Are You Sure Reese Has Left the Building?
by Bryce Martin
The waiting, the mystery is over. Two mysteries, actually. The first was who were the Titans going to pick in the NFL college draft. The second question had a direct bearing on the first. What kind of a stamp was former defensive back and now Titans general manager Mike Reinfeldt going to put on his first draft class?
I'm sorry I asked.
Oh, sure, I was bound to find out. Draft day becomes a bigger TV and Internet event each year.
The dart board is down now and ready for next year. You would have thought former GM Floyd Reese would have taken it with him. Floyd Reese? Can we be sure he has really left. This draft has his stamp all over it.
Forget about seeing how these guys do. The Titans get two maybe three linemen who stick along with DB Michael Griffin and that's it. Of course, the Titans brass will secretly vote to keep a couple of the offensive picks around come roster time to justify their selections. Then, they fade into obscurity. Nice work, fellas. I don't know how you do it.
I really don't.
Corkboard or fiberboard? I'm stumped.
-30-
Friday, April 20, 2007
Oop oop (oops oops)
by Bryce Martin
Never kick a cow chip on a hot day -- Will Rogers
I knew I was listening to a wide variety of really great songs during and right up to, and especially, during my high school years. From Gogi Grant and "The Wayward Wind" to The Hollywood Argyles and "Alley Oop."
What I later found out was amazing. If you would have told me it was the same guy from Skip and Flip singing "Cherry Pie" singing, well, sort of singing, "Alley Oop" for the Hollywood Argyles, I would have said you were loco. And "loco" is the word I would have used because I was raised to not call anyone "crazy" even in jest.
Gary Paxton was here, there and everywhere in the commercial music business. He wrote them, played on them, produced them and sang them. Anything he had a hand on had a chance.
Paxton produced records cafeteria-style, loading his tray with a bit of this and a bit of that. He jumped from genre to genre, hopped on fads and trends, searched popular culture movements, all in a quest to be fresh and first with the latest. Sort of in the mold of Will Rogers and his motto for success in any particular, chosen endeavor, something to the tune of knowing where everyone is going and getttng there first.
He didn't seem to get it though with post-"Alley Oop." He came up with all these followup songs, songs about guys with greasy hair and "critters named Jack," startling oblivious to what made "Alley Oop" so popular. It was this: oop, oop, oop-oop.
Sang and repeated as it was, that was the song's hook. Take out that part and the song still might have charted, but its impact would have been much less notable and its ranking much lower. It wouldn't have been the No. 1 smash song that it was.
Not since dum-de dum-dum, dum dum from Jack Webb's TV police show had we heard something as catchy and likeable.
Paxton knew. The blatant copies, the rewrites, they all brought to light another side of Paxton. He was tenacious. Once he got you in a bulldog grip, he was not going to let go. He would do whatever he could to hold on. As silly as some of those forgotten followup songs were, a new oop oop or dum-de dum dum might have supplied the magic hook.
-30-
by Bryce Martin
Never kick a cow chip on a hot day -- Will Rogers
I knew I was listening to a wide variety of really great songs during and right up to, and especially, during my high school years. From Gogi Grant and "The Wayward Wind" to The Hollywood Argyles and "Alley Oop."
What I later found out was amazing. If you would have told me it was the same guy from Skip and Flip singing "Cherry Pie" singing, well, sort of singing, "Alley Oop" for the Hollywood Argyles, I would have said you were loco. And "loco" is the word I would have used because I was raised to not call anyone "crazy" even in jest.
Gary Paxton was here, there and everywhere in the commercial music business. He wrote them, played on them, produced them and sang them. Anything he had a hand on had a chance.
Paxton produced records cafeteria-style, loading his tray with a bit of this and a bit of that. He jumped from genre to genre, hopped on fads and trends, searched popular culture movements, all in a quest to be fresh and first with the latest. Sort of in the mold of Will Rogers and his motto for success in any particular, chosen endeavor, something to the tune of knowing where everyone is going and getttng there first.
He didn't seem to get it though with post-"Alley Oop." He came up with all these followup songs, songs about guys with greasy hair and "critters named Jack," startling oblivious to what made "Alley Oop" so popular. It was this: oop, oop, oop-oop.
Sang and repeated as it was, that was the song's hook. Take out that part and the song still might have charted, but its impact would have been much less notable and its ranking much lower. It wouldn't have been the No. 1 smash song that it was.
Not since dum-de dum-dum, dum dum from Jack Webb's TV police show had we heard something as catchy and likeable.
Paxton knew. The blatant copies, the rewrites, they all brought to light another side of Paxton. He was tenacious. Once he got you in a bulldog grip, he was not going to let go. He would do whatever he could to hold on. As silly as some of those forgotten followup songs were, a new oop oop or dum-de dum dum might have supplied the magic hook.
