Dr. Metablog

Proverbs for a Latter Day

You can take the boy out of Brooklyn, but you can't take the Brooklyn out of the boy.  (Traditional)

The more you hold a baby in the first year, the less you have to hold it later on. (Dr. Catherine Lodyjenski, pediatrician.)

Don't skate to where the puck is; skate to where it's going to be.  (Wayne Gretzky)

Adolescence is not for sissies.  (EHP)

You can't coach seven feet. (Origin unknown)

Enough is as good as a feast.  (Traditional)

Enough is as good as a feast, and sometimes better.  (EHP)

"Both" is always an option.  (KM)

Everyone has a plan until I punch him in the mouth. (Mike Tyson)

Don't look back; someone might be gaining on you.  (Satchel Paige)

If you lose your man, go directly to the basket.  (Emanuel P.)

The only people who idealize the past are those who know nothing about it.  (EHP)

The longer something has been believed by mankind, the less likely it is to be true.  (EHP)

No one know what's going on between two people, even if you're one of them.  (EHP)

What's sauce for the goose is not necessarily sauce for the gander.  (EHP)

The secret of life is to turn routines into rituals.  (Origin unknown)

Nothing ever happens until it happens.  (EHP)

Babies rewire the parental brain. (EHP)

Everything made of wood was once a tree. (Origin unknown)

Your father is an enigma who takes a lifetime to decipher. (Origin unknown)

Never omit an opportunity to do a favor for a friend, and never be embarrassed to accept a favor from a friend.  (Emanuel P.)

Religion: my prince of peace can beat up your prince of peace.  (LERM)

No one owns anything;  the most you can say is that you have a lifetime lease.  (Emanuel P.)

You should be at least as polite to a wife or husband as to a person you meet on the street. (EHP)

Old age is not for sissies.  (Bette Davis)

You can't make old friends. (EHP)

You're immortal until the moment you die. (EHP)

There are no chocolate ice cream cones in the next world.  (LERM)

Still Another Republican Legislative Initiative

Alabama representative Ernie Yarbrough has introduced a bill called the Abolish Abortion in Alabama Act which reclassifies abortion as murder in the first degree. Pregnant women who abort a child, either surgically or through the use of drugs, would be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. According to the Alabama Political Reporter, Yarbrough contends that "abortion is murder, and justice demands that our laws treat it as such."

Representative Yarbrough has been one the nation's foremost advocates of what he calls "medical freedom."  He has long opposed face masks and covid vaccinations -- or in fact vaccinations of any sort. He "believe[s] that no person, entity or government has the right to force its citizens to violate bodily autonomy. The right, blessing and freedom as individuals to make personal medical, health and wellness decisions ultimately rests in the hands of Alabama citizens." Abortion is therefore an intrusion into the God-given right of every embryo (or unborn child) to be born. "All of us, including fetuses, deserve to make these personal decisions without threat of coercion, persecution or job loss."

Representative Randolph *Randy" Holman (R-Phenix City) has submitted a bill that would take Yarbrough's policy position a bit further. Holman's bill would require the "re-fertilization" of women who were guilty of abortion. In most cases this would involve identifying the father of the unborn child and requiring the couple to re-fertilize.  Otherwise, says, Holman, even if a child-murdering woman is fined or jailed, she hasn't made restitution to society. Only "re-fertilization" will do the job, Holman says. He calls it "compensatory pregnancy."

If the father of the unborn child cannot be found, surrogates may be employed. Surrogate fathers would include members of the legislature who voted in support of the legislation.

Representative "Randy" Holman:

More Republican Legislative Initiatives

Texas Representative Trey Moody (R-Flower Mound) introduced a bill in the lower house that would require all public school teachers, administrators, and other personnel to bear weapons during the entire school day. Weapons must be "carried publicly, in a visible manner" such as in a hip holster. 

Moody stated that "not only would firearms discourage shooters, they would also improve discipline and learning. An armed teacher is a respected teacher," he declared. According to the bill, teachers who refuse to carry sidearms would be immediately fired "for cause." 

The Idaho legislature passed a bill that would reinstate the firing squad as a method of execution. The firing squad would consist of six to eight citizen volunteers. Anticipating great demand for the position, the law states that members of the squad be chosen by lottery from Idaho citizens who can demonstrate that they are proficient with 'long guns, or AK-47s" and are certified members of the National Rifle Association.  

Tennessee senator Shelby Shatzline (R-Sequatchie) has sponsored a bill that would automatically expel professed atheists from the state legislature.  

Atheists, he contended, "lack the moral bearings to serve the public. They simply cannot tell right from wrong, inasmuch as they are not guided by a loving and  omniscient deity." The bill is expected to pass resoundingly in the Republican-supermajority Tennessee legislature, though its impact may be moot, inasmuch as there are no known atheists in either house. Senator Shatzline is also drafting a bill that would expel atheists from Tennessee. 

South Carolina representative Britt Brownfields, has introduced a bill that would penalize unmarried people who live together. It would impose a penalty of "100% of state tax liability" upon such couples. Brownfields stated that living "in sin" weakens the moral fibre of the nation and flouts Biblical law.  

According to the draft of the bill in addition to the tax penalty, violators would immediately be tarred and feathered and ridden out of town on a rail. Perdue Chicken will volunteer the feathers and Koch Industries the tar.  A donor or vendor of rails has not yet been selected. 

Kitsch? or the Epitome of Tacky?

We visited the grandiose Americana at Brand Mall in Glendale, California. It's gigantic, splendid, and luxurious.

I was, I gotta say, utterly transfixed by the artificial lake and its wondrous statue. Words cannot do it justice; here's a picture:

The statue is titled, "The Spirit of American Youth Rising from the Waves." It is 18 feet tall, weighs 2500 pounds and is covered with 23 carat gold, which, I'm going to guess, made it expensive to construct and to install.  It rises from the artificial lake and soars loincloth-clad above the neighboring Cheesecake Factory.  It's shamelessly, courageously vulgar. 

It is, in my opinion, the epitome of kitsch: crass, tasteless, crude, gaudy, flashy, pretentious, showy. Banal. I think the contemporary expression is "over the top."  No Stendhal syndrome for me.

I must say that it doesn't engage the intellect or require much in the way of interpretation. It might even be called fake art expressing a fake emotion. Nevertheless, it's lovable in a kind of melodramatic way. I'm glad to have encountered it, even though it doesn't speak well for American or Californian sensibilities. Perhaps it embodies tasteless nouveau-riche ambition. Bottom line: it's astounding. 

Written for Descendants of Sonia and Joseph Green

This is a picture of my maternal grandparents, my mother's parents, Sonia and Joseph Green. I imagine that it was the work of a professional photographer. I guess that the image dates from when he was about thirty years old and she twenty-five -- so 1910 or thereabouts. I have no idea why the photograph has faded to blue-purple; it used to be ordinary black-and-white. I believe that the costumes that the formal young couple wear were hired for the occasion, as was the habit in those days; I doubt that their wallets would have permitted such fashionable dress.

They're a handsome young couple, are they not?  She very feminine, even delicate, prominently displaying her wedding ring; he sporting a slightly rakish mustache and a full head of youthful hair. When I knew him, forty years later, his hair was white and very sparse.

Sonia Chafetz and Joseph Usilewski arrived at Ellis Island in August of 1904, traveling steerage from Rotterdam. I've written about my grandmother Sonia here. 

I know very little about my grandfather, Joseph Usilewski, later Green. I was thirteen when he died, in 1952, from the last of his five heart attacks. Although my grandparents lived just around the corner on Coney Island Avenue, and I found myself in their presence very often, we had little to say to each other -- mostly because I spoke only English and his English was halting at best. We sometimes played 500 rummy and fan-tan, and I can remember him saying, "Now I'm in a predicament" before discarding, but that's about the most intimate we became. He was aloof and unsmiling --not in any sense "fun." But why should he be? His life had not been easy. He was from Minsk in present-day Belarus and was trained to be a pharmacist, but he had been drafted into the Russian army for the usual twenty-year term. His pay, he told me, was "a ruble every other month, when we got it." So he did the sensible thing -- deserted and ran off to America with Sonia. The family story, which I heard from my mother, was that both Joseph and Sonia were engaged to other people when they met and eloped. My mother also said that when they arrived New York they had just one pair of shoes between them and that Sonia would wait at home until Joseph came home from work before she could leave the house. My mother also told me that when she herself was born (June 14, 1905), her father was not allowed to visit Sonia in the hospital because he could not prove that he was her husband (no ring, no papers). Whether my grandparents were ever legally married, I do not know; nor does it matter.  

My grandfather was a strict father; my mother said that he raised his children "with the belt." There was a two-year period when he wouldn't speak to my then young-adult mother because he disapproved of her male friendships.

I don't think his was a happy marriage; he was frequently absent and it has been supposed that there were "other women" in his life. Nor was he a great success in the new continent; he never found a home in the world of business although as far as I know he was always employed and never in debt. In his last years he worked as a messenger carrying papers and money from one downtown business to another. When I knew him, he and Sonia lived in a very modest two-room apartment (in a third-floor "walkup").  

I suppose I should mention that although born Jewish, neither Joseph nor Sonia practiced their religion. Neither of them ever attended a synagogue or even honored Rosh Hashanah or Pesach at home. Joseph was a socialist and an active member of the Workmen's Circle, in his day a mutual aid society for recent immigrants. I know nothing of his political commitments except that he had a deep loathing for the communist government of Russia. "Worse than the czars."

Joseph had a brother, Nahum, and a sister whose name I have forgotten. Neither of his siblings had children.

