As I was clicking through the Amazing Fact Generator at Mental Floss, I came across this factoid:

Of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, 3 fell due to earthquakes, 2 due to fires, 1 probably never even existed, and only one stands today—The Pyramid of Khufu.

I thought to myself: can I even name the Seven Wonders? So I came right to Finkville and opened up a new post without looking anywhere else. In all transparency, here are my guesses:

1. The Great Pyramids (well obviously)
2. Stonehenge
3. The Hanging Gardens of Babylon
4. Um, lessee…those creepy, monolithic, huge stone face thingies on Easter Island
5. The Sphinx?
6. Yikes…
7. Moo.

eek. I’m dumm.

So now I shall research properly, if for no other reason than to retain the distinction of being your one-stop shop for useless tripe.

The Seven Wonders of the Ancient World are:

#1. The Pyramid of Khufu. The first and largest of the pyramids at the necropolis in Giza, Egypt, this monument was erected for the pharaoh Khufu. Known as the Great Pyramid, it rises about 450 feet (having lost about 30 feet off the top over the years) and covers 13 acres. (Description courtesy CNN Destinations)

I thought the Sphinx was a separate wonder, but it’s just part of the necropolis. So I wasn’t all wrong, ja?

[But I was completely wrong about Stonehenge. If I'd read the factoid carefully, I would have noticed that it said that only one Wonder still exists. Helloooo.]

#2. The Colossus of Rhodes. It must have been a sight to behold: a 110-foot-high monster of stone columns, iron bars and bronze outer skin. It stood tall for over 60 years, until an earthquake toppled it in 224 BC. Cut Helios right down at the knees, actually. Ptolemy III offered to pay for its reconstruction, but an oracle was consulted and he advised against it.

#4. The Mausoleum at Halicarnassos. Built by Artemisia, wife of the ruler Mausolus in what is present-day Turkey, this tomb featured gorgeous friezes and sculptures. At 143 feet high, it stood over the city of Halicarnassos for some 17 centuries, until a series of earthquakes shattered the columns and sent the whole thing crashing to the ground. By 1404 AD, only the very base of the Mausoleum was still recognizable.

#5. The Temple of Artemis. The gods apparently did not want this structure to stand, as it was built three times and destroyed three times. Built in 550 BC in the city of Ephesus, it stood in honor of Artemis, goddess of the hunt. Some guy named Herostratus, who wanted his fifteen minutes of fame, burned the structure to the ground in 356 BC. It was rebuilt, then destroyed again — twice.

#6. The Statue of Zeus. Built at the city of Olympia in 435 BC, the statue was added to a temple in order to gussy it up a bit. Made of ivory, the gold-robe-draped Zeus had a wreath around his head, and held a figure of Nike, his messenger, in his right hand. The statue was later moved to Constantinople (modern-day Istanbul), where it was destroyed by fire in 462 AD. Of all the Wonders, it ranks third in longevity.

#7. The Hanging Gardens of Babylon. This tale comes out of Baghdad, formerly the ancient city of Babylon. Many historians call it a myth. (Still, the Fink is not here to judge, but to deliver the goods.) According to legend, King Nebuchadnezzar wanted to build for his wife an amazing green retreat in the middle of the desert, so he had workers construct 400 square feet of garden, 75 feet above ground. Water from the Euphrates was carried up to irrigate the greenery — an act which almost certainly would have had a negative effect on the brick structure beneath, and therefore adds to the dubious nature of the story. At any rate, the “hanging” gardens likely did not actually hang; rather than being suspended, they were probably “overhanging” the wall edges, as depicted in the drawing. Chalk that up to faulty Greek translation.

I love that song. One of the all-time best songs of the seventies. If you don’t know it, you have to listen/watch. It’s an emergency.

Self Portrait with Bandaged Ear, 1889 by Vincent van Gogh (1853-90)

~

It’s no secret van Gogh had his demons. They eventually cornered him into shooting himself in the chest, making a wound that would kill him a couple of days later. But what’s the scoop on this ear thing? I always assumed (read: believed what I’d read for decades) that he’d done the deed to himself in a rage of despair after Gauguin walked out on him. But according to a new study, reported by the London Telegraph:

Gauguin, an excellent fencer, was planning to leave Van Gogh’s “Yellow House” in Arles, southwestern France, after an unhappy stay.

