As I write this, many, many of my friends (good peeps all) are raising hell in Helen, Georgia. I’m sure it’s noisy, smokey, boozey, and just plain terrific.

Would that I could be there, but Making-a-Living 101 prevented that from happening this time.

I am, however, with them in spirit. In fact, I think I’ll have a cocktail.

Here’s to you reprobates!

The state of the State is horrible.

Free-spending, tax raising democrats, their loyal tax-taking democrat-voting minions, and government corruption at all levels that has made our state a national joke have resulted in what I fear to be an economic doomsday for this state.

Enlighten New Jersey points out:

Since Democrats took control of Trenton in 2002, state spending and taxes have increased by 35 percent and debt has ballooned by a whopping 214 percent. New Jersey’s population has grown by less two percent, while the number of state government workers has increased by more than 20 percent. The increase in all public-sector jobs in New Jersey has been increasing at the rate of 9 percent .Read the whole thing.

I’ve lost count of how many young, educated people I know who have left Jersey because they simply cannot afford to live here.

As I have said before, the only hope I see is to vote every single state, county and local incumbent politician out of office – no exceptions. Or, as we would say in Jerseyspeak, “Vote da bums out!”

A couple weeks ago, I was in a nearby mall and decided to visit Sam Goody’s to pick up a couple CDs. The store was no longer there.

I have since learned that the parent company of Sam Goody filed for protection under Chapter 11 of the U.S. Bankruptcy code, and that the company’s financial distress was, in part, the increased number of people downloading music from the internet. Sorta sad, methinks.

Seeing as how I have never used an ATM, I never could program a VCR, and I gave away a DVD player when I couldn’t figure out how to hook the damned thing up, it should not be all that surprising that I don’t download music from the internet. I buy CDs at places like Sam Goody’s and sometimes from Amazon.

However, before the Digital Age, I bought “records” at a “record store”. Indeed, as kids, we would gather up some of our “spend money”, catch a ten-cent bus ride into Newark and spend a wonderful hour or two in a store called Park Records. Park Records was a narrow but deep place, which had an amazing inventory of 45s, LPs, and even a rack or two of 78s. In addition to always having an ample supply of the “hits”, the owner stocked an absolutely amazing array of past hits soon-to-be-hits, and non-hits as well, and, as I recall, he kept track of all this in his head. If you managed to come up with a tune that he did not have, you could rest assured that he would have it the next time you schlepped across the river to shop for records.

I cannot recall the price of a 45 record back then, but it was less than a buck. We would spend loads of time sifting through hundreds of records, and wanting to buy dozens, but having to settle for however many records five bucks (or sometimes less) would buy.

After everyone finally completed their purchases, we would take the bus home and invariably convene at my parents’ house where we would play our precious purchases on a humongous Motorola console “Stereo”, which had a couple big-ass speakers and a power tube in it that was roughly the size of a small eggplant. We played those records loud, and we’d argue about discuss (also loudly) the relative merits of each. After we played hell out each of the new records, their owners would carefully return them to their paper sleeves to be brought to their respective houses and played some more.

As I got older, 45s and LPs from Park Records and that gorilla stompin’, mondo Motorola provided me (and the neighborhood) with the music I used to learn to play drums and guitar. Fortunately, I had tolerant parents and friendly neighbors.

I think that kids who get their music with a simple mouse click are missing something.

Thanks for the idea go out to Steve, a reader and Jersey Guy who has somehow ended up in California.

Last night I was channel surfing, and I came across The Day the Earth Stood Still, a classic science-fiction movie that was made in 1951. I had seen it before, but that was a couple years after it was made, and I saw it as one-half of a Double Feature, Saturday Matinee (with a couple cartoons thrown in) in the local theater.

I couldn’t bring myself to change the channel.

The plot is simple. A humanoid alien (who is urbane and frankly charming), accompanied only by a large robot identified as “Gort”, lands his flying saucer in Washington D.C. His mission is to explain to the people of Earth that he comes in peace, but the prospects of Earthlings’ using recently acquired nuclear technology to make war among themselves will disrupt the peace among other planets, which will necessarily lead to the annihilation of Earth by those planets. Predictably, our Earth peeps immediately react with fear and aggression, causing the alien, Klaatu, to assume the identity of an Earthling as he seeks a means of getting his message out.