If I had been more enterprising, I might have learned from Joseph and his family what life was like in White Russia in the nineteenth century. But I was too young, too self-centered. Too bad.

Idaho Bill Would Restrict Female Travel

Representative Clay Hawkins of Eagle Hollow has filed a bill in the Idaho legislature that would regulate the travel of women of child-bearing age.

Hawkins' bill would prohibit fertile women (14 to 54) from leaving Idaho unless they could present evidence that they were not pregnant. "How else," said Hawkins, "can we prevent them from traveling to a child-murdering state like Colorado and killing an unborn child?" The bill would require women to present a certification from a doctor or the results of a recent pregnancy test.

The bill is expected to sail through the Republican dominated legislature. Governor Brad Little has pledged to sign the bill "as soon as it hits my desk." He called it "common-sense legislation."

Asked how the state plans to enforce the legislation, Representative Hawkins replied, "roadblocks."

[April 15:  I wrote this parody of Republican foolishness a week ago, fully confident that my readers would recognize it as a joke -- an April fool exercise. But to my surprise, almost everyone who commented or contacted me took it for real. Readers readily accepted the idea that an Idaho legislature and an Idaho governor would take seriously a proposal to examine the menstrual cycles of childbearing-age women.  It goes to show not that my readers are unusually naive, but that the present-day Republican party is so fanatic, dictatorial, and intrusive that it might just offer such legislation. Which tells us something about the sorry state of our beloved country. 

In truth, I do not believe it was my imitation of journalist style that deceived my readers. I think it was the accompanying photograph. The doofus-schmendrick in the photo is in fact a member of the Idaho House of Representatives (though he's not Clay Hawkins, whom I invented). But the so-called Clay Hawkins has the face of a person who would conceive of such a fascistic bill -- the foolish, fatuous eyes, the pseudo-patriarchal beard no doubt camouflaging a receding or slack chin, the general air of know-nothing simple-minded idiocy. It's the picture, not the prose, that sold the satire.]

Roux/ Rue/ Rue/ Rubaboo

"Roux" is word that everyone seems to know but me. To the best of my recollection, "roux" had never crossed my personal threshold until last week -- perhaps because I have never taken any special interest in fine cuisine. I've now enlightened myself, but at the cost of blundering into a bewildering etymological thicket.

"Roux," to reprise the obvious, is "a mixture of flour and fat cooked together and used to thicken sauces.... Butter or lard are commonly used fats." But why "roux," with its excrescent French x? Un nom étrange. Roux, if I have it right, means brown, or more precisely, reddish brown (as opposed to "brun" or "marron." In the case of the sauce, roux is an abbreviated version of "beurre roux," or brown butter and, curiously, comes unbuttered into English as simply "roux." Roux derives from Latin russus or ruber, reddish, both of which ancient words originate in the same Indo-European root. I've now learned of a kind of surgery called a Roux-en-Y, probably pronounced "ruin why," which is a kind of "anastomosis"--  or gastric bypass -- in which blood or intestinal vessels are configured into a Y shape. But although one may suspect so, this "roux" has nothing to do with sauces, thank goodness, but is named for the Swiss  physician who originated the surgery, César Roux. I suspect that Roux's roux does not descend from ruber but from rufus, red-headed, as in William II, aka William Rufus.

But then there's the English word "rue." I know it as the common wildflower that we allow to grow in our waterfall garden, and there are cultivated versions as well. This rue comes to English through French and from Latin ruta. The other English rue, as in "rue the day" is, as one might expect, of entirely different origin deriving from Old English hreow  -- "grief, repentance, sorrow, regret, penitence."

 

Exactly like Vivian de St Vrain, William Shakespeare was not familiar with "roux" but he knew and used both rues. Perdita offers the flowery one to Camillo and Polixenes: "Reverend sirs,/For you there's rosemary and rue; these keep/ Seeming and savor all the winter long." Ophelia, in her madness, also distributes rue, known also as herb of grace: "There's fennel for you, and columbines. There's rue for you, and here's some for me. We may call it herb of grace o' Sundays. O, you must wear your rue with a difference." The botanical rue is referenced by the poetical gardener in Richard II; "in this place/I'll set a bank of rue, sour herb of grace:/ Rue, even for ruth, here shortly shall be seen,/ In the remembrance of a weeping queen." The pun on rue/ruth is etymologically interesting. Ruth means sorrow and it is possible that ruth is to rue as truth is to true; that is to say, formed by analogy. 

 

It would be wrong to leave the subject of roux/rue without a mention of rubaboo, "an American stew or porridge of French and Métis people, consisting of bear grease along with peas, corn and other vegetables."  Rubaboo blends "roux" with the Algonquian word aboo, which, I have been reliably informed, means soup and is therefore  an unusual, perhaps even unique IE + Algonquian formation. 

Shadowlands (1993)

Recently some much-admired old friends recommended a movie called Shadowlands (1993). They pledged that we'd love it. But we didn't. In fact, we regarded it as a film that lacked value and integrity. Of course, we won't mention to our friends that we responded so negatively and that we now question their esthetics. I'm sorry but it makes me uncomfortable to doubt people whom I otherwise respect.

But gosh was this Shadowlands a pretentious stinker! It transformed into pure soap opera the peculiar relationship between novelist and religious apologist C. S. Lewis and his fan/correspondent Joy Davidman. We were not entranced by the "white marriage" of a reserved, asexual Oxford don and a smart down-to-earth Jewish-turned-Christian New Yorker. But the odd couple hardly had time for an idyllic picnic on the banks of a picturesque stream before Joy developed a terminal cancer, at which point the movie transitioned from merely dismal to full bore lugubrious, perhaps because the director relied on the "Pause Meaningful" (also called the "Soulful Two-Shot") for much of his effects. 

Joy Davidman was played by Debra Winger, who had died of cancer ten years before in Terms of Endearment (1983), so she was on familiar ground when pale and wan in a hospital bed. 

With such a story, a director should make every effort to avoid turning his film into a tear-jerker. Not this director, not this movie. Shadowlands ended with a shameless climax in which Lewis (Anthony Hopkins) indulged in prolonged tears, sobs, and theatrical snuffling. The old manipulative formula: if you want to make your audience cry, make your leading man weep. 

Over the course of Shadowlands' static 131 minutes, I found myself longing for old-fashioned movie action. If not a car chase, at least a mad dash --with a couple of fender-benders -- to the hospital. Perhaps Hopkins, excluded by a Nurse Ratchet from Winger's hospital room, might have gained entrance by breaking a window in an adjoining room and tip-toeing across a narrow ledge, twelve stories high.  And instead of yet another tepid scene in the college's common room, how about letting Hopkins punch a fellow don right in the kisser. Anything but another long shot of an o-so-green meadow and purling brook.

Carded at 84

Wow, carded at this great advanced age! Not, of course, carded so as to be permitted to purchase alcoholic beverages.  Those days are long since gone, and besides, I don't drink.

It was yesterday, at the Denver Art Museum, when I asked for senior tickets (a big $2.00 discount). "May I see your driver's license. I have to check that you're over 65?" "Are you kidding, I'm 84!"  "No, I need to see it." Needed to see LERM's also, although she's 79. Frankly, we were both a bit flattered, even if it was all because of bureaucratic procedure rather than guess-your-age eyeballing.

I remember that a score of years ago, a clerk at a some venue or other scanned my face and without the least hesitation charged me senior fare. I was then only 65 and was slightly insulted to be taken for my full actual age. Now, a similar but upside-down situation, and I'm mighty amused.

Can We Hope for a Locative Renaissance?

Here on Walnut Street, we're trying to make more and better use of locatives -- words that have long been underemployed and undervalued. We think that the language (and therefore the world) would be richer and more commodious if others would join with us in this endeavor. But we're not evangelizing, heck no! We honor and respect each and every person's private and personal linguistic choices, locatively-speaking. 

Nor do we refer to the common adverbial locatives, such as homeward, downtown, underground, or nearby.  The locatives that we wish to revive and reinvigorate are the neglected -- even forsaken -- classics of locativity.

Everyone uses the locative where -- the point upon which you metaphorically stand --  but how many of us remember to employ the excellent and useful "to" form, whither, or the "from" form, whence.  It's true that whither and whence sound a trifle obsolescent, but with frequent use the flexible ear will soon accommodate. One might be tempted to say "wither goest thou" or "whence com'st thou", but with a little effort, "whither do you go" and "whence do you come" will sound perfectly natural, I'm sure.

Similarly, we regularly use the word here, but by golly, we have slighted hither (to here) and hence (from here).

Equally neglectful is the abandonment of thither and thence ("to there" and "from there"). Extraordinary useful words, relegated thoughtlessly to the rear of the locative line.

And then of course, there's yon, yond and yonder, all related varieties of "there" but further off than "there." At a distance. Shakespeare, as one would expect, is a most skillful deployer of yons. From Hamlet: "But look, the morn in russet mantle clad/ Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill."  From Julius Caesar. "Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look;/ He thinks too much; such men are dangerous."  From Romeo and Juliet. "What lady's that/ Which doth enrich the hand of yonder knight?"

A yonnish locative that is not endangered and continues to thrive is the word beyond. Shakespeare's most remarkable and I daresay most beautiful use of "beyond" occurs in Cymbeline, when Innogen learns that her exiled lover Posthumus Leonatus has returned to England. She is impatient to meet him at Milford Haven; Innogen's speech that begins with the plaintive cry, "O, for a horse with wings" includes the most transcendent barrier-busting locative in the entire history of the English language. Her longing to see her lover is, she claims, "beyond beyond." A superlative locative, beyond anyone's imagination but Will's.  

