM-1040 the title "Pointless Digressions."

AM-1040 no longer exists in that format.  It is now Team 1040, an all-sports station.  I still maintain that "Pointless Digressions" had nothing to do with the old format's demise.

Right, Brian?  Brian?