Wear your colors.

I was a regular listener of Don Imus and the Imus in the Morning radio program in the nineties and into the oughts. It was one reason, and not the most important one, that my wife bought me a denim jacket for Christmas 2001. 

By that year, Don Imus had started marketing Imus-branded products with his brother Fred (no relation) branded through Fred's company, Auto Body Express. They sold Imus-branded coffee, hats, and other things to raise money for children's charities. As such, they were not cheap. 

Shortly after 9/11, Imus was selling a patriotic-themed denim jacket, and I wanted one. I needed a casual coat for mid-chilly temperatures, and I loved the one Imus was selling, but I didn't want to spend the dough. She completely surprised me with it. 

I still have it. 

I've worn it ever since, and in turn it has become quite worn. I saw another guy in Midtown wearing one a couple of years after 2001; he looked like a grumpy tourist who had had quite enough of New York, and I was dressed for work and did not have my jacket so I couldn't go "Twinsies!" So I let him be. But he did look mighty sharp in that jacket. 

I believe Imus, who started out as a typical hippie but was more thoughtful than that, really did love America. He was falsely accused of racism at one point in his show because of a bit that went too far. People forgot the theme of his program, which basically was: We Hate Everybody. Their self-proclaimed slogan was, "We're not happy until you're not happy." 

Still, I stopped listening regularly after longtime sidekick and newscaster Chuck McCord retired in 2011. Charles had been a counterbalance to Imus's weenie hippie tendencies and the "normal" in the room (although he wrote a lot of their sketch material). It was a less funny show after that, to my ear. But I was still sad to hear that Don himself retired in 2018, and two years later died of lung problems -- which he'd had quite a few of long before COVID. 

My favorite feature of the jacket is on the back. It's a replica of the flag that flew over Fort McHenry in the War of 1812, the flag that inspired the poem of Francis Scott Key (no relation) that became our national anthem. 

I remember seeing the actual flag itself in the Smithsonian when I was young, and being flabbergasted: "THAT? THAT's the ACTUAL FLAG?" It was not only like meeting a celebrity; it was like meeting one whom you loved and thought was dead. 

One time I was going with a friend to McDonald's for breakfast. A crusty old-timer with his veteran's cap told me that the number of stars was wrong on my jacket. I explained that the flag was supposed to look like the Fort McHenry flag, but he still objected. Maybe because there were 15 stripes and 15 stars in 1814, but the damaged flag (and thus the replica) only has 14 stars. There is a hole where one of the stars should be. Or perhaps he knew that there were actually 18 states in 1814 -- but the Fort McHenry flag never had more than 15. It was not until 1818 that Congress decided to increase the stars to match the number of states, and make more room for the field by decreasing the number of stripes to 13. The old vet was wrong, but I didn't know why at the time, and we parted amicably. 

I'd like to close this memory with a meme I think is suitable to the occasion: 

I think Imus would have liked that. 

Start your engines!

I was very sorry to hear that WCBS News Radio 880 in New York City is no more. The AM station had been broadcasting in an all-news format for 57 years. My father was an early riser and would sit at the kitchen table, smoking and drinking coffee and listening to the news on 880. I would hear about the news events of the day before I'd gotten my Rice Krispies. Through blackouts and rampages and killings and war, 880 was there to lead you into the riot of the world. And you'd get traffic and weather on the eights, 12:08, 12:18, 12:28, all around the clock. 

Now 880 is an all-sports station, of which we have enough as it is.

Some kids grow up in houses where National Public Radio is on in the mornings, and I pity them. NPR does nothing to educate you in the ways of the world. It's all soft tones and soft-pedaled socialism. As on PBS, commercials (oops! "thank-yous" to our sponsors) are gentle and intellectual and vacuous. "this program brought to you by the frankfurt school foundation, leading american children today into the bright future of the proletariat tomorrow."

You're going to work or school in the trenches? You needed AM radio. Even the commercials gave it to you straight, like a cup of hot, black coffee. 