Outdoor Gear Shops

Although I regularly walk our many nearby scenic mountain trails, I'm not a genuinely "outdoorsy" person. I don't ski, or snowboard, and I certainly don't rock climb. No climbing at all if I can help it. At this time, I have no plans to "summit" anything, not even my step stool.  My camping days are long over; no more sleeping outside even in a fancy modern tent. So it's not I who is the target of the two dozen outdoor gear shops that are within neighborly distance of my well-heated home and welcoming mattress.

 

These "gear" stores are ubiquitous; a guy can hardly take a few steps on the semi-famous Boulder Mall without stumbling into one or another. Perhaps you think that I exaggerate? Let's look at the facts. Right within a block or two there's Red Fox Outdoor Equipment ("crafted for adventure"); HIMALI ("apparel that stands up to the highest and harshest conditions on Planet Earth"; Teton; Black Diamond ("designed for epic outdoor adventures"); Stio ("built for Alpine pursuits"), Burton (snowboards, boots, outerwear); Mount Inspiration Apparel; The North Face; Eddie Bauer; Arc'teryx ("weatherproof footwear and apparel"); Fjäälraven (a Swedish outpost); Amundsen (Norwegian); Moosejaw ("funky fun-loving climbing gear"); Epic Mountain Gear; MontBell; Backcountry ("gear up for fresh powder"); REI; Neptune Mountaineering; Helly Hansen; Patagonia; Nomad ("a mountain lifestyle retailer"); Cotopaxi ("sustainably-designed outdoor gear"); Volcom "skating & snowboarding-inspired apparel"); Norrøna Concept Store (outdoor apparel plus espresso bar); Christy Sports; Rapha "world's finest cycling clothing"). In addition, there are also several "previously owned" -- formerly called "second hand" -- outdoor gear shops.

 

Who buys all this stuff? Boulder doesn't contain enough bravers-of-the-elements to support so many enterprises. Perhaps it's the tourists. It's also been theorized that most of the gear business is internet-driven and that the various manufacturers like to boast a brick-and-mortar presence in prestigious Boulder. I wouldn't know; I'm perpetually gearless.

 

Should a slug-a-bed like myself feel indolent and guilty in the presence of such passionate mountaineering energy?  Maybe a little, but mostly I'm amused by what seems to me conspicuous equipment consumption. Life is not about "gear." 

 

Question: does our Mall have more outdoor gear shops than it does marijuana outlets?  Or coffee shops? A census is warranted. 

 

What would the Boulder Mall look like if I myself were the target audience. Well, it just so happens that many years ago I designed a mall of me. You can look it up.

Old Age Home/ Retirement Community/ Senior Living Center

We were invited for dinner at the place to which a number of my "senior" friends have retreated. The experience was cordial and civilized, but somehow troubling. I know one thing: I don't want to wind up there. I'm staying put as long as I possibly can.  

Too many old folks. I want to live where there are people of all ages and varieties. Babies and toddlers and tweens and teen-agers and young adults. More activity, fewer canes and crutches and walkers.

The place, though handsome and well-appointed, seemed to me to be inhospitable. Supervisors at every entrance. We had to check in at a fancy kiosk where some sort of electronic device took our official data and printed out a visitor badge, which I pocketed. It felt much too "policed."

The dining room was hushed and mannerly. The food was institutional-plus, but nevertheless institutional. I much prefer my own cooking; I've made a fetish of self-sufficiency all these years and I'd like to continue so. I like to stir my own pot.

The apartments are splendid, but the long narrow corridors between apartments are oppressive. Too reminiscent of hospitals. Or jails.

My principal objection: friends who have moved there become subsumed into the society of the place. They participate in the home's "activities." It's good and healthy for them, I suppose, but my friends become lost to me. Swallowed in a kindly maw. It's scary, to those of us who don't want to be swallowed.

I'll stay here on Walnut Street as long as I can. As in the traditional resolve, I plan to leave "feet-first." But we shall see what the future brings.

Words of My Life: Boot

Is there another common English word that exhibits such varied meanings as "boot?" Or one that has shown such continual transformation during my years on the planet?

Like much of my early vocabulary, "boot" entered my life through the medium of radio baseball . In my mind's ear, I can hear the voice of Red Barber announcing that "umpire Babe Pinelli has just given the boot to Leo Durocher." "Given the boot" does not make the claim that Durocher was presented with footwear; it means that he was kicked out of the game as if with a metaphorically-booted foot.

Nor was it only obstreperous managers who were "booted." "There's a two-hopper to third, but Cox boots it" -- meaning that he bobbled it, even though the ball never touched his foot. In baseball, curiously, you can boot a ball with your hand, which is, logically speaking, as nonsensical as gloving it with your foot. 

As everyone knows, a boot primarily protects the area from the shin down to the toes. But there's a second common meaning to "boot": "something extra," as in the phrase "to boot." "He's a great pitcher -- and a good hitter to boot." The shoe-ish meaning comes through old French from a Germanic source; the profit or use or something-extra meaning derives from an unrelated OE (Old English) word; moreover, in latter stages of its development "boot" has also been influenced by its phonological neighbors booty, and, I suspect, butt. 

In order to gain some historical perspective, let us consider the ways in which Shakespeare makes use of the word boot. "To boot" meaning "in addition" is employed frequently, as, for example, when Henry IV swears "by my scepter and my soul to boot," or when Macduff says to Malcolm that "I would not be the villain that thou think'st/ For the whole space that's in the tyrant's grasp/ And the rich east to boot." A less familiar use occurs in The Winter's Tale, when Hermione, accused of adultery, concedes that  "it shall scarce boot me/ To say 'not guilty.'" Her "boot" means that it will not be to her advantage or profit to assert her innocence. This signification can shade over into gain or even into a coin itself, as for example when Camillo passes money to Autolycus, saying,"hold thee, there's some boot." Contemplating his gain, Autolycus muses, "What an exchange had this been without boot! What a boot is here with this exchange." Just as boot is gain, so bootless means without gain or helpless, as when Henry V explains that he will be powerless to restrain a rampage: "We may as bootless spend our vain command/ Upon the enraged soldiers in their spoil."

Shakespeare gets some punning mileage out of the multiple meanings of "boot." Glendower boasts that "[T]hree times hath Henry Bolingbroke made head/ Against my power; thrice from the banks of Wye/ And sandy-bottom'd Severn have I sent him/ Bootless home and weather-beaten back. "Bootless" means helpless; but sardonic Hotspur, never noted for an sophisticated sense of humor, cannot resist the obvious: "Home without boots. And in foul weather too."

So a boot can be a shoe, an advantage, an addition, a reward, a help. But look what's happened to the poor helpless word in more recent times. "Boot Hill" is a cowboy frontier cemetery.  Across the waters, a "boot" is the trunk of an automobile. The infamous "Denver boot" is a wheel clamp that immobilizes a vehicle. In the army, a boot is a recruit or rookie: "boot camp."

But then, along came the computer, where one "boots" or restarts one's machine. This use, I'm told, originated with the phrase, to "pull oneself up by one's own bootstraps" -- i.e. perform a difficult task at one's own initiative, just as a computer starts itself. There's also the warmboot, which sounds little too much like the old torture device, the Spanish boot and which can also be called a softboot (but not by me).  

In Shakespeare's day, boot was not always distinguished from "booty" as in the case of the Archbishop of Canterbury's famous bees, which "like soldiers, armed in their stings,/ Make boot upon the summer's velvet buds,/ Which pillage they with merry march bring home." Booty as pillage survives to this day, but is, I think, obsolescent. Nowadays, booty is more likely to be used in the phrase "booty call" which means (and here I'm relying on the invaluable Urban Dictionary) a "telephone call made to request a sexual encounter." Who would ever have devised or imagined such an innovation?  Does this booty derive from "shake your booty," meaning to move your butt or bottom in a sexually suggestive way?  Not a meaning known to Shakespeare, or at least, not one that the Shakespeare concordance acknowledges.

 

Other words of my life:  slouch, cishet, yips, ramps, jot and tittle, worship, mucilage. spatchcock, umpire.

Words of my Life: Troll

"Troll" is a word that has strangely metamorphosized in the course of my lifetime. While It once had warm associations; now, not so much.

"Troll" came into my life in the late 1940s at Makamah Beach on the Long Island Sound. My grandmother Sonia taught me how to "troll" for bluefish or sunfish. Here's how you do it. You paddle slowly and let your "shiner" dangle on fishing line a few yards behind the rowboat. "Troll" is very like "trawl." Perhaps the two words are variants; or perhaps "troll" is a distant descendent of Latin trahere, to drag." Troll is related to "trolley," a device used to drag things from place to place, as a trolley does its passengers. "Troll" seems to incorporate the meaning "wander" or "wander into."

From my early interest in northern mythology (a "mythology," by the way, is someone else's religion), I learned that a "troll" is a clumsy ugly monster who hides out under bridges or in cemeteries. Trolls were troublesome, provocative, perhaps even cannibalistic. 

But nowadays, the older meanings of "troll" have been superseded. A 'troll' is now a person who participates in a conversation, usually an internet conversation, with the intention of sowing discord or causing trouble. I am not sure about the origin of this usage, but I would like to guess or hypothesize that it combines the sense of "wandering into" with the malevolence of the Scandinavian figure. A troll is therefore an electronic ogre.

 

Other words of my life: slouch, cishet, yips, ramps, jot and tittle, worship, mucilage. spatchcock, umpire.

Is Safety an Illusion?