-30-
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
The Record Tulsa Flood of 1984
by Bryce Martin
Several years ago, a handful of radio stations had the reputation of being able to "break" a record. A musical 45-rpm vinyl variety. One of those stations, as I understood, was KVOO-AM in Tulsa, Okla. With so many records coming out each week, it was difficult if not impossible to get your record played, especially if it was on a small, unknown label. These radio stations could send your record out on the airwaves like ripples on a brook, reaching a wide and huge audience.
I was fairly sure that wasn't going to happen. Still, why not play the odds.
I mailed two of the 45s -- the label yellow with plain, red letters -- to KVOO right before the Memorial Day holiday. For no particular reason except that was when I had my first chance to send it out to some selected radio stations for potential airplay. It might be a good time, I reasoned. The regular disc jockeys are probably going to be off for the holiday and some new guy is going to be excited when he opens the mail and sees the title "Stormclouds Over Tulsa." The fact that the word "Tulsa" was in the title might invite a spin.
Or, my 45 might catch the eye of the station's big guy, Billy Parker, a name I had known for years and one of the nation's top country music disc jockeys. When I thought of KVOO and Tulsa I automatically thought of Billy Parker. Maybe he would not be able to resist the novelty of the title. I had been getting some minor airplay at tiny KCHJ-AM in Delano, Calif., right outside of Bakersfield, but a rotation on the turntable at the giant, clear-channel KVOO would be big-big.
It didn't go as thought out. Three days later, about the time the station might have received the 45, a flash flood hit Tulsa like no other flash flood ever had before. Incredibly, 14 people lost their lives in the roaring waters and, as one would imagine, the city was torn apart in all ways and manner. In some areas of Tulsa, 15 inches of rain fell within hours. Yes, 15 inches.
As inconsequential as it might be, I've always wondered about the fate of those two records, and I've always hoped that no one misunderstood and thought it somehow a cruel joke.
-30-
by Bryce Martin
Several years ago, a handful of radio stations had the reputation of being able to "break" a record. A musical 45-rpm vinyl variety. One of those stations, as I understood, was KVOO-AM in Tulsa, Okla. With so many records coming out each week, it was difficult if not impossible to get your record played, especially if it was on a small, unknown label. These radio stations could send your record out on the airwaves like ripples on a brook, reaching a wide and huge audience.
I was fairly sure that wasn't going to happen. Still, why not play the odds.
I mailed two of the 45s -- the label yellow with plain, red letters -- to KVOO right before the Memorial Day holiday. For no particular reason except that was when I had my first chance to send it out to some selected radio stations for potential airplay. It might be a good time, I reasoned. The regular disc jockeys are probably going to be off for the holiday and some new guy is going to be excited when he opens the mail and sees the title "Stormclouds Over Tulsa." The fact that the word "Tulsa" was in the title might invite a spin.
Or, my 45 might catch the eye of the station's big guy, Billy Parker, a name I had known for years and one of the nation's top country music disc jockeys. When I thought of KVOO and Tulsa I automatically thought of Billy Parker. Maybe he would not be able to resist the novelty of the title. I had been getting some minor airplay at tiny KCHJ-AM in Delano, Calif., right outside of Bakersfield, but a rotation on the turntable at the giant, clear-channel KVOO would be big-big.
It didn't go as thought out. Three days later, about the time the station might have received the 45, a flash flood hit Tulsa like no other flash flood ever had before. Incredibly, 14 people lost their lives in the roaring waters and, as one would imagine, the city was torn apart in all ways and manner. In some areas of Tulsa, 15 inches of rain fell within hours. Yes, 15 inches.
As inconsequential as it might be, I've always wondered about the fate of those two records, and I've always hoped that no one misunderstood and thought it somehow a cruel joke.
-30-
Friday, April 13, 2007
The Smelter
by Bryce Martin
An acrid, metallic aroma from Hell filled the air many a day in Galena, Kan. That would change some depending on exactly where I pedaled on a long bike-ride day. The odor flaring my nostrils came from the stacks of the Eagle-Picher lead smelter in billows powerful enough in bulk to reach several miles, depending on the wind stream and other conditions.
Another odor came from East Galena. You had to be fairly close, within a few blocks, to whiff the air bouquet from the Old Rock Distillery.
Route 66 went right by the Eagle-Picher plant, exposing it to America's traffic mainstream. Hell's Half-Acre was what the area was called immediate to the plant in a radius of a mile or so in any direction, but mostly next to and across Route 66 from the smelter. The earth was polluted from the pollutants sailing and settling from the plant's emission stacks, those huge pipes pointing upwards. It illustrated blight the way a patch of mange on a dog illustrated disease.
Smelting is what goes on inside a lead smelter. Since the ore known as galena is lead sulphide (think sulfur), the ore is literally roasted to remove the sulfur. The sulfurous fumes and particulates as excess are belched into the atmosphere from the plant's infernal belly.
I was struck at a young age by the phrase "Hell's Half-Acre" as a description for the area. How could any name be more apt and more colorful at the same time?