THIS SUNDAY SUNDAY SUNDAY ONLY AT AUTOPLANET! TOYOTAS! CHEVYS! FORDS! HONDAS! OVERSTOCK CAR DEALS YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE! GOT A TRADE-IN? IS IT GARBAGE? WE DON'T CARE! DRAG IT IN ON A DOLLY AND WE'LL MAKE YOU A DEAL! NO TRADE-IN? NO DOWNPAYMENT? NO INSURANCE? NO LICENSE? NO PROBLEM! THIS SUNDAY ONLY! WE WILL GET YOU BEHIND THE WHEEL OF SOMETHING AT AUTOPLANET!!!

Your hair almost blew back like from a fan. AM was the real world, where people worked hard and made deals and had to be sharp. NPR was pabulum for people with trust funds who could be bailed out when things went sideways. 

Anyone who listened to real radio in New York before 2018 will remember the extremely aggressive ads for the extremely aggressive dragster shows at Raceway Park in Englishtown, New Jersey. This would wake you up over your toast:

I never went -- not the kind of thing my dad would bother with -- but it sounded like these guys were having a good time. If the internal combustion engine is successfully replaced by batteries (not looking likely right now), it will be a quieter and less fun world. 

Dragzine (not that kind of drag) reported that Raceway Park closed in 2018 after 52 years, which means it was started almost the same year as News Radio 880. I don't know if drag racing has lost some of its thrill for the motorheads. I wouldn't be surprised if insurance costs were somehow involved. 

Fortunately, not everything has changed. The manly love for motors is not dead, as I saw this poster for an upcoming event:

Look at that! Stunts! Demo derby! BUS RACE! And not a Prius in sight. I can hear the ad on the radio in my mind:

SATURDAY NIGHT! SEPTEMBER 21st ONLY! It's the EVE OF DESTRUCTION!!!! Enduro race! Trailer race! Demo derby! BUS race! FIREWORKS! If it combusts, WE HAVE IT! It's the EVE OF DESTRUCTION and GATES OPEN at 4:30! BE THERE!!!

But alas, I won't hear the ad on News Radio 880. 

Absolute killer records.

One of my best friends growing up had an unusual criterion that any album had to pass to be considered first-rate. It had to have "no bad songs." It was often the first thing he would tell you about an album -- not that it was terrific or featured this or that number, but that it had no weak links. And you know, he had something. 

He amassed a large record collection, most of which had at least one song he considered unlistenable and required skipping. Such albums could be otherwise boffo music, but they could never be really top-tier records. 

Still, even if a record had a stinkburger or two, you had to consider it to be doing well if it got radio play at all. Generally speaking, a record that had two songs on the radio was a big deal, three was a hit, and four or more? Absolute killer. When radio was king of music, you could tell which records were the killers, because (at least for young people) radio was just in the air, coming out of cars, from boom boxes, the kids in the backyard, the girls on the beach blankets. Off the top of my head, here are some records that were notable for multiple song radio play:

• Van Halen: 1984
• Guns 'n Roses: Appetite for Destruction 
• Fleetwood Mac: Rumors 
• The Who: Who's Next
• Huey Lewis and the News: Sports
• R.E.M.: Out of Time
• B-52s: Cosmic Thing

You notice that the records I've listed all came out before the mid-90s, and that's not a coincidence. Almost as soon as the Internet was launched, radio started to weaken as the responder to and arbiter of taste. Popular music got split into smaller and smaller sub-genres, and music was not played aloud in public places as often when everyone his own lightweight device that held tons of music. 

So it's unlikely that even Taylor Swift can ever top the biggest killer record of them all: 

Look, I never even liked Michael or any of the other Jacksons. Not my kind of sound. But I could appreciate the skill that went into the songs on Thriller. I had to. It was everywhere. Youngsters today may think they know what it's like when a popular song is everywhere, but they only get a taste of what it is like. Songs from Thriller could be heard anywhere at any time. Since it spent more than a year (!) at or near #1, from February 26, 1983, to April 14, 1984 (and has remained on the charts ever since, getting close to 630 weeks as I write), it was unavoidable. The album had seven singles, which is to say, the whole album not only sold far better than any before or since, but millions bought slices and then bought the whole pie. 