Am I just plain nuts to think that I live in a safe and secure world? All the evidence says "perpetual vigilance" and "it can happen here" and "keep a close watch? 

Let's look at the situation. 

Our state has a violent history. In the far past: at Sand Creek in 1864, several hundred Cheyenne and Arapahos were brutally murdered. In 1914, a century or so ago, the Pinkertons, employed by the Rockefellers, killed no-one-knows-how-many miners when they shot randomly into the Ludlow tent colony.  

More recently, killing has become the work not of army or paid professionals but of heavily armed civilians. In 1999 there was the horrible Columbine High School massacre in which twelve were killed and twenty-one wounded. Just thirteen years later came the mass killing inside a Century 16 theater in Aurora, just a few miles south of where I live, in which twelve people were killed and another seventy injured. Then in 2015 there was a shooting at a Planned Parenthood clinic in which three were assassinated and nine others wounded. In March of 2021, just two years ago, in the Table Mesa King Soopers, a "gunman" killed ten -- customers, employees, a police officer. And last year, we had the nightclub shooting in Colorado Springs where five were murdered and twenty-five others wounded.

I didn't happen to be in any of these places, but I might have been. Although I wasn't at the Columbine school, I was at that very moment in a different classroom in Denver; I didn't go to the movies to see the Dark Knight, but I do go to theaters. It wasn't "my" King Soopers that was terrorized, but nevertheless I've bought stuff at that very store many times when I've happened to be in south Boulder; I wasn't at the Colorado Springs bar but I've certainly patronized bars. In any one of these cases, It could just as easily have been me that was shot dead or maimed. I've been one lucky fellow, but people much like me have not been so fortunate.

Two days ago, a vicious prank phone call set off a scramble and shelter-in-place warnings at two-block away Boulder High School. BHS is where AGP and our three children spent many a year. This scare turned out to be a case of "swatting" -- a disgusting new practice in which a nasty sociopath calls an institution to see if he can get a reaction from a SWAT team. Deliberate malice. Such false alarms are not mass killings, but they're still hair-raising, anxiety-provoking, and potentially dangerous events.

It's coming close to home, isn't it. Luck of the draw, so to speak, that I'm still whole.

When I was a teacher, I was never in real danger but, like everyone else on the faculty, I had a few deranged students. I remember once that a particularly odd young lady asked to make an appointment for a conference. Wary of her, I proposed that instead of her coming to my office that we meet in the public cafeteria. l can't remember what she wanted to talk about, but I recall vividly that at one point she asked, "do you think I have a gun in my purse?"  I replied "I don't know whether you do or not, but I know that this meeting is now over." I stood up and walked away, half convinced that I was about to be shot in the back. But I wasn't. 

It's a violent world; no one has ever been truly safe. But all we can do is go blithely about our business, hoping to be spared.

I shouldn't complain; we're not in a war zone; it's not like Ukraine, where at any moment Russian drones and shells and missiles can drop on you from the sky. 

Words of my Life: Hack

I cannot think of a word that has undergone greater change during the course of my lifetime than the plain monosyllable "hack."

"Hack" entered my language, like much of my early vocabulary, through the medium of baseball. "He took a good hack at that fastball;" "he's up there hacking away." A hack was a hard swing, not necessarily a successful one. [There was also Stan Hack, the great Chicago Cub third baseman whose career was just coming to an end as I was becoming conscious.]  In the days of my youth, "hack" was also slang for taxicab and a cab driver was a "hackie." I don't believe I've heard that particular use of the word in decades (except in 1940s movies). In seventh-grade "shop" class at PS 217, Mr. Kaminsky introduced me to the "hacksaw." The hack in hacksaw derives from a medieval word meaning "cut into pieces," but the taxi hack has an entirely dissimilar origin. It comes from hackney, a breed of horse and later the carriage itself that the horse drew -- the name of which then migrated to our big yellow taxi.

When did I first hear the expression, a "hacking cough"?  And why hacking? Perhaps because the noise of a cough is similar to the sound of the short sharp blows when one hacks through a forest or the jungle with a machete. Maybe that's how it originated-- but I'm not entirely convinced.

Hack has another older meaning -- mediocre or failing, or not good at one's trade, as in a "hack writer," or a "political hack." This usage is probably a shortened version of "hackneyed," meaning trite or overused. When you waste time, you're just "hacking around." In such cases,"hack" denoted incompetence.

Nowadays "hack" has come up in the world. To hack into a computer implies not laziness but skill. In this usage, "hack" is also malicious. Hackers may be smart but they're also dangerous; they can cause crashes when they illegally intrude to alter a program. 

The most common contemporary use of "hack," if I'm reading the data correctly, occurs in the recent coinage "lifehack," which is defined as "a strategy or technique adopted in order to manage one's time and daily activities in a more efficient way." I can't be the only person whose junk mail folder is regularly inundated with recommended lifehacks, most of which seem mighty silly or simplistic. 

And then there's an even more specialized use. Here's one that's new to me: "scientists announced that they had genetically hacked tobacco plants to photosynthesize more efficiently." This usage seems to retain something of the older meaning of cut or slash although it is a stretch to envision a genome being attacked by a sword or a snickersnee. 

Goodness gracious, it's a long road from waving at an inshoot with the old hickory to inserting bits of DNA in the tobacco genome. But here we are.

Other words of my life: slouch, cishet, yips, ramps, jot and tittle, worship, mucilage. spatchcock, umpire.

Strangest Dream Yet

In this one, I was lying in restless sleep in my own bed, when a figure, a man, came at me. He tried to get under my covers, and I cried out, "You can't get into bed with me. I'm a married woman!"  Very theatrical -- and strange enough, but the details are even more peculiar.  Of course I'm not a woman -- I'm an octogenarian man -- but not in the dream. Secondly the man who was trying to attack me, though identifiably male, had the face of a stereotypical witch -- long crooked nose, verrucose almost echinulate skin, etc.  In addition, my bedmate, who in real life is a woman, was, in the dream, male. That's a heck of a lot of gender confusion for one dream fragment.

What is most memorable, however, is my plaintive cry -- "you can't get into my bed.  I'm a married woman."  How to interpret this sentence?  I can invent any number of bizarre "'Freudian" theories, but in fact I have no idea, except for the opinion that I've expressed before on this blog, that I'm a mighty dull, conventional fellow from 7am to 11pm, but from 11pm until morning, I'm crazy imaginative, unconventional, and possibly even interesting.

My Life with Telephones

In the course of my lifetime, the telephone has gone from relatively rare to ubiquitous, from wall to pocket, and from rotary dial to cell. From no intelligence whatsoever to smart and then to very smart. Revolutionary changes.

When I was growing up in Flatbush, our family was prosperous enough to have a telephone (not everyone did), but the device was only employed for local calls, never for "long distance." Non-local calls were prohibitively expensive and were only for deaths. To be called to the phone by long-distance was ominous.

Before the innovation of seven-digit dialing, we were Windsor 6-2077. Sometime after WWII, our exchange was altered from WI 6 to GEdney 6. To me, this was an early indication that the world was unstable and would be filled with ups and downs. One day we were a Windsor, a royal house, and the next day we were a Gedney, a brand of dill pickle. 

Every telephone in existence looked exactly like this one.  The idea that they would ever look otherwise was inconceivable.  

For a month of so in the late 1950s, I had a job operating an old-fashioned switchboard at the Sears warehouse on Utica Avenue -- definitely my most satisfying telephone-related experience, lifetime. Ah that lovely click when the plug fully entered its receptacle! A delight!  The one I sat at looked almost exactly like this:

In my short time at the console, I became quite a proficient operator, only cutting off important calls a handful of times. It's hard to believe that such an antiquated-looking machine was still in use when I was a lad.

We must also recall the almost extinct telephone booth -- often out of order, because someone wielded a crowbar to make off with nickels and dimes. And smelly. Plus, one never had the right change when needing it most.  I do not mourn the passing of the phone booth.

When we moved to Vermont in 1968, the Topsham Telephone Company had not yet switched to seven digit dialing. Our home number was high-prestige 21, but we were jealous of the family whose number was 9. Ours was a four-party line -- also a thing of the past. I wonder whether my grandchildren have ever heard the phrase "party-line."  Or "rotary dial," for that matter.

When AT&T was deregulated and the market was thrown open to innovation, there came a great explosion of telephone styles. Phones blossomed into many odd colors and configurations. For a while, we owned one of these:

The Simpson phone was not my initiative but that of one of the younger members of the family.

But more change was in the works. The prediction that there would be pocket phones in the future seemed fantastical science fiction-y.  All phones had to be connected with wires -- otherwise how could the sound get out of the wall and into the handset. I scoffed.

Nowadays, everyone carries a cell phone. But it's not just a phone -- it's a computer. It does everything -- perhaps too much. There is substance to the frequently heard complaint that some individuals, especially young 'uns, relate more readily to their cell than to the person sitting next to them. It's a paradox: with more potential communication comes more loneliness. I myself must admit that there's a fascination to the cell phone that is disarming.  I'm trying not be allow myself to be addicted. But there is something wonderful about a machine that lets you not only speak with but to actually see your daughter, who is a thousand miles away. Not a trick that a rotary phone could perform.

Not to be an alarmist or a Luddite, there's a serious downside to the cell. It seems as though the machine  might be reorganizing youthful brains-- with unknown consequences,

Scenes like this one have become scarily familiar:

Look up, children, look up! Please look up!

Automobiles in My Life

This will be a very short essay, because automobiles have never been a big part of my life. Unlike many of my friends, I've never been one to have a romantic relationship with a vehicle. 