He had walked out of the house with his baggage and his trusty épée in hand, but was followed by the troubled Van Gogh, who had earlier thrown a glass at him.

As the pair approached a bordello, their row intensified, and Gauguin cut off Van Gogh’s left earlobe with his sword – either in anger or self-defence.”

Muy interesante. Who says you don’t learn anything on the Interwebnet?

Got all your shopping done?

So I decided to treat myself to some coffee and extended quiet time, along with a huge dose of feeling sorry for myself and my sore ribs, janked back and neck, and smashed-up ankle. I ended up on FolkStreams.net, and got lost in a wonderful wildernesss for two hours.

I believe it’s crucial that our myriad social customs in America — age-old and often passed down by oral tradition only — be preserved before they’re irretrievably lost. The people at FolkStreams have put together a large collection of documentary films about anything and everything having to do with the American experience, and they’re all available for viewing online. Easy to disappear for hours, at least for me. From their site:

Folkstreams.net has two goals. One is to build a national preserve of hard-to-find documentary films about American folk or roots cultures. The other is to give them renewed life by streaming them on the internet. The films were produced by independent filmmakers in a golden age that began in the 1960s and was made possible by the development first of portable cameras and then capacity for synch sound. Their films focus on the culture, struggles, and arts of unnoticed Americans from many different regions and communities.”

This morning, I watched three films. One featured a group of black girls on a playground in 1968. The dynamic of play and interaction between them was fascinating. Then I watched a storyteller/singer spin the tale of Frankie Silver, a North Carolina woman who purportedly killed her husband and was hanged in 1833. Finally, I learned about gandy dancers on the railroads during the first half of the 20th century. Amazing stuff.

I highly recommend this site to anyone with an interest in little-known components of American cultural history; anything from old carnival barks to a cappella ballad singing in the Appalachians, to the Sacred Harp or Delta blues traditions. In some cases, these films — with priceless interviews and vintage film footage — are all that’s left.

I know it’s not Avatar or Sherlock Holmes, but satisfying and educational nonetheless. Thumbs up.

Happy Saturday — I’m off to replace the ice in my sock.

Fink ouch.

I really, really hate conspiracies. I just want to know. Ya know? Marilyn’s death remains surrounded in mystery. Did she overdose by accident, or on purpose? Or was she really snuffed by the Kennedys? No one will ever know, I guess. And it’s probably safe to assume that anyone who might have known took the story to his/her grave.

Anyway, it was on this day — 5 August — in 1962 that Marilyn Monroe was found dead in her bungalow.

Tomorrow marks the anniversary of the 1945 bombing of Hiroshima. I don’t think kids today (or even those of us born in the 50s and 60s) realize the true horror of a catastrophe of this magnitude. Honestly. And I’m tellin ya: controlling nukes owned by crazy people = herding cats.

On the 7th is the anniversary of the foggy morning in 1974 when French athlete Philippe Petit illegally stepped out on a wire he and his mates strung between the two towers of the World Trade Center in New York. The Thriller and I finally got to see the movie about it, Man on Wire. You must see it to believe it.

The intrigue, blind faith, incredible audacity, celestial alignment and just plain dumb luck that combined to facilitate this stunt are simply not to be believed. Go rent this film today.

And on the very next day in the very same year (1974), Richard Nixon resigned the presidency. I vividly remember watching a replay of the announcement on the news the following evening, sitting with my dad in the living room. Another good movie: Frost/Nixon. We’ve seen it twice. Brilliant performances by Frank Langella as Nixon (he was nominated for an Oscar for the role) and Michael Sheen as David Frost.

Crazy days indeed. And now I’m off to my own crazy day. Ugh. Have a goody!

FO

Photo credits: 20th Century Fox; Magnolia Pictures

I noticed these images on a couple of blogs yesterday, and followed some links. It’s amazing (and gratifying) how visual art, after several millennia, still moves people to all manner of emotions.

A gaggle of different feelings will serve as reactions to the following picture. (You know the Law, so I ain’t interested in what those particular reactions are for you personally, or why. Just be nice and play my little game for today, k?)

Maybe this evokes less of a “convicted” response. I think it’s funny, myself:

Art has been controversial for centuries, but there was a time not too long ago when it was the only commercial visual stimulus available, and much attention was paid to its viewing, criticism and social commentary. I like art history — especially the periods which coincide with music history (Medieval, Renaissance, Baroque, Classical, Romantic, Impressionistic, Contemporary).