Reportedly Jackson challenged himself to better those numbers with his follow-up album, Bad, but he couldn't do it. Nobody could do it. And now that radio is less of a unifying force, it's doubtful anyone ever will. It's not a once-in-a-lifetime thing; it's a once-in-an-industry thing. 

My question to you is: What albums would you count as absolute killers, records that had many hits and near-hits that didn't just make the charts but powered into them? I'm sure you all know a lot more than the few that occurred to me on brief reflection. 

Or, what album is otherwise perfect but had that one crap song that you can't stand? 

Share in the comments!

Chatty appliances.

The other day my wife was downstairs and was sure she heard me grumbling in the next room, but I was not even in the house. I was outside with the dog. This was the complainer she heard:

It's funny in part because there would have been no question had this been our old dishwasher, the one that came with the house. That thing was so loud you had to raise your voice to be heard over it. The one we got later, the Bosch, is quiet, but you can just hear it from the next room. And what you hear, I guess, can sound like someone grumbling in the kitchen.

Certainly I can be heard grumbling, mumbling, bitching, and moaning at almost any hour of the day. It's what I do. I observe life, observe my condition, observe my own reactions to it, and utter low sentences for my own complaint or amusement or clarification. I'm the star of my own low-talking show. I'm often asked what I was saying, when what I was saying was not intended for anyone else's ears. 

Mumbling for comic effect probably only came to prominence after the invention of the microphone. Mumbling on stage would be difficult for an audience to follow. In older plays, a character might make asides to the audience to show what he or she is thinking, but those were usually comic or at least pithy observations, not the endless grumble of a muttering character. One of the first comedic mumblers I know of was a Peter Sellers Goon Show character, Willium "Mate" Cobblers, who could even be heard complaining in a low tone while other characters were supposed to be the ones speaking. 

Having determined that it was the dishwasher that was talking, I had to supply its dialogue. 

"Washin' the same damn bowl every day... You got just one cereal bowl, cheapskates?... Every day I gotta do the dog bowls and he never says nuthin'.... Thankless job.... Hate the way them forks poke me in the side when the water goes around.... Y'all usin' that cheap-ass basic Finish instead of the deluxe stuff.... I know what the mannufacterer said but he don' know nuthin'.... Take theses doggone plates and stuff 'em, that's what you can do...."

Of course, I hope the dishwasher is not that much of a malcontent. Goodness knows we rely on it heavily, and that only the air conditioner comes close to its place as a beloved fixture of the home. We lived without one for years, and we're not doing that again. 

Hailstones the size of kumquats.

Monday turned into a dark and stormy afternoon. 

Suddenly, a shot rang out! 

No, that's not right. What happened was, we were warned that there might be strong winds, and hailstones up to 1" in diameter. Which is great if you own a Safelite franchise, but not too good for the rest of us. Later the hail forecast was revised down to maybe hail the size of peas, but as it turned out we just got wind and heavy rain. All gone in three hours. 

But I have to say: What is wrong with these people? Don't they know that meteorological phenomena are supposed to be compared to sporting equipment? It's tumors that get compared to fruits and vegetables. 

I've seen that remark elsewhere, but I am dead certain I first heard the observation out of George Carlin, then America's foremost observer of cultural language oddities, speaking with Don Imus on the latter's radio show. Carlin also noted how bizarre it would be if things got mixed up, like if the forecast called for hailstones the size of testicles. I think we can agree that would get our attention, though.

I have found that this observation holds true almost 100% of the time. People mentioning their operations say that the tumor or cyst of whatever that was removed was the size of a grape, an orange, a grapefruit, etc. But hailstones, which really are the only meteorological items that fit, come in sizes such as golf ball, baseball, and so on. 