My parents did not own an automobile and neither of them ever learned to drive. I was a most provincial city boy, happy with my bicycle and my subway token and wanting no more. I did not learn to drive a car until after I was married and left Brooklyn behind.  Nevertheless, over the course of a lifetime I've owned a number of cars. The first one was identical to the Nash Rambler depicted in this stock photo: 

The Nash was the car I drove to California and back in the summer of 1963 (the first time I was west of New York). I've since owned an Oldsmobile '88, a Renault Dauphine (a dog), an underpowered Dodge station wagon, an uncomfortable but sturdy Corolla, a Saab, a Camry, and a Volvo that lasted for twenty-one years and which I only surrendered  because it was hard on my aching back. I've driven perhaps a hundred other automobiles and an occasional truck, mostly rented, but I've never felt anything like affection for a single one of them-- they take you from one place to another and I'm grateful for the mobility. I'm a cautious driver, but I've made some bad mistakes behind the wheel and I am lucky to have gone through life without being mangled or killed, so far.

I confess that at various times in my life I've experienced the glamor of the open road. I'm a happy fellow when I'm driving a two-lane at dawn or twilight in southern Missouri or rural South Dakota. I have a soft spot for Iowa's Jesse James Cafe and for the Crete Diner in Oneonta, New York. A stop at Grandma's Cafe in some faded downtown is to me a peak experience, however weak the coffee or gluey the cherry pie. I treasure those glorious small-town attractions: among many others, the corn cob palace, Carhenge, the Donna Reed Museum in Denison, Iowa, the Jell-o Museum, the Purple Martin Tower in Griggsville, Illinois, the world's largest ball of twine in Cawker, City, Kansas. 

I don't drive long distances any more. In fact, in the last twenty years I've probably spent more time on the John Deere "Lawn Tractor" than in any other vehicle. Maximum of five miles per hour, my kind of speed. It may not be glamorous but it gets the job done. I've "buried" the machine a couple of times, but it's still in one piece and still working. 

 

"Re-Partnering"

It's shocking, is it not, that 50% of American marriages end in divorce. "Fifty per cent" is not just a statistic; it's a reality that stands for tons of personal distress and suffering and remorse. Alas, the rate of divorce for second marriages is even higher -- 60%; for third marriages, according to many sources, as much as 75%. The fact that the percentage rises with age and experience at first seems counter-intuitive. Shouldn't second and subsequent marriages be happier, more peaceful?  Don't people learn and improve with experience?  Should they not know themselves better and therefore choose a mate more wisely?  Now that they are veterans, shouldn't they have grasped the art of marriage ? Learned how to solve problems? Learned to make a stronger and more sensible commitment to each other? After all, they've voluntarily and optimistically decided to take another crack at marriage. Why not bend every effort to succeed?

But the numbers don't lie. Many of the people who have been divorced one time, say sociologists who study marriage and the family, bring negative attitudes to the next. Instead of assuming that marriage is a lifelong commitment, they regard it as a flexible arrangement that can be abandoned if things get tough. They've already survived one or two divorces and are therefore less fazed by the prospect of another. And inasmuch as the taboo against divorce has already been shattered, such social inhibitions that remain are the more readily overcome. 

There are even simpler explanation for the failure of subsequent marriages: some people are marriageable by nature and some are marriageable-skittish. The population of the marriageable-skittish increases as the natively marriageable leave the pool. Who remains to be married among the population setting out on second or third marriages? Only those people who are not intrinsically inclined to prosper in long term relationships. As the pool shrinks to the less and less marriageable, the percentage of failures inevitably rises. 

Divorce and the rates of divorce have been well studied. But what about second marriages of people who are not divorced but widowed? It's curious that there seems to be no interest in how widows and widowers (w-ws) fare when they contract subsequent marriages. Are second marriages of the w-ws more or less likely to succeed? Apparently, it's not a pressing problem for sociologists. Or perhaps it's too hard to procure the data. Just who are the remarried (or "re-partnered") w-ws's? Many "remarried" widows and widowers don't bother to inform either church or state of their new situation. They may have financial or tax reasons to avoid scrutiny. They may be separately domiciled. They're not talking but they're there. Hard to find and hard to study.

My suspicion, drawn from anecdotal evidence and just looking around at people of my own age cohort, is that the divorce rate among remarried w-ws is very very low. Why? Well, for one thing, because w-ws are people who are among the marriageable by nature. They've stayed together, stayed married until death did them part. Because they succeeded at maintaining a long marriage, they very likely entered a later marriage expecting to do so again. In addition, w-ws are likely to be older and weathered. Because they're not scarred by a painful divorce, they are more likely to be sound of heart rather than wary and wounded.

Re-partnered w-ws have outlived many of the tensions of more youthful marriages. They're probably not obsessed or consumed by their careers or by worldly success. For better or worse, their successes and failures have been long established, long completed. If they're old enough to be retired, they may have the leisure to talk intimately with one another.

One of the principal causes of divorce, we're told, is tension around child-rearing, an activity in which philosophical differences between the parents can cause all kinds of difficulties and tensions and squabbles.  But most w-ws aren't going to have more children, and the ones that they have are likely to be grown and gone.

Nor will there going to problems with in-laws, because the in-laws are all dead.

And older w-ws, if they're fortunate, don't have the financial problems of earlier decades: no sudden unemployment, no need to move to a larger, more expensive house, no college tuitions. If they're not formally remarried, they most likely keep their resources separate and therefore don't need to negotiate about how money is to be spent. 

Older folk don't have to deal with contraceptives. While sex is probably less urgent and imperious than in earlier decades, it might be more consoling, especially because older partners should have a better grasp of their own needs and how they might be fulfilled. And they are probably more accepting of themselves and of their bodies.

It goes almost without saying that w-ws have experienced the deaths of their previous spouse and therefore share a most important mutual experience. A bond, a link. An important mutual consolation, one among the many experiences that older w-ws bring to the table.  They know from living many years on the planet that various things that seemed important years ago turned out not to matter at all.

And most important of all: older w-ws have learned over the course of many decades not only how to love but how to cherish and to respect a wife or husband.

What We Read in the Fifties: East Side, West Side, by Marcia Davenport

Two weeks ago, I wrote some admiring remarks  about a little-known post-WWII film called East Side, West Side. I said then that I was sufficiently impressed and intrigued by the film that I intended to read the novel upon which it is based, but that since ES,WS has evaporated into the mists of time, I would have to wait for Interlibrary Loan to dig up a copy for me. Well, the novel has arrived, coming haste-post-haste from Laramie, Wyoming, the flyleaf inscribed, "To Mrs Eccleston, from Anna." Gosh, I'd love to know who Mrs. E and Anna were, and what they (and Laramie) made of this extremely Manhattan-y book. 

East Side, West Side (published in 1947), I can now report, is a big hunking doorstop of a novel. Not a very good one, I'm afraid. It is prosy, untidy, and crammed with too many episodes and too many undifferentiated characters. To transform its meanderings into an economical screenplay required great intelligence and imagination. All praise to the screenwriter, Brooklyn's own Isobel Lennart, who condensed characters, eliminated subplots, rationalized excesses, and to some degree toned down the book's inherent snobbery. 

ES,WS can be described as an old-fashioned "woman's novel," and not in a good way. Its female characters are, almost uniformly passive victims. Plus there's far too much chat about makeup, dinner parties, and "fittings." There's an old --very old-- canard that an erotic novel for women consists of 400 pages of courtship and foreplay  followed by a proposal of marriage. I'm afraid that ES,WS fits this unfortunate formula. Jessie Bourne, wronged and soon-to-be-divorced wife, is wooed by gentlemanly General Mark Dwyer but o so slowly. Sex is teased and deferred for chapter after chapter. In Isobel Lennart's alert and improved script, women are not afraid to take charge. 

There's one episode in the novel that seriously rankled me. There's a murder. The privileged East Side aristocrats do not turn the guilty party over to the police; instead, they suppress evidence and suborn perjury in order to keep the scandal out of the newspapers. They succeed, though their plot couldn't have deceived the dullest precinct flatfoot. In the film, I'm glad to say, a killer is brought to justice.   

Toward the end of the novel, Marcia Davenport introduces a long embarrassing digression in which the General, just returned from the European theater, lectures on the post war situation in Eastern Europe. I'm sorry to say that he praises Soviet aggression in Poland, Hungary, Bulgaria, etc. I suspect that these tortured apologetics were written before Davenport lived in Prague and was engaged to marry the Czech foreign minister Jan Masaryk, who in 1948 was thrown out of a window by agents of the KGB.  I hope that Davenport would have changed her position after the defenestration.

Title Your Own Film Noir

Here's a game. I've compiled a list of essential "film noir" nouns and adjectives. Your job is to assemble them into the titles of noir films.

Nouns: city, death, shadow, night, fear, heat, murder, crime, kiss, street, gun, thief, window, sidewalk, body.  Adjectives:  naked, black, evil, strange, wrong, lonely, raw, secret, violent, sudden.

Using an adjective and a noun is good: e.g. Dark Shadow, Strange Gun, Violent Window, Raw Heat.

Three words is better: City of Naked Death, Shadow of Evil Night.

Four words is triumphant: Secret Shadow on Crime Street, Dark Kiss at a Strange Window.

Beware, though. Some of the combinations you assemble might already have been used (Body Heat) -- or previously parodied (Naked Gun).

 

[January 5. Pearl Maneli writes:  Vivian, how could you have forgotten "blood."  Blood on the Sidewalk, Evil Blood; Murder by Blood, etc.]

[February 5.  Elio-Per Limano writes: How about Secret Fear?]