The movie provides a fascinating look at the American psyche in 1951, which was only four years after unidentified flying objects were spotted and called “flying saucers” and at a time when Americans lived with air-raid drills and dug fallout shelters, all as a result of fear of a nuclear attack by the Soviet Union. Some have suggested that the glut of flying saucer sightings and Man-From-Space movies during the early fifties was some sort of psychological manifestation of fear of attacks from Russia. I don’t know about that, as I was only a boy at the time. Back then, I suppose I thought that The Day the Earth Stood Still and its message were pretty heavy duty, (not to mention Gort’s laser-beam eye(s) that would appear from under the visor-like thing and, while theremin music played, disintegrate things).

What kept my attention now was how different everyday things were then, or, at least how they were depicted..

Strange Stuff, Some Accurate, Some Not

Smoking: In one scene, three doctors were standing and talking in the hospital, and all were smoking cigarettes (unfiltered, of course). Lots of other people in the movie smoked, including one guy who smoked with a cigarette holder. That’s the way it was.

Men’s clothing: Men seemed to be always wearing suits, even when hanging around inside, and most often with a snap-brim hat when outside. All cab drivers wore the same kind of cap. Cops rode motorcycles without helmets. Back then, while working people didn’t wear suits during the week, one would always get dressed up when going out. Hell, one put on a jacket and tie even for things like a trip to Yankee Stadium. I also definitely remember cops riding motorcycles sans helmets.

Women’s clothing: In every scene, the female lead (Patricia Neal) always wore a dress. No skirts and blouses, and, heaven forbid, no slacks – a dress. And, when outdoors, she wore white gloves. This is pure Donna Reed stuff.

Kissing: Men and women kissed with their mouths closed. Looks sorta funny. But, remember, this movie was made before the censors forbade the writers on the “I Love Lucy” show to use the word “pregnant”.

Paperboys: In one scene, paperboys rush into a crowd yelling “Extra! Extra!” and immediately sell out their papers. I only saw one paperboy, one time, yelling “Extra!”, and that was the day that President Kennedy was assassinated.

Cars: It was great to see ’49 Fords as police cars. One character drove a ’49 Ford convertible. Sweet.

Silly Stuff

The flying saucer remained in the same spot in Washington D.C. for at least a day or so, with Gort the laser-eyed, giant robot standing stock still in front of it. No fence was built around it to keep away what would expected to be millions of people wanting to see an alien spacecraft. In fact, at night, the site was devoid of people except for two soldiers guarding the damned thing.

The Army did, however, encase Gort in something that resembled a giant plexiglass cube, which he made short work of when he learned that Klaatu (the urbane alien, lest you have already forgotten) might have been harmed.

As a demonstration of awesome coercive power that could be wielded by the alien (but a demonstration that was calculate to “hurt no one”), the alien disabled all forms of electricity, even electricity powered by generators, as cars and trains all over the world stopped (hence, the earth “stood still”). I wondered why the planes didn’t fall from the sky and why didn’t people on respirators (called “iron lungs” back then) die. When all those automobile motors stopped running at the same time, there were no traffic accidents? I probably wondered about that when I was 8 years old, proving that some things never change. I’m jus’ SAY-in’.

The Famous Line
C’mon. You know the line. I know you know it. Remember? It was the line that Patricia Neal was supposed to speak to Gort if something were to happen to Klaatu. Speaking this line would stop Gort from destroying the farookin’ planet.

Remember it now?

It was “Klaatu barada nikto.”

Two funny things about the line.

1. As Klaatu and Patricia Neal are fleeing the Army guys who want to kill Klaatu, he worries aloud to Patricia Neal about what terrible destruction Gort might visit on the planet if anything happens to him (Klaatu). He explains that Patricia Neal must say exactly the following words to Gort, should anything happen to him (Klaatu): “Klaatu barada niktu”. Yes, he pronounced it “Klaatu barada nik-too.

He said, “repeat those words”.

She immediately responded “Klaatu barada niktow.

I was thinking, ”That should have been an outtake. He told her the Goddamned survival of the Earth depended on her repeating exactly what he said, and she said it WRONG.”

Turns out, Klaatu must have screwed up, because, as noted below, her pronunciation ultimately carried the day with the seriously pissed off Gort.

2. When Klaatu is apparently mortally wounded, Patricia Neal goes to where the flying saucer is parked and sees that Gort somehow already knows what has happened and is pissed. He has melted his way out of the plexiglass cube and has disintegrated the two GI’s on guard duty. Gort, the giant robot, corners Patricia Neal. The robot’s giant shadow looms over her. The shield on his head opens, exposing the laser-zapper eye(s). You think, ”Jesus Christ! Say it! Say it, dammit!” Say ‘Klaatu barada nikto’. Just freakin’ SAY it!”

Of course, she doesn’t say it, but rather screams. (Ack!) and falls down. (double Ack!)