I won’t go into the whole of it, as I’d be writing all day instead of planning my glorious return to the school house, but imagine the shock of looking at this painting up close, when you hadn’t been raised on watching realistic reenactments of it on television:

Judith Slaying Holofernes, by Artemisia Gentileschi, 1618

Interesting stuff.

Still, look at the determination on the women’s faces. Then look at Holofernes. How do you think the men of 1620 Italy reacted to it? And the women (though likely in secret)?

Did I mention I like visual art? It was the subject of one of my very first posts here at RtB. I could talk about it all day, really. Alas…

I found this quote from Artemisia herself:

An artist’s feeling is the white-hot core of painting…You’ve got to use your own emotions and paint with your own blood if need be in order to discover and prove the truth of your vision.”

If only we all felt that way about our own visions, eh?

FO

And no, I’m not writing a post about the Association of Free Trojans — if there actually is an Association of Free Trojans. Rather, I’ve deliberately misplaced the modifier to confuse you. Kidding again. I just have stuff to say about the word “trojan.”

Last night, while reading/researching, I ran into the word no fewer than three times. This, I surmised, was a sign: time to free-associate about trojans. [OK, I'm not *really* free-associating, but...you know.]

You hear the word “trojan” a lot; many times in connection with computer issues. There are three definitions one must keep separate in the virus/trojan/worm game, however (squeaky-clean, freshly-manicured Mac users, you can skip this section, although the Mighty Blue Apple has been known to get the occasional worm):

• Virus: something your computer catches from an infected source, like media (CDs, portable drives, files).
• Worm: a kind of virus spread mostly via networks.
• Trojan: a bad piece of programming masquerading as something else

There are lots of schools that feature a Trojan warrior as their mascot. My school does. But I wonder how many people, when they think of a Trojan, first think about how the citizens of Troy got their collective butts kicked via the ultimate humiliation of the Trojan horse joke.

I would imagine a person’s first thought upon learning of the ruse dreamed up by Odysseus would be, What a buncha wankers. Well, if the knee-high strappy sandal fits…

They really bought it, lock and stock. Amazing. Different culture then, though. And really, how do we know Virgil didn’t make it all up? But still, I have to wonder when I see athletic teams called “Trojans” — why did they choose that mascot? I’m sure there were brave and powerful Trojan soldiers. But that’s not really their claim to fame.

Thus ends my Trojan association, but not my fondness for all things old. Take today, for instance. Tis a special day indeed. Behold the email I received from my fiend PK:

Hail, Mistress well met! I would remind thee that Thursday bringeth Talk Like Shakespeare day withal, to honor his birthday revels. Mayhaps it behooveth thee to visit yon web site:

http://www.talklikeshakespeare.org/

If history teaches us anything, apparently not.

Janet Cooke, former reporter for the Washington Post, went down in flames on this day in 1981, after she had to give back the Pulitzer Prize because she ran a story about an 8-year-old heroin addict that was just plain made-up. I am trying this morning to empathize with her claim that once the initial story ran, the interest was so overwhelming that it was too late to retract it. When the Post checked out claims she made on her resumé — saying she’d studied at Vassar and the Sorbonne, and that she’d won an award with the Toledo Blade — and found them wanting, the jig was up.

Well, like my mother always said: the truth always comes out. And sometimes it’s really painful.

Again, today’s post is not a homily by a long shot. I ain’t no angel, believe it. But sheesh, if you’re going to tell a story in an effort to fool millions of people, at least have a plan regarding how you’re going to deal with the fallout. And it seems that having it happen to one person doesn’t necessarily discourage others.

Hmmm.

Fink, off to the school house

Photo: The Phil Donahue Show

Chuck Barris?

OK, putting him in the above company is a stretch. All right, it’s ludicrous. But the fact remains: the guy made himself a gazillionaire by coming up with three game show ideas (among others) that made borderline voyeurism acceptable for the middle class, and introduced low-brow, bottom-feeder humor to American television. And now look…voyeurism and bottom-feeder humor are now among the defining benchmarks of American video entertainment. That’s sayin’ somethin’, folks. I’ll go one further and say that without Chuck Barris, we may not have intelligent TV classics such as Jackass, Southpark, and The Simpsons. Gems, all. But I digress.