This does put our local forecaster in a spot, though, because what sporting good is the size of a pea? What could he have told us Monday? Hailstones the size of the top of a golf tee? That doesn't do it. Sadly, small hailstones defy the common naming conventions. 

If you have any ideas for other small sizes in which hailstones may occur, please note them in comments. As for me, the day it's raining watermelons is the day I hide in church and wait for Jesus to come back.  

Fred's Book Club: Oh So Bad.

Greetings, book lovers, and welcome to the Humpback Writers, our Wednesday (Hump Day) book feature -- this week, the Ash Wednesday book feature. No actual humps have yet been detected, but that doesn't mean our authors are all beauty pageant contestants, let me tell you.

Since it is Ash Wednesday, I considered profiling a book of great theological wisdom, humility, penance, and historical importance, like The Dark Night of the Soul by St. John of the Cross. But I decided to go the other way.

Sinner is a sort of book of confession by Lino Rulli, host of The Catholic Guy Show on SiriusXM radio's Catholic Channel. When I say it's a book of confession, I mean like Confessions by St. Augustine, except nothing at all like that. Well, maybe a little. It's just that Lino is nothing at all like that. Maybe he's akin to St. Augustine as he tries to live a Christian life, but like all of us he doesn't quite pass the Augustine bar. In fact, he rarely passes any bars. (Rimshot.) 

From the introduction, Lino discusses his intentions:

Having me write a book about the Catholic faith is like having a really bad actor write a book about the craft of acting. (Speaking of which, why hasn't Pauly Shore written a book about acting yet?)

The only way I could wrap my head around writing this book was if I called it Sinner, because that sums me up.

And I knew I had come up with the right name when not one person disagreed with it. If I called it The Catholic Guy's Path to Sainthood or Holy Lino's Guide to God, there would have been protests in the street and the burning of my image in effigy.

But everyone seemed to agree on one thing: I'm a sinner. 

Lino's youth, as the only child of one and a half devout Catholics, was not particularly ordinary. One day while praying in the Blessed Sacrament Chapel at St. Peter's Basilica on a family trip to Rome, his father (the half-devout one) felt God was telling him to leave his career as a parole officer to become... an organ grinder. Of course, every organ grinder needs a monkey:

My dad sat me down to explain. "Lino, we can't get a monkey. First off, we can barely take care of the two cats in the house. Second, there's no room for a monkey around here. And third, we can't afford it. The insurance is too expensive. He could bite someone, they'd sue us, and we'd be stuck." 

This all sounded like common sense. And I couldn't help but wonder if there were any other father-son conversations taking place on the planet at that moment about why the family couldn't get a monkey.

"OK, Pops," I said, thinking he just needed to get this information off his chest. As I got up to go, he stopped me.

"Since we can't get a real monkey..." There was a pause. Maybe he wanted me to figure it out on my own. Maybe his conscience was getting the better of him.

"I need you to dress up like a monkey and ask for money."

He got up and left the room, but walked back in with one more thought.

"Oh, and don't bite anyone or we'll get sued."

And with that, I became a monkey boy.

Lest you think he's making it up, there is a picture in the book of Monkey Lino, Pops, and the organ.

So we are entertained by stories of his eccentric Midwestern youth, his quest for a Mrs. Lino, and his tortuous career path. But you may be wondering if Lino ever gets around to the Catholicism stuff. And he does, quite a bit. He is a big fan of the Sacrament of Reconciliation, known colloquially as Confession, and he has some advice on the topic:

Welcome to the least reverent guide to confession you'll ever read.

After you've committed to the idea of going to confession, you've got to figure out which lucky priest will hear your sins. If you find a parish that has confession by appointment only, move on to the next parish. A parish of three thousand people that offers confession on Saturday from 4:00 to 4:05 might not be where you want to pour out your soul, either. Find yourself a parish that offers confession frequently. Daily is preferable.