[February 6. Amber Bernstein writes: Crooked? How about crooked?

East Side, West Side (1947)

How should a person who is an enthusiast of classic cinema react when he finds himself loving a film that has been panned, dismissed and ignored for seventy-five years? 

The movie in question is a Manhattan tale called East Side, West Side. It was released in 1947 when I was a mere eight years and has sunk like a stone. It's a domestic drama (or soap opera) for two-thirds of the way and then goes full noir in its last thirty minutes. If East Side, West Side is remembered at all, it's for squandering big-time talent: actors Barbara Stanwyck, James Mason, Ava Gardner, Cyd Charisse and Van Heflin; writer Isobel Lennart and director Mervyn LeRoy. I cannot remember a picture from that era that is studded with more stars.

In The New York Times, Bosley Crowther, the grand khan of 1940s movie critics, not only hated the film but was driven by it into a kind of moral uproar. "East Side, West Side," he wrote, "just about hits the low-water mark of interest, intelligence and urgency. And certainly nothing accomplished by the writers or the actors of this film does anything to raise it into an even remotely vital realm.... Frankly, we thought that films like this one had been put on the dud-list years ago." Yikes. Even though Crowther almost popped an artery writing his review, he was not explicit about what so offended him. Let me guess: "films like this" focus on frank sexual desire and more specifically with adultery and its consequences.  

East Side West Side has rarely drawn much comment, but in 1991, when other noir-y films of past eras were being re-evaluated and upgraded, this one was still considered "static" and "lurid, unconvincing and artificially chic...." In a word, "uninteresting melodrama trash."

And yet the two of us found it engaging and vital and not in any way lurid.

The plot is loaded with familiar post-War II elements. Brandon Bourne (James Mason) is married to well-to-do Jessie Bourne (Barbara Stanwyck) and has recently ended a too-public affair with ex-waitress Isabel Lorrison (Ava Gardner). Isabel left town and Brandon returned to his forgiving wife, but now the ex-"hash-slinger" is back in town and wants Brandon again. She gets him, way too easily. Jessie puts up with her husband's shenanigans for a while but eventually leaves him. Meanwhile, Mark Dwyer (played by the great underrated actor Van Heflin), who is some sort of spy/journalist/all-around good guy, returns from Europe and immediately falls in love with Jessie. At this point, the movie suddenly veers from its domestic track. Isabel is murdered and Brandon accused of the crime. Dwyer, turned detective, comes to his rescue.

It's an episodic but not unworthy plot. But there's more to the film than this brief summary. Here on Walnut Street, we fans of TCM appreciated elements of the film that Bosley Crowther, and many other viewers, had left curiously unexamined.

ES, WS declares in its title that it's going to explore class tensions and antagonisms. The well-known formula is that dwellers in the east side of Manhattan are patrician, rich, and snotty, while the west side is inhabited by down-to-earth working-class plebeians who are rough but joyful. The film both elucidates and challenges the cliche. Brandon Bourne epitomizes what would now be called "upper class privilege." He's rich (probably inherited money), accustomed to servants and to getting his way. He carries himself as though he was born in tux and tails. He loves his wife Jessie, he repeatedly claims, but there's no warmth or snuggling or flirtation between the two of them, which is the film's way of implying that she's cold and that he's not getting enough at home. (That's the way things are on the Upper East Side, don't you know?) On the other hand, there's ex-waitress Isobel Lorrison, who covets East Side wealth and who is overtly sexual; she's an orgasm waiting to happen. She covets Brandon's life of ease as much or more than he wants her passion. She has no compunction about introducing her eager sexuality into the Bourne household, all the better if it pollutes their establishment complacency and fancy dress.

Even though ES, WS gives us James Mason at his slimiest and Van Heflin at his must buoyant and likable, it is a film that is dominated by its female characters. It offers us five-count'em-five strong women, all of whom exhibit gobs of what has lately come to be called "agency." Jessie (who finds her strength only in the penultimate scene) and Isabel, of course, but also Rosa Senta, played by Cyd Charisse, a young woman who makes a very good decision; Jessie's mother (Gale Sondergaard), who has the best scene in the film, when she tells Brandon to his face that he's a vain and a fraud; and also Felice Backett, played by Beverly Michaels, a dame who is "built like the Empire State Building" and who is not afraid to throw a punch. Some of the best dialog in the film (and there's a lot of good stuff) is between women who are either the closest friends or the most bitter antagonists. There is, for example, a striking confrontation between mistress and wife:

Isabel Lorrison : Sorry I'm not more subtle. But, you must remember, I haven't had your advantages. When your mother was busy being the Great Lady of the theater, mine was in a burlesque show on 14th Street. And when your mother sent you to Miss Cavanaugh's School for nice, young ladies, I was slingin' hash! Oh, you learned how to pour tea properly and how to cross your legs at the ankles only - and that plain pumps make you a lady, but, putting bows on them make you something else. You learned how to make a good marriage. But, like all your kind, you think by marrying a man, you've done enough. Well, there's one thing that Miss Cavanaugh forgot to teach you. Something I learned: how to keep a man. How to keep him wanting you!

Jessie Bourne : My husband doesn't want you. He's finished with you. He told me so last night.

Isabel Lorrison : I'll call him and he'll come running.

That's classy writing. 

The women are not the only vibrant and credible characters. There's also Bourne himself, who is an exemplar of what would now, decades later, be called "sexaholism." He wants to be faithful, or at least says he does, but he can't help himself when Isabel Lorrison/Ava Gardner has a telephone in her hands. Whether he's ill or just weak and pathetic is left to the audience to decide.

And by the way, the film was written by a woman (Isabel Lennart) who adapted it from a novel by Marcia Davenport -- a writer well known in her day but long forgotten. The novel has been out of print for decades, but Interlibrary Loan has located a copy for me. It's now "in transit' and I'm waiting impatiently for it to arrive. 

 

Books I Read, 2022

This year's list is incomplete. During the Vermont summer, I neglected to keep good records. My porous brain can't bring to mind all I read in June, July, August, and September. In addition, it's a list of books only, so no periodicals (New Yorker, New York Review of Books), Northern Forests) or newspapers.

Abdulrazak Gurnah, The Last Gift; Daniel Fuchs, Williamsburg Summer; L. J. Davis; A Meaningful Life;  Marc David Baer, The Ottomans, Jonathan Lethem, Motherless Brooklyn; J.M. Quigley, Lolita in the Afterlife; Daniel Fuchs, Homage to Blenholt; A J Rich, The Hand that Feeds You;  Alfred Kazin, Walker in the City; Jonathan Lethem, Fortress of Solitude; Colm Toibin, Brooklyn; Paul Auster, The Brooklyn Follies;  Emily Gould, Friendship; James Agee, Brooklyn Is; Jenny Offill, Department of Speculation; Ursula Parrott, Ex-Wife; Kyle Harper, Plagues Upon the Earth; Adelle Waldman, The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P.; James McBride, The Color of Water; Jennifer Egan, Manhattan Beach; R. D. Rosen, Tough Luck; David Crystal, The Story of English; Seth Lerer, Inventing English; Paul Auster, Sunset Park; Richard Fortey, Fossils; Jay Neugeboren, Big Man; Magocsi and Petrovsky-Shtern, Jews and Ukrainians; Henry James, Portrait of a Lady; Yohanan Petrovsky-Shtern, The Golden Age Shtetl; Jay Neugeboren, Imagining Robert; James Huneker, The New Cosmopolis; Roland Ennos, The Age of Wood; Emily Bingham, My Old Kentucky Home; Marie Favereau, The Horde; John Dunn, The Glitter in the Green; Mike Unwin, Around the World in 80 Birds; Douglas Boyd, Plagues and Pandemics; David Abulafia, The Discovery of Mankind; Riley Black, The Last Days of the Dinosaurs; William Shakespeare, The Second Part of King Henry the IV; Pekka Hamaleinen, Comanche Empire; Thomas Doherty, Pre-Code Hollywood; Julian Barnes, The Sense of an Ending; William Makepeace Thackeray, Vanity Fair; An Italian Impressionist in France, Giuseppe De Nittis; Richard Powell, The Philadelphians; Pekka Hamaleinen, Indigenous Continent; David Anthony, The Horse, The Wheel and Language; Julian Barnes, Elizabeth Finch; Jeffrey Lovich, Turtles of the World; Andy Borowitz, Profiles in Ignorance; Tim Birkhead, Birds and Us; Julian Barnes, The Noise of Time; David Schiffman, Why Sharks Matter.

Neighborhood Movie Theaters

When I was an unadventurous Flatbush "yoot" back there in the 1950s, there were only two movie theaters that mattered: the Leader and the Kent, both on Coney Island Avenue, and both within an easy walk. The Leader was closer to my East 9 Street home and it was there that I spent many a rainy weekend afternoon ostensibly watching a double feature while sprinting in the aisles, hurling popcorn at the kids who were down in front, and dodging the "matron." The Kent was more of an expedition but still less than a quarter of a mile away. I once saw a show there with my father (Bad Day at Black Rock (1955)], memorable because it was the only time I ever went to the movies with him -- he was no frivolous moviegoer. In my childish innocence, I assumed that both the Leader and the Kent had been in place since time immemorial and that moviegoing began and ended with these two theaters. They were like mountains and rivers, permanent features of the landscape (or, rather, cityscape). I was very wrong. All is flux and movie theaters come and go. According to that most valuable resource, Cinema Treasures, over 27,000 cinemas in the United States have been closed or demolished, with many more endangered -- killed in the 1930s by the Depression and then in my time by the TV and DVDs and discs and streaming and covid. And also by self-inflicted wounds -- the studios and independents have failed to produce a regular supply of films for grownups and instead fill the shopping mall screens with CGI effects and infantile fantasies and "franchises." Nevertheless, the Kent is still in business, as a small-screen "art" theater, but the Leader long ago devolved into a bowling alley -- the Leader Lanes. Later it became a pharmacy. I don't know what has become of it lately; probably something dreadful.