Chuck Barris

Barris created three of the most successful game shows of the 60s and 70s: The Dating Game, The Newlywed Game, and The Gong Show. Admittedly, I was a regular viewer of all three.

If you look at Gong Show highlights on YouTube, you’ll find that they are all pretty much unfunny now, although it sure looked like the “celebrity” judges (who the sam hill was “Jaye P. Morgan” anyway, really…) had fun watching those horrible acts and giving out the grand prize of $516.32 (no joke, that was 1st prize). Barris’s on-set behavior was so crazy, it left one Gong Show winner to wonder on his YouTube posting:

How much snow did our good Chuck blow if our good Chuck did blow snow?

Heh. [Cute, although I did not find any references to drug use in any of my research.]

But there was definitely a method to Barris’s madness. He turned love into a TV commodity. In 1965, he launched The Dating Game, a live version of Mystery Date, where “three eligible bachelors” would answer questions from a girl on the other side of a partition. Based on their answers, the girl would choose one guy to take her on a date, which was arranged by the producers of the show. Cool, eh?

Sometimes, the questions were just a *bit* suggestive, although not anything too outlandish. But Barris took care of that problem with The Newlywed Game.

It was probably the first time the word “nooky” was said on network television. And it didn’t take a genius to figure out what they were talking about.

I wasn’t a big fan of the host, Bob Eubanks. He just looked and sounded smarmy to me. But not as smarmy as Barris himself later on, as he stumbled his way through the Gong Show tapings. I wonder how much of that he actually remembers, or if it was all an act, a la Dean Martin.

But that’s OK. We remember, and YouTube remembers. That oughta provide a lifetime’s worth of embarrassment for him. But all this doesn’t even scratch the surface of his penchant for the bizarre. His “unauthorized autobiography” (ooh that’s hilarious, Chucky baby), Confessions of a Dangerous Mind, secured his weirdsville status pretty much for life. From WikiPedia:

In his autobiography Confessions of a Dangerous Mind, originally published in 1984, Barris claimed to have worked for the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) as an assassin in the 1960s and the 1970s. Barris tends to neither confirm nor deny this in interviews. A film adaptation of the book was made in 2002. Directed by George Clooney and starring Sam Rockwell, Confessions of a Dangerous Mind depicted Barris as being responsible for 33 killings. Barris wrote the sequel Bad Grass Never Dies in 2004. The CIA deny Barris ever worked for them in any capacity. After the release of the movie, CIA spokesman Paul Nowack said Barris’ assertions that he worked for the spy agency ‘[are] ridiculous. It’s absolutely not true.’”

I’m partial to Cecil Adams’s take on Barris, at The Straight Dope. Ha.

So yeah. Weird genuis.

Gotta go to Starbucks…breakfast with the boss this morning. Yummy.

FO

Instead, he’s playing Public Enemy #1: John Dillinger. And according to my research, Mr. Dillinger got a bad rap from the American “justice” system, despite robbing dozens of banks and living like a celebrity.

According to the book, Curious Facts About John Dillinger & J. Edgar Hoover (Kekionga Press, 2008), John was a nice guy who was beaten down early by the legal system; sent to prison for something that should have gotten him probation at the worst.

Along with an older accomplice (an ex-convict who actually got off easy), he tried to rob the neighborhood grocery store in small-town Indiana. It went wrong and the guys ran away with no money. Then, this:

Ed Singleton (who hired a lawyer), even though he had a prior felony conviction and was ten years older than [Dillinger], received a 2-to-14-year sentence and was released after two years. Dillinger [whose parents were told by town police officials that John didn't need a lawyer] was given 10 to 20 years.

The long sentence Dillinger received for a first-time offense, the betrayal on the part of the authorities, and the light sentence his partner received formed a bitterness in him which grew more intense with every year behind bars. ‘This made a criminal out of Dillinger,’ [then-governor of Indiana Paul] McNutt concluded.”

John Dillinger was actually a polite, nice boy who lived on a farm with his dad and step-mother. [In fact, Dillinger's great nephew has sued - successfully and often - to preserve his great uncle's reputation as a gangster, but not a killer. He also, of course, openly cashes in on the use of his uncle's name, much to the consternation of his critics.]