Advent or penance services are a great opportunity, but make sure it actually involves going to confession. Don't be fooled by those "communal penance" services that involve thinking about sins but not saying them out loud. That's not confession, that's reminiscing.  

Around the time this book came out, I was driving to Westchester for work every day. My wife got me a subscription to Sirius, which is how I discovered The Catholic Guy Show. Eventually I had to start going into the city by bus, so I dropped the service, but I still sometimes catch the podcast version of the show, especially if I know I'll be in the car more than usual. It's entertaining. Since Lino wrote Sinner, he did find a wife and moved back to his native Minneapolis (he had been doing the show from Manhattan), so he's got a whole different set of things to complain about now than he used to. 

If you're Catholic, you'll probably find the book funny. Amusing for anyone, really. 

For a Catholic guy who hosts a show called The Catholic Guy Show, Lino Rulli is not much of a booster for the religion. He spends half his time knocking dull Catholic radio hosts, overzealous Catholics, and others who might be considered part of his fan base. 

But Lino's boss and friend Cardinal Dolan has seldom had to swat him for sinful radio, so he must be doing something good -- sinner though he is.

Q & Author.

Host: Good morning, and welcome to our show. I'm Clarence Sassafras. This is Q & Author, the program where you the public gets to ask them the authors one question. Today's guest is Frederick Key, whose new novel Dwindle, Peak and Pine, has just been released. Good morning, Fred.

Fred: Yo.

Host: All right, let's get to it. Remember, just one question. Who's up first?

Caller 1: Hello, am I on?

Host: Yes. Who's our next caller?

Caller 2: Hi, I'd like to ask, is it really true that you can go to jail for ripping off the mattress tag?

Host: Good question, caller. Fred, over to you.

Fred: Um... That isn't really an issue in any of my writing, but I am pretty sure the penalties only apply to the mattress retailer.

Host: "Pretty sure"? Kind of wobbly there, Fred.

Fred: Yeah, it's not my area of the law. None of them are.

Host: Who's our next caller?

Caller 3: Can I say hi to my dad?

Host: No. Who's our next caller?

Caller 4: Hello, this is Rita from Sweezy Point. I'd like know what Ferd thinks about the situation in the Aleutians.

Host: Good question, there, Rita. Well, Ferd?

Fred: Fred.

Host: If you say so.

Fred: I was unaware of the situation in the Aleutians, Clarence.

Host: You seem rather uninformed, Ferd.

Fred: I don't get out much.

Host: Who's our next caller?

Caller 5: Hello. First time, long time. Wait, did that count as a question?

Host: No, but that one did. Who's our next caller?

Caller 6: OOOH! It's me! Hi, Clarence! It's so great to talk to you! You're just so wonderful! I love your show!

Host: Thank you, Mom, but I'm working right now.

Caller 6: Well, if you'd call me once in a while I wouldn't have to bother you at the office.

Host: Do you have a question for our author?

Caller 6: Sure, why not. Ummmm..... Mr. Author, why are books so bad these days? They're either bloody and gross or stuffy and boring.

Fred: Not all books. In fact, I can recommend --

Host: Mom, you're embarrassing me. Who's our next caller?

Caller 7: Hello, Clarence. Hello, Ferd. I just want --

Caller 6: Clarence, honey, what do you want for dinner on Sunday?

Host: Mom, get off the line! Go ahead, new caller.

Caller 7: I just wanted to know if Ferd has any thoughts on a possible solution to the Riemann hypothesis.

Host: How about it, Ferd?

Fred: Fred.

Host: Him too.

Fred: Can I go yet?

Host: No. Who's our next caller?

Caller 8: This is Rodney. Ferd, I just want to ask you, where do you get your ideas?

Ferd: I swear I have no clue about anything anymore. I'm not even sure what my name is.

Host: And there you have it, another episode of Q & Author. I'd like to thank my guest, Ferd What's-His-Name, and our callers. This is Clarence Sassafras saying: The only dumb question is the one you ask. Good day!