There's much more to the story than the Leader and the Kent. In my youth, there was also the Culver Theater, the outside appearance of which I knew very well but never the interior. The Culver was located at the corner of 18th Avenue and McDonald, just a block away from the McDonald Avenue branch of the Brooklyn Public Library, where I shelved books for 75 cents an hour all through my Erasmus Hall years.  

The Culver was adjacent to and almost under the Culver Local, the "El" or elevated subway, that ran along McDonald (formerly Gravesend) Avenue. ("Elevated subway", by the way, is one of the most fabulous unappreciated oxymora of our time). The Culver was a big spacious theatre that sat 1445 people. I imagine that most of the paying customers had a tough time catching the dialog when a train rumbled by. I wish I could identify what film was playing when this picture was snapped, but alas the image is blurred. The styles of the automobiles suggest a date in the late 1930s. The Culver has long disappeared and nowadays the most prosperous commercial venture on its former block is the Tashkent Supermarket. 

Then there was the Beverly, located at the intersection of Church Avenue and East 2 Street, just a few blocks from Erasmus Hall High School at Church and Flatbush.

On the day of this photo, the Beverly was showing Away All Boats, a 1956 war drama featuring Jeff Chandler, but as we all know, Jeff was in fact Erasmus alumnus Ira Grossel. The movie in which he starred was playing just down the way from his old high school -- a marvelous serendipitous coincidence. The Beverly's second feature, Raw Edge, was a western with Rory Calhoun and Yvonne DeCarlo. Did I plunk down my quarter to watch a war movie and a western? It was certainly the kind of programming that would have attracted my seventeen-year-old self. I have no recollection of either feature but I am able to bring to mind an image of young lovely Yvonne DeCarlo. The Beverly operated from 1920 to 1981 and has since, sadly, been transformed into a T-Mobile showroom. 

There was also the Rialto

at the corner of Cortelyou Road and Flatbush Avenue. It was directly on my route as I walked to Erasmus Hall High School with Steve Lewin five times a week between 1952 to 1956. It was also a block or two from the Sears, Roebuck store, where in the summer of 1956, I handed out parking tickets to drivers entering the Sears lot. Their cars looked a lot like the ones in this picture. Last I heard, the Rialto had transmogrified into the Cortelyou Road Church of God -- a sorry fate. 

In addition to the theaters that I attended or might have attended in the days of my youth, there were another bunch that had already shut up shop. The most prominent was the Newkirk Theater on East 16th Street -- and therefore only five or six blocks from P S 217. It stood just across from Newkirk Plaza, the shopping center that also housed an express stop on the BMT line. The Newkirk started life as the TNF, named after the initials of its trio of builders. It might have been, originally, a legitimate theater.

In 1928 it reopened as a cinema with a performance My Best Girl with Mary Pickford (who lived for a while with Doug F. at 1320 Ditmas). It closed in 1940 and has since been demolished. It must have been quite an ornament to the neighborhood, but I rode my bicycle on that street many times and never detected the least sign that there had once been a handsome theater there. I wonder also what became of the grand Robert Morton organ that accompanied the silent films. Later the Newkirk acquired a proper movie marquee as can be seen in this fragment of an image.

 The Newkirk was gone for good in 1940.

Then there was the Dorchester, a the corner of Dorchester and Coney Island Avenue. Here's how its building appeared a few years ago:

 

I must admit that this slice of the old neighborhood has resisted gentrification.

 

I can't find an image of the Cortelyou Photoplay Theater at the intersection of Cortelyou and Marlborough, which seated 400 and closed in 1928, but here's how the Ditmas Theater at 115 Ditmas (near East 2 Street) looked in 2013. Apparently the building was derelict or near-derelict for a long while. Now, I'm told, it's been transformed into "luxury apartments."

 

I predict that in a couple of generations, the movie theater will be totally extinct although a few will survive as museums. Future ages, if there are future ages, will gasp at the way we entertained ourselves in the thrilling days of yesteryear. 

 

But I gotta tell you, it was hell of a ride while it lasted.

Turtles and Metempsychosis

I would not want to be reincarnated as a turtle. Not at all.

Should it happen that I were to be reincarnated, I would prefer to return as one of those great sea birds -- the Wandering Albatross or the Great Frigatebird  or the Northern Fulmar -- that cruise for hundreds of miles over the Pacific -- soaring effortlessly, joyriding the thermals, blissfully savoring the salt spray at dawn and dusk. It would be glorious -- although not entirely without a downside, because if I were such a bird I would have to sustain myself on a repulsive sushi diet of raw fish. Yeesh.

But to live the next or a subsequent life as a turtle -- what a grim unpleasant prospect! Turtles do not soar; they're earthbound, and they move so slowly that they're almost immobile. At very best, they slog or plod. It's not that they're unsuccessful in their own way; after all, they've been around for 200 million years. Generations, therefore, have plod, have plod, have plod. But is there a creature on earth whose bodily configuration is more limiting, more dictatorial? Turtles spend a lifetime schlepping carapace and plastron up and down hills or over the desert sands. How can an animal constrained to eternally lug an outsize ponderous shell experience any kind of freedom or joy? 

Besides, turtles are ridiculously ugly. 

 

Bulky thick inelegant legs ending in frightening claws. Absurd useless tails. Toothless gaping mouths. Prominent nostrils, wrongly placed. Horrid corrugated necks. No ears, none at all. Foolish, fatuous expression. The only part of the turtle that might be considered attractive is the carapace (when it's not coated with slimy vegetation or studded with leeches), but in the entire history of the planet, no turtle has ever been able to admire its own integument. 

 

Imagine being reincarnated as a creature so imperfectly designed that it can't regain its legs when tipped onto its back. If I were a turtle, I would hate that. Legs flailing in the air. Undignified. Double yeesh.

 

Plus, many turtles eat worms.

 

Moreover, if I or someone dear to me were to become a turtle -- it's going to be a long haul, reincarnation-wise. Let's say, for example, that you were to be born again as a dung beetle -- why, you would endure a very unsavory couple of months, but then -- on you would go to the next life. Once reincarnated as a turtle, however, you're liable to be stuck in that ungainly shell for a century. And worse still -- some turtles "brumate" for half their lives. That's a heck of a lot of time to spend in a state of suspended animation. In addition -- and this is rather shocking -- some turtles extract oxygen from water through their "cloaca." I can't imagine how they do that, and, frankly, "'twere to consider too curiously to consider so." Not to mention turtle sex. Do turtles cuddle or snuggle? It must be quite an accomplishment to work around those massive clanking  shells. 

 

So no turtle reincarnation for me. But to tell truth, I find reincarnation itself, like most religious or quasi-religious ideas, utterly baffling. I presume it works something like this. I die, my soul is released from my corpse and immediately enters into a new body -- in this case a newly fertilized turtle egg. (I have no idea how this process works -- but let's all agree that it does). Immediately, there's a glitch. Turtle gender is not determined in the usual way, by XX and XY genes. Turtle gender is a consequence of the temperature at which the embryos develop inside the eggshell. Warm, male; cool, female (or vice versa in some species). What this means is that if my soul was infused or assimilated or injected into a turtle egg, it would not be immediately known whether I was going to be a boy turtle or a girl turtle. I don't really care, frankly; there's not much advantage to being one or the other. Turtles are not particularly sexually dimorphic and both genders are equally hideous. But I would like to know right away and not have to wait on some quirk of the weather. 

 

Reincarnation puzzles me for still another reason. How can I be sure that I haven't already been reincarnated? Perhaps I was a turtle (or an albatross) in a past life. I don't remember being other than I am, but how can I be certain? 

 

Or, to switch points of view, perhaps one of the turtles pictured above was once, let us imagine, Ragnar Naess (1900-1972), a bachelor sorghum farmer from O'Neill, Nebraska. Or even one of my less brainy former colleagues. How could we determine it; how could the turtle know it? If it's undeterminable, why does it matter?

 

Gosh, reincarnation is a tough nut to crack.

 

[December 15, 2022. Pearl Maneli writes: "I believe current reincarnation theory explains that your soul wouldn't transmigrate into a turtle at the moment of conception; it would do so only when the turtle hatches from the egg. So you can let your mind rest easy on the question of your turtle gender."]

 

[December 16. Vivian de St. Vrain responds: "Thanks, Pearl. I am much relieved"]

A Few More Unusual Words New to Me

A matamata is a species of turtle found in South America. It's odd looking, even for a turtle.

The word matamata is an example of a reduplicative.  It is of unknown etymology.

 

A kurgan is a tumulus or mound erected over a grave, at first in the southern Asian steppes (4th century BCE) and later throughout southeast Europe. I myself saw many kurgans in Bulgaria, but for some reason never learned the word. A saiga is a kind of antelope. A zander is a European fish similar to a perch. A chillum is a kind of decorated bamboo pipe "often sold in places like Haight-Ashbury and Greenwich Village." A punkah was, in the late but not-so-great lamented days of the Raj, a large swinging fan, operated by a servant called a punkah wala. Arrack or arac is an alcoholic beverage made from the fermented sap of coconut flowers, which sounds delicious but is probably not available at our local liquor store. The astragalus, more often called the talus, is a bone in the human foot. The word's similarity to asparagus is inadvertent but nevertheless amusing. A condyle is "a protuberance at the end of a bone." A swidden is an area of land cleared to farm by slashing and burning. Swidden, a truly lovely word, is derived from an Old Norse verb meaning "to burn"-- as well it should be.