Possibly more “curious” than the facts about Dillinger in this book are the wacko stories about that schmuck J. Edgar Hoover. Whoa. That’s a post entirely unto itself.

Anyway…

Check out the trailer for Public Enemies:

Yay…I’m there.

Photo credit: IMDB.com, Dillinger Museum

Fellow RtB poster Michael was his neighbor. I’d totally forgotten about that…

A tragic story, to be sure, that of Tim Richmond. I remember serving him drinks at the Country Club where I worked for that one summer, when he got his racing start. He’d have a group of his friends (and his parents) around him, all yelling, laughing, smoking, getting crazy…and he was the life of the party. One time, I was invited to sit down with all of them at the end of my shift. He was really interesting, and seemingly lots of fun. We laughed a lot that night.

I also remember a couple of years later when he got Rookie of the Year or something at the Indy 500 race. I heard it on the radio and thought, “Wow, I know him.”

If you’ve seen the movie Stroker Ace with Burt Reynolds, you’ve seen Richmond. He had a bit part at the beginning of that film, as I recall.

Then he got sick. Then he was dead. The cause was complications from AIDS, which, back then, was still a horrifyingly mysterious death curse, surrounded by ignorance, supposition and hysteria. According to what I’ve gathered, Richmond’s efforts to get back into racing after his diagnosis were met with considerable opposition. A guy named Tommy Thompson wrote a rather nice tribute to him here. Wikipedia also has some good information.

However, the overriding opinion is that Richmond was a victim of a witch hunt, and that he didn’t stand a chance in the good-old-boy system of NASCAR cronyism.

In 2005, David Poole wrote a bio about him. I think I might buy it.

I came across Tim’s name yesterday as I was looking at a list of well-known graduates of my alma mater (Ashland University). Although Tim only went one year and then dropped out, he was still on the list.

So was Madalyn Murray O’Hair. Yikes. I had no earthly idea. No surprise I didn’t know, though, with AU being a good Brethren Church school & all. I imagine they didn’t mind sweeping that one under the carpet.

RF, off to another weird Wednesday.

Photo credit: Sports Publishing, LLC

Do you know of anyone who would have entered Auschwitz – the largest and most inhumane of all the large and inhumane death camps of World War II – voluntarily? As I found out last night, there was just such a man.

Witold Pilecki, an officer in the Polish army, willingly infiltrated Auschwitz, posing as a prisoner, in order to gather intelligence on the Nazis and to organize an uprising to free everyone from the camp. The SS had other plans, unfortunately.

His story is incredible — and sad. The tale can be read in many different places on the web, but a good composite location for the salient points is at a blog belonging to this Polish Canadian, who provides information gained from his own research of anecdotes and archived documents.

Auschwitz was bad enough for Pilecki, but he met his end, in a cruel twist of fate, at the hands of the Communists of his own country, who accused him of conspiracy. Quoting from the blog:

Witold Pilecki escaped from Auschwitz on the Easter Monday 1943, he also survived the Warsaw Uprising an[d] the German POW camp in Germany.

He returned to Poland after the war and started organizing resistance
against the communists. When he learnt that the Allies would not help to liberate Poland from the Soviets he started demobilizing the military underground organization.

It was then, that the communists arrested him.

He was interrogated and tortured for many months. His finger nails were pulled out and his collarbones broken and he could hardly walk. He never “talked.”

After his process, which was a simple farce, he was sentenced to death by a firing squad. There was no firing squad though. The executioners dragged him [to] the basement of the Security Headquarters building, into the boiler room. He was gagged and could not walk.

They shot him with a single slug into the back of his head. He was buried somewhere on the rubbish tip (landfill) next to the Powazki Cemetery. His body was never found.

I wonder why this guy isn’t ranked up there with Oskar Schindler, and people like these, who daily risked their own lives to save others — or for that matter, anyone who ever served in the military, and either stayed the course and lived to tell the tale, or died trying. When you read about guys who deserted the US Army and are now livin’ it up in Germany, it really puts things in perspective, doesn’t it?

Fink, enjoying the quiet, the coffee, and the 2-hour delay

Again, I’ve long forgotten how I got there, but last night I ended up at one of my occasional research haunts: TruTV’s Crime Library, where I was reminded of an event I hadn’t thought about in years — even after doing a post on Big Frank last month.

Frankie Jr.