Just as she is about to be roasted, she says, “Klaatu barada nikto” and everything is cool.

Conclusion
Watching too much television leads to long and rather pointless blogs.

Tammi laid this one on me over the weekend.

I spent a fair amount of time scratching my head over some of the categories. Finally, I decided that the answers to some of these depend on my mood at the moment (I believe Tammi said the same thing, or something similar) and the tunes that happen to pop into my head at the time. I doubt that I would ever respond exactly the same way twice, although my responses would always reflect my age.

With that said, here we go:

Four songs that you could listen to over and over:
Let it be Me – The Everly Brothers
Running on Empty – Jackson Browne
Where or When – Dion and the Belmonts
Scotch and Soda – The Kingston Trio

Four songs that drive you up the friggin’ wall:
I Will Follow Him – Little Peggy March

I love him, I love him, I love him
and where he goes, I’ll follow, I’ll follow, I’ll follow
I’ll always be his true love, his true love, his true love

It makes me feel like barfing, like barfing, like barfing.

The Name Game – Shirley Ellis (Some dork always says, “Hey, do Chuck!”)

Wipe Out – Surfaris (I’ve written HERE about why this song drives me farookin’ nuts)

Mariah Carey songs where she enters the shriekosphere.

(Bonus song) Joy to the World (sometimes known as “Jeremiah was a Bullfrog”) – Three Dog Night. (That stupid song has absolutely no redeeming qualitites – None.)

Four songs that you’re embarrassed (or should be) to admit you like:
Winchester Cathedral – The New Vaudeville Band (I got a thing for bassoons)

59th Street Bridge Song (Simon and Garfunkel’s “Feeling Groovy”) – Harper’s Bizarre (Like I said, I got a thing for bassoons)

Indian Lake – The Cowsills (I’ve taken lots of crap over the years each time I admit to this.)

Even Now – Barry Manilow (Actually, I like lots of Barry Manilow’s tunes – So shoot me!)

Four best driving songs:
China Grove – The Doobie Brothers
Rad Gumbo – Little Feat
The Last Time – The Rolling Stones
Pipeline – The Chantays

Four songs that make you cry:
Daddy’s Little Girl
Old Shep
Silver Bells (This was my mother’s favorite Christmas song)
Leavin’ on a Jet Plane – Peter, Paul and Mary

Four best risqué songs:
If you Peek in my Gazebo – Elsa Lanchester (seriously esoteric I admit)
Don’t Go Walking Without Your Hatpin – Elsa Lanchester (see above)

????

Four best kid songs:
The Theme from Sesame Street
Do Re Mi
Itsy-Bitsy Spider (I learned it as “Inky-Dinky Spider”)
Jingle Bells

Four songs (hell, pick your own category and fill it in):
No thanks. My hair already hurts.

Now comes the “tagging” part. I won’t “tag” anyone, but there are a few peeps whose answers I think might be interesting. If any of the following are not interested in partaking, no problemo. No problemo whatsoever: GUYK (I figure I might recognize many of his tunes), Eric (I don’t think Robert Service wrote anything that would have been on American Bandstand), and Dogette (because I am always intrigued by anything she has to say).

I’m tired, and the weather is nice. Truth is, writing a post today just seems too much like … well … labor.

Besides, Tammi tagged me with a meme, to which I will giving some thought as I do my best to do not much of anything.

Yesterday was a complete washout.

Today the sun is shining.

We’re outta here.

I thought, “I’m so screwed.”

I had just turned over my keys to one of the Masters of the Automotive Universe Service Representatives at the Altar of the Masters of the Automotive Universe Service Desk and headed for my spot in the waiting room, which has been the source of blogfodder on a couple previous occasions. I opened the door to see that all the seats were taken, meaning I would be relegated to the “lower” waiting room, which really isn’t a room at all. Rather, it is a concrete-floored area in the vicinity of the Altar of the Masters of the Automotive Universe Service Desk, where spill-over supplicants to the Masters of the Automotive Universe Service Representatives are sent.

In the “lower” waiting room, there are no donuts (OK – I have never eaten dealer donuts in the past) and no coffee (OK – I brought my own, thank you). I have always suspected that the dealer-donuts and coffee contain a psychoactive drug that makes supplicants even more compliant. There was, however, an omni-annoying television blaring ESPN (not OK, but I figure that some crap like “Regis” must be blaring from the omni-annoying television in the “upper” waiting room.)