Eyeing Niblets corn with bad intent.

So I was in the supermarket the other day, during the day, and the PA played "Baba O'Reilly" and "Aqualung."

wooo

I question their selections.

Nothing against these choices as great songs of RAWK. But they hardly seem to fit the genteel atmosphere of weekday morning supermarket browsing. For "Aqualung" in particular, any song that mentions snot is not really a good one for food sales. Never mind "eyeing little girls with bad intent."

I guess the rock musicians of 1971, when those songs were released, would be sad that their music was now being played in the supermarket, but perhaps gladdened by the fact that I at least find it inappropriate.

I know I complained about all this just a few months ago, but I must reiterate that classic rock is not always a good choice for retail ambiance just because it fits the demo of certain shoppers. Even here in the Hudson Valley, where everyone I know over the age of sixty claims to have been at Woodstock. It's like all the Frenchmen who claimed to have been in La Résistance after the war. If everyone who claimed to have been at Woodstock had been there, millions would have been at that stupid mudfest, and, cut off as they were from food, water, and sanitation, the fatalities would have been in the hundreds.

So even if our area boasts a higher-than-typical fan base for the songs of that era, they are still not a great choice for middle-class food service.

I got to wondering if, in 1971, supermarkets were playing music that came from 45 years earlier---which was 1926. Ha! I laughed. And yet, it was entirely possible. Albums of old standards remained popular---old standards like "Bye Bye Blackbird," "I'm Sitting on Top of the World," and "Baby Face," all hits in 1926. In fact, "Baby Face" became a disco hit in 1975. The ragtime music of Scott Joplin (d. 1917) became very popular thanks to the 1973 movie The Sting. And 1900s nostalgia was huge in the 1970s. Every ice cream parlor had stripes everywhere and those spindly wrought-iron chairs.

So you could hear 45-year-old songs in the market in 1971. The difference was that you wouldn't hear the original, scratchy, low-fi 1926 recordings. You might hear "Always," but perhaps as a Muzak instrumental, not by George Olsen.

But the main difference: Amazingly, none of the hit songs from 1926---not a single one!---featured the word snot.

Yakkity yak.

Voices can be deceiving.

When I hear someone on the radio or just know them as a voice on the phone and then I see what they look like, most of the time I'm wrong, or wrongish. When my mental picture is right on the money I feel I deserve a parade.

Usually I can tell a man from a woman by the voice. Not always. Some voices seem a bit borderline, could go either way, but when I think I know what it is, I am dead certain. There was a large and unattractive woman on the subway recently whom I heard before I saw, and I would bet a good hunk of money that however the person chose to dress or identify or whatever, that person's birth certificate said Boy.

A couple of things can lead to an educated guess. Age is almost always apparent. Sometimes very heavy people's jowls give away their weight. And there are issues of race probably related to timbre, bone structure, and God knows what else that may be indicative. Although we've likely all fallen into same trap as Lt. Zachary Graber in the original Taking of Pelham One Two Three, whose conversations with Inspector Daniels led him to believe the possessor of that deep, authoritative voice (African-American actor Julius Harris) was white. "Oh, I, uh, thought you were, uh, like a shorter guy or---I don't know what I thought."

Some of the scariest women and dumpiest men have the most awesome voices, too. Think of that next time you call your Frisky French Nurses Hotline, boys. 

Singing voices can also be weird. Some people with lovely speaking voices can sing like busted trash compactors and vice versa. For decades people wondered how Gomer Pyle could have such an astonishing operatic baritone. Then again, Goober Pyle had a bachelor's in science, so we know TV can be deceiving.

Why do I bring this all up when everyone knows it from childhood? Because it's one of those things that keep shocking us even though we know it so well. We may become accustomed to the idea that a lovely face may hide an evil heart, but never to the idea that a voice and a face may be completely at odds in our imagination. Or as the great baritone Robert Merrill might say, "Well, surprise, surprise, surprise!"