• Barry Keenan, the “mastermind” (if you can call him that), chose to kidnap Junior over another celeb’s kid, because Big Frank was a wise guy — meaning he was in thick with mobsters — and putting a guy like Frank through a few hours of misery wouldn’t be morally deplorable. Besides, this was about money; Keenan had no plans to hurt the 19-year-old Frankie. In fact, after he got his $240,000 ransom money from Daddy, Keenan was going to invest it, and within 10 years, pay Sinatra back.
• He and his two idiot accomplices had originally planned the kidnapping for 22 November, but were too depressed to commit the crime after John F. Kennedy was assassinated that morning. (Hey, ya gotta give ‘em that.) So they chose 8 December, when Junior was booked at Harrah’s in Lake Tahoe. They entered his hotel room after posing as delivery men, and it was on.
• Big Frank, frantic with worry and refusing to eat or walk away from the phone until it rang with the ransom demand, quickly offered Keenan $1 million for Frankie’s return. But Keenan said no, $240,000 would be fine. (cricket…..cricket…..)
• The Mastermind and one of his goons happily went to the agreed-upon spot (between 2 school buses in an LA parking lot) and picked up the suitcase with the 240 grand in it — in full view of FBI cameras.
• They returned to find Goon #3 — and Junior — gone. He’d gotten nervous, left the house, and let Frankie out on the highway someplace, where he was eventually picked up and taken home. So, like, the kidnapping part was done. Oh well. At least they had their sultan’s fortune in cash.
• Goon #3, dizzy with delight at getting his cut of the ransom ($40G), had plans to go to New Orleans and live the high life. One problem: he stopped at his brother’s house in San Diego to stay the night, and told him all about it. Bro called the law and the jig was up. He sang like a nightingale, and within hours, everybody got arrested.

But the story gets better after that…

Enter the bumblers’ defense attorney, Gladys Towles Root, who has a great story herself. A Hollywood lawyer who often took on sex offender cases (and won), she came up with an interesting defense for the would-be criminals. It didn’t work.

Happy ending for Keenan, though: he’s now the millionaire he always wanted to be, thanks to a lucrative real estate business. He was sentenced to life in prison plus 75 years. He was out in four. No lie.

But Junior… poor Junior. Can you imagine trying to make a name for yourself in shadow of your larger-than-the-universe father, singing the same kind of music he did? Kid didn’t have a prayer — not back then, when his dad was the king of all media.

He was a good-looking young man, though, and he and his sister Nancy were pretty visible in the early-mid 60s, mostly on TV specials with Big Frank. Nancy also had two or three top 40 hits. My all-time favorite is this one, that she recorded with her dad. It’s such a pretty song, and beautifully simple…it brings back fantastic memories. Music does that to me.

Anyway, Junior had to live down years of speculation that he himself set up the kidnapping in order to jumpstart his own career. He never had a fraction of the success his dad enjoyed. He does the casino circuit now (ALTHOUGH I’M SURE HE HAS MANY OTHER GREAT THINGS IN THE WORKS, LIKE A SHAKESPEARE FESTIVAL, OR OCEAN’S 19, OR MAYBE AN EVEN NEWER BROADWAY VERSION OF THE JERRY SPRINGER SHOW), still singing big band and crooner tunes, just like Pop. Here he is today.

In a way, though, Junior had the last word on the whole kidnapping thing. In 1998, when they made a movie of the story, Keenan stood to make $1.5M from it as a consultant. Sinatra sued, invoking protection under the Son of Sam law, and won.

Heh.

Happy Sunday. Back to work.

Photo credit: Associated Press; Phil Konstantin 2005

The Romanovs

~

Nicholas saw the revolution coming, and before he and his family were captured, it is said that they, and other extended family members, took their impressive collections of jewels — sapphires, diamonds, pearls and rubies — and buried them.

In 2001, a treasure hunter with money to burn (and an apparent ax to grind) wanted to dig beneath the Russian Museum of Political History because he was certain some Romanov booty was hidden there. I don’t know if he was ever allowed to start the dig…likely not.

Then there’s this story, which I stumbled upon this morning. A rich lady living in L.A. knows where the jewels are?? That is interesting indeed. Now if only she knew where that silly map got off to…

All I can say is, if they’re going to use this gal to find the treasure, they’d better hurry. She looks a little delicate.