What really frosted my stindeens was that I forgot to bring a book to read (all the dealer-supplied reading material being in the “upper” waiting room). So, I pulled a mini-legal pad from my briefcase and decided to jot down potential bits of blogfodder. Strange thing is that the woman sitting next to me was doing exactly the same thing on exactly the same kind of mini-legal pad. I wondered if she might be a blogger. Perhaps she was taking notes about the sorry ass who just sat down next to her and who is doing exactly the same thing that she was doing and wondering if I was a blogger.

Of course, I did not ask her, because one supplicant to Masters of the Automotive Universe Service Representatives does not speak with other supplicants. Maybe it’s a fear that speaking with another supplicant will transfer the automotive maladies of that supplicant to your car – automotive cooties, if you will.

Anyway, for better or for worse, the “lower” waiting room is within sight and earshot of the mini dramas that unfold as the supplicants are provided with the diagnoses of their vehicles’ condition. Supplicants are not afforded the luxury of privacy in these matters. One’s car’s diagnosis, prognosis and the cost of remediation is for all to hear.

As such, we in the “lower” waiting room witnessed one of the Masters of the Automotive Universe Service Representatives explain to a very old couple that the problem for which they had sought service had been repaired, but that a “safety check” revealed that the tires on their car were “dry-rotted”.

I thought, “Dry-rotted? How old could the farookin’ car be? Did they go ‘halvsies’ on it when they began dating, which probably was some time around 1925?

The Master of the Automotive Universe Service Representative explained, “You should think about replacing them, because it is a safety issue. I’m not saying that you have to do it now, but you should think about it.

After the Master of the Automotive Universe Service Representative returned to the Altar of the Automotive Masters of the Universe Service Desk, the two old people must have thought about it as well as the flaming, painful death that can result from riding around on dry-rotted tires, because the lady walked over to the Altar of the Masters of the Automotive Universe Service Desk, and after a few minutes returned to give the old man the story.

“That’s an awful lot for tires,” said the old guy.

The lady responded, “They’re Michelins”.

The old guy thought a minute and said, “Michelins? Those are Goodyears on there now. They were on there when we got the car.”

“But these are Michelins”

Shortly after that, they (the owners of new “Michelins”) were told they were free to leave.

As they walked past me, I could not help but think that they too looked just a little dry-rotted.

***

Next, I saw a different Master of the Automotive Universe Service Representative tell a supplicant, who had a Blue Tooth thing plugged into his ear all the while he was in the waiting room (and therefore deserving of scorn), “The problem is that one of your hoses is dry-rotted”.

I figure that the dealer must have been running a special on dry-rot.

***

A few minutes later, one of the Masters of the Automotive Universe Service Representatives gave one of the supplicants, who had been summoned from the “upper” waiting room, some bad news:

Service Rep: “Sir, that problem you have where the windshield wipers won’t ‘park’ after you turn them off?”

Supplicant: “Yes?”

Service Rep: “Well that position on your wiper motor is shot. There are four positions in that motor, and the other three positions may go at any time. Parts and labor for that comes to $385.00”.

Supplicant: “Did you say $385.00?”

Service Rep: “Yeah, and your front brakes are just about shot too. Parts and labor for that will run you $250.00 [I’m not sure of this number, but I think it was something like $250.00]. Your trans fluid is also burned. It’s supposed to be cherry red, but yours is burned black. That’s gotta be drained and replaced with new fluid, or you could wind up with a trans problem. The cost on that is $160.00.

Supplicant: (reeling from the financial flaying he was experiencing) “Jeez, money is a little tight right now. I think you should fix the brakes and change the trans fluid.”

Service Rep: “OK, but you don’t want us to replace the wiper motor?”

Supplicant: “Well, they’re still working; they just don’t park when I shut them off. I’ll have to get that fixed another time.”

Service Rep: “I don’t know. Like I said, one position on the motor is shot and the others could go at any time. If the motor completely goes and you’re driving in the rain, you have a real problem. We are supposed to get heavy rain this weekend. [The remnants of hurricane Ernesto are supposed to arrive this weekend], and, you know, it’s really a safety issue. I’m not saying you have to replace it today, but you should think about it.” [I figure he must have studied under the Service Guy who sold the old people the “Michelins”.]

Supplicant: (looking like a beaten man) “OK. Replace the wiper motor too”

I was quietly wondering if the guy’s wiper blades were dry-rotted.

The guy retreated to the “upper” waiting room, presumably to call home with the bad news, or to slash his wrists.

Next thing I knew, I was released! My oil had been changed, and I was free to go. The Big, Fat, Black Capitalist Car is still under warranty, so everything was found to be just fine. I guess the dry-rot and the burned out fluids and motors begin the day after the warranty expires.