 

Lamellar armor was made from small plates of leather or bronze. Here's a terracotta statue of a soldier wearing scute-like armor. 

 

A guimpe (pronounced gimp, apparently), was a short high-necked Victorian blouse designed to be worn under a low-cut dress. It would take a specialist to explain the difference between a guimpe and a fichu. A tarboosh is a variety of fez.

A bident is a two-pronged weapon, two-thirds of a trident. Here's a statue of Hades wielding one:

Could there be a linguistic relationship between bident and Biden? Not likely, because a "biden" was originally a maker of buttons.

More Words New to Me

Calipash is the "gelatinous greenish material found underneath the upper half of a turtle's shell." Perhaps this word is well known to turtle-fanciers, but it's brand new to me. Calipash is "esteemed as a delicacy" but should not be confused with calipee, which is a fatty gelatinous light-yellow substance found immediately above the turtle's lower shell. Equally delectable, so say connoisseurs. Here's a dish of mixed calipash and calipee. I confess that it does not look delectable to me. Looks repellent, in fact, but each to his own.

The word calipash is a variant of carapace, the turtle's upper shell. The lower shell is a plastron.

Calipash could be served with pilaus, a Kenya spicey rice dish. One might, or might not, add beeswing to the menu. Beeswing is the "filmy translucent crust" that grows on port that has been bottle-aged.

Zenana is a word of Persian origin which refers to the part of a large house reserved exclusively for women; it is therefore equivalent to harem.  Here's a picture of a rich gentleman visiting a zenana.

 

Such a visitor might carry a yataghan, which is a type of knife or saber (a yataghan is sometimes called a varsak). He might also be accompanied by a dragoman or interpreter. And if he were in a generous mood, he might carry a cairngorm as a potential gift. A cairngorm is a jewel of yellowish smoky quartz. If he possessed 36 bushels of cairngorms, he would have a full chaldron of them. Would he also bring with him a narghile, a kind of hookah?

 

A pelisse once referred to a kind of jacket worn by cavalrymen; in this illustration, the pelisse is the furry item slung over Charles Stewart's shoulder.

 

Later, for unclear reasons, pelisse came to denote a fashionable woman's open coat.

 

Charles Stewart might also be wearing a spatterdash, a legging designed to keep the pants clean. Eventually, spatterdashes became smaller and tidier; so did the word for them, which was diminished to "spats." But even so unpretentious as a word as spats should not be vilipended (or spoken of in an abusive manner).

 

A fichu is an item of women's clothes designed to rescue the wearer of a low cut dress from immodesty.

 

A fichu would probably be made of silk rather than camlet, which is a fabric of goat or camel hair. 

 

A drysalter was once a dealer in glue, varnish, and dyes. In even older times, a salter bought and sold salt, while a wetsalter cured fish.

What We Read in the 1950s: The Philadelphian (1956)

Richard Powell's novel The Philadelphian has not worn well. It was a best-seller in 1956 and was made into a "blockbuster" film, starring Paul Newman, in 1959. We watched the movie (called, for some reason, The Young Philadelphians) on TCM and I was sufficiently intrigued that I ordered up the long-forgotten novel through our blessedly-efficient Interlibrary Loan. Gosh, what a disappointment! The Philadelphian is a pot-boiler, I'm afraid, very mid-century. It's got it all -- three-generations of rags to riches, heroic army service, blighted romance and cheesy sex, and a contrived climactic courtroom showdown. Powell's prose is flat, unstylish, at its best "journalistic," but marred by flights of tough-guy pseudo-Hammettian or Chandleresque prose: "He came slowly downstairs from the bedroom, with the pulse of blood hammering inside his skull like a rivet gun"; "Her head felt like a boiling tea kettle, and her thoughts kept escaping from it like steam"; "The applause had been a cheer for the underdog. Later it had developed that a wolf was romping around in underdog's clothing". Frankly, I'm surprised that the novel achieved such popularity in the years of my youth. Sorry to say but it's a trashy piece of writing.

The film is a bit better; more honest and more disciplined, hugely reliant on Paul Newman's youthful charisma.

Another Astonishing Feat of Memory

I've arrived at the age in which even a momentary lapse of memory is worrisome. Have I at last begun the ineluctable descent into senility? 

But then there's the contrary. When I happen to dredge up some bit of buried knowledge, I experience a rush of triumph. I feel it as evidence that I've put off the inevitable for another couple of weeks -- perhaps even months. And I preen and strut shamelessly. I become unbearable.

At the Phillips, yesterday, we came upon a painting by Giuseppe De Nittis called "Spring" (there's a pretty poor reproduction of it above). I glanced at the picture, and in a flash, without hesitation, announced, "that's a trullo in the left distance."  And I was correct -- my assertion confirmed by the scholarly description on the accompanying wall plaque.

What is a trullo?  It's a building, obviously, a kind of drystone architecture, common in Apulia, usually whitewashed and with a conical roof, often constructed as a temporary shelter for shepherds and other agricultural workers and occasionally for long term occupancy. 

But how does a Flatbush yoot recognize and immediately name a trullo at first glance?  I could be coy and say something like, "Oh, who doesn't know about trulli?" and leave my friends baffled and dazzled by my prodigious memory. 

But of course that would not be the full story.

Some seven or eight years ago, as turisti, we visited an Italian village called Alberobello in Apulia in southern Italy. Here's a picture:

It is, obviously, all trulli -- architecture that is striking and memorable. So it's not mysterious that I would instantaneously recall the building and the name. Not mysterious, but still rather impressive, I think. And temporarily reassuring.

My Gambling Life

When I was a Brooklyn schoolyard "yoot" (sixth or seventh grade I reckon), I impulsively bragged to a group of fellow ragamuffins, "I'll bet a buck that the Dodgers win the pennant." What prompted me to make so uncharacteristically bold a claim? Way out on a limb, I was. One of the guys in the gang immediately jumped: "I'll take that bet." So there I was, stuck. I backed off a bit: "I meant half a dollar." Against my better judgment, it was set down as a bet, even though he and I never actually locked pinkies on the deal. Then the Dodgers lost; so did I. My antagonist badgered me continually for his money. Eventually I paid him off with a 1950 Franklin half-dollar (a mint example of which is now selling on Amazon for $3751 -- you can look it up!). Even more painful, I must confess, is that the character who beat me was the loathsome kid about whom many years ago I wrote an entire blog post called My First Racist. You can look that up also.

I am sure that that half-dollar disaster was my first and only venture into the world of chance and hazard. My lifetime losings therefore: 50¢ (which of course was worth a lot more in 1950 than it is now). I had been burnt once, and once was enough to teach me a lesson. 

I'm not a risk-taker. I don't play cards, not even gin rummy for matchsticks. I don't care about the ponies and never even visited Yonkers or Belmont Park (where my ne'er-do-well uncle lost scads of moolah and came close to losing his wife and family). I've never been to Atlantic City or to Blackhawk. I don't bet on sports and have never even had a clear understanding of what it means to "cover the spread." I was in Las Vegas once, in 1963. We slept in sleeping bags in the desert and rolled into town early the next morning. At one of the many palatial casinos, I came upon addicted gamblers who'd been up all night playing the slots. They were dirty and tired and (is it too strong to say?) degenerate. Desperately in need of Gamblers Anonymous. It was not a glamorous scene.

Moreover, I've never played the numbers. I've never even purchased a lottery ticket.

My resistance to gambling isn't moral -- I don't think that gambling is inherently wrong or sinful. It's just my nature. I'm a frugal guy (some say "skinflint"; others say "cheap as dirt") who can't bear to throw money away.

I think there's a practical reason to resist gambling. Take, for example, the lotteries. They were illegal until a few years ago but now every state seems to sponsor one or more. The result is a huge transfer of money from people who can't afford the loss to the government. Lotteries are in effect a hidden regressive tax -- another subsidy of the rich by the poor. In addition, people who put their hopes in winning a jackpot are, I believe, less inclined to work for the progressive changes that our society needs. People who buy lottery tickets are more likely to become quiescent rather than active. They wait passively for their ship to come in. And it never will.

Now gambling has moved into an even more dangerous phase. Anyone who watches sports on the TV is inundated with ads that encourage gambling. They're omnipresent and unavoidable. It's another gift to us from the Supreme Court, which in 2018, struck down the federal ban on state authorization of sports betting -- a decision that opened the doors to the flood. A peculiar inconsistency: yes, freedom to gamble, but no, no freedom to do what you want with your own womb. And we today learned that gambling has invaded the university. In our state, in 2020, the University of Colorado made a $1.6 million deal to promote sports gambling on campus. A betting company sweetened the arrangement by offering the school an extra $30 every time a student downloaded the company’s app and used a promotional code to place a bet.

To be clear, it wasn't the "University" that made the deal; it was the semi-autonomous Athletic Department -- or, in actuality, the football team. It's an outrageous decision. A respectable university is now in cahoots with a shady industry to promote gambling on campus, and make money off the deal. What future opportunities for corruption with the nose of that particular camel under the tent of innocence!

One solution would be to lessen the emphasis on football. After all, our team is 1-8 so far this year in the Pac-12, having been outscored 374 to 138.  Perhaps Colorado should drop down a notch, say to Division III. We'd thrive, I think, against the lesser competition. But don't bet on it.