Hey, here’s the view from my back porch as of yesterday morning. Nice, eh? (Sorry about the camera tilt on that first one — I wasn’t going to actually step out *onto* the porch, don’t you know, so I just stuck my hand outside the door.)

Disappearing sidewalk

No picnics today

Have a nice Sunday, fiends. And how about those Arizona Cardinals? That was actually cool. Underdogs win again.

Fink out.

Photo credit: Getty Images

The tiny club, with a capacity of 600 between the restaurant and adjoining lounge, was packed that night with close to 1,000 people. Half of them met their end that very evening, in unthinkable ways.

Imagine seeing flames spreading across the ceilings, and smoke filling the small, windowless room. Panicked patrons racing all over the place, flying towards the emergency exits…only to find them all chained shut.

Imagine finally reaching the only emergency exit not chained, and finding (along with a crushing press of hundreds of other hysterical, screaming people trying to push their way out) that the doors only open inward. Towards you.

And this was how they died. According to the Boston Herald reports, when firemen finally broke through the chained emergency exits, they were greeted by a stack of crushed bodies, piled chest-high.

Believed to have been started by a busboy who lit a match in the basement so he could see to change a lightbulb, the fire totally engulfed the cellar in five minutes,

and many people died stacked up at the one stairwell. The exit door at the top of the stairs was bolted shut. The fire spread to the ceiling on the first floor, and totally engulfed it within another five minutes. Many people died trying to exit through the revolving door–pushing from both sides and preventing escape. Some diners in the restaurant never even had a chance to leave their seats, having been asphyxiated by smoke and toxic gases. (Celebrate Boston.com – The Cocoanut Grove Fire)

I hate, hate, hate revolving doors. Always have, for that very reason. What if I got stuck? What if I were trapped in that little space? I experience a Godfather moment whenever I see one. Shudder. When I was a little girl, I’d walk on tippytoe through them really really fast, for fear that the part of the door behind me was going to creep up and run me over.

I also hate, hate, hate staying on upper floors in a hotel. I always ask for the ground floor, or at least nothing higher than the highest floor a fire department rescue ladder can reach. [I know. I'm weird.]

Anyway, if any good can come out of a tragedy like Cocoanut Grove, it was that fire regulations were tightened up bigtime. No more blocking off or chaining of doors, and no more emergency exits that opened inward. You’d think that something that horrible would teach everyone a lesson. But, alas…not so.

More on that another day.

I can’t believe this week is over. For the past 5 days, we’ve had my nephew staying with us. It’s been great. Jean-Claude and I have lots of common interests, as he’s the full time music director here . (What a gig, lucky dog.) Anyway, he leaves today, and we will miss him.

However, I am excited about having friends over tomorrow night to watch The Godfather, parts II and III, on the new television beast. Fun.

Fink out.

I saw Ford in person on one occasion. I was in Philadelphia on 4 July, 1976 — our nation’s bicentennial. Ford gave a speech (I didn’t hear it) and rang a replica of the Liberty Bell (I didn’t hear that, either). But I saw him from a distance in the parade. It was crazy.

Imagine a bunch of high school students in Philly, on the most important celebration day in the last hundred years, with probably one chaperone to every thirty kids. I don’t remember ever seeing my chaperone until that night. Can you fathom doing that with students today? Wow. Wake up and smell the litigation. (But boy did I have fun…heh.)

Anyway, looking at this photo got me thinking about the Liberty Bell, which I did see when I was there. Some cursory research at ushistory.org revealed interesting facts about it:

• The bell cracked the first time it was rung.
• Its pitch is listed at concert E-flat, but the replica that they rang in 2006 to commemorate the Allies’ invasion of Normandy sure sounds like E-natural to me.
• On the writing across the top of the bell, “Pennsylvania” is misspelled “Pensylvania.”
• I don’t remember this! In 1996, Taco Bell took out a full-page ad in the New York Times, claiming that it had “bought the Liberty Bell” in an effort to decrease the national debt. The joke ranks #4 at the Museum of Hoaxes’ website on the “Top 100 April Fools Day Hoaxes of All Time” list. Heh.
• Check out this cool 3D view of the Liberty Bell.

I hear the Mavismobile in the driveway. Time for coffee with sissy. Then it’s dinner with Kay & Bob, and then to the theater to watch Dark Knight. No foolin’.

Fink out.