"How long has it been called that?" I asked. That was a question posed in the early 1950s and the reply was that it had been called that for decades past.
The plant was still operating in those early 1950s, though nothing near its output in peak or even moderate years in the past. Other Eagle-Picher lead smelters existed in the region. Big ones in Miami, Okla., and in Joplin, Mo. But the one with its picture in my grade school textbook, describing it as "the world's largest lead smelter" was this one, the one that had created Hell's Half-Acre. No picture or mention of Hell's Half Acre was in the textbook.
The EP picture was significant in that the textbook was not about Galena, not about its county, Cherokee, and not even about Kansas. It was a history book. To have that one mention about Galena in an entire book filled with chapters with text, pictures and illustrations on glossy paper about so many varied places and things, I swelled with pride. I was glad they left out the Hell's Half-Acre part.
-30-
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
You Won't Be Getting My Call
by Bryce Martin
At work and more so at leisure, a person can mostly pick and choose who they care to listen to. Talk radio gives you no such choice. The hosts you get accustomed to, their likes and dislikes, quirks and attitudes. It's the callers who are irksome.
"Thanks for taking my call." Can we just line them up and put on the blindfolds. Jeez. Unless you are severely marble-mouthed or obviously drunk, they take anyone's call. A-n-y-o-n-e-'-s. If you've listened to any of these shows that is something you would be painfully aware of. The consciousness level for anyone who would say "Thanks for taking my call" is near zero, on a scale of 1 to 10 with 10 being the highest.
Then you have the ones who make a statement and then say, "My next question is...," as if their statement was their first question.
Then you have the ones totally out of sync with the host, literally, because they have their radio on nearby and are listening to the audio delay, which confuses them and has them stuttering around until the host says, "Can you turn your radio down, please? You're getting the delay."
Oh, sure, and they do.
In the year 2007, there are adults who aren't familiar with the "turn your radio down" problem associated with call-in radio?
Amazing stuff.
-30-
by Bryce Martin
At work and more so at leisure, a person can mostly pick and choose who they care to listen to. Talk radio gives you no such choice. The hosts you get accustomed to, their likes and dislikes, quirks and attitudes. It's the callers who are irksome.
"Thanks for taking my call." Can we just line them up and put on the blindfolds. Jeez. Unless you are severely marble-mouthed or obviously drunk, they take anyone's call. A-n-y-o-n-e-'-s. If you've listened to any of these shows that is something you would be painfully aware of. The consciousness level for anyone who would say "Thanks for taking my call" is near zero, on a scale of 1 to 10 with 10 being the highest.
Then you have the ones who make a statement and then say, "My next question is...," as if their statement was their first question.
Then you have the ones totally out of sync with the host, literally, because they have their radio on nearby and are listening to the audio delay, which confuses them and has them stuttering around until the host says, "Can you turn your radio down, please? You're getting the delay."
Oh, sure, and they do.
In the year 2007, there are adults who aren't familiar with the "turn your radio down" problem associated with call-in radio?
Amazing stuff.
-30-
Sacre bleu to you
by Bryce Martin
"Sacre bleu," I would say, as often as I felt it fit comfortably in whatever situation I came upon. Not that our conversations actually stayed on a line of thought. I was always experimenting with words and phrases I had either made up whole cloth or borrowed elsewhere to see if I could get them into the Galena language.
Andre, the Frenchman in the Blackhawk comic books had already given me "Oui, oui." Andre said "Sacre bleu" in circumstances that led me to believe he was cussing at a low level. Sort of like our outbursts of "good gosh" or "gee whiz" when we were particularly vexed about something. Though, I never knew exactly what it meant, it seemed to have the stuff cuss words are made of, if you said it just the way you would a standard cuss term. And, like some such expressions, I thought it would work just as well as a term of surprise.
As a classmate and I were walking along a school sidewalk, I spied a glint and reached and picked up a quarter. "Sacre bleu," I said. No response, except, "Wow, a quarter." I reasoned that finding money probably distracted from what it was I said.
It went on that way. No matter how I tried, I couldn't get "sacre bleu" in the streets, I couldn't get anyone to pick up on it and use it in their own way.
"Que sera." All it took was one song to get that one going.
-30-
by Bryce Martin
"Sacre bleu," I would say, as often as I felt it fit comfortably in whatever situation I came upon. Not that our conversations actually stayed on a line of thought. I was always experimenting with words and phrases I had either made up whole cloth or borrowed elsewhere to see if I could get them into the Galena language.
Andre, the Frenchman in the Blackhawk comic books had already given me "Oui, oui." Andre said "Sacre bleu" in circumstances that led me to believe he was cussing at a low level. Sort of like our outbursts of "good gosh" or "gee whiz" when we were particularly vexed about something. Though, I never knew exactly what it meant, it seemed to have the stuff cuss words are made of, if you said it just the way you would a standard cuss term. And, like some such expressions, I thought it would work just as well as a term of surprise.
As a classmate and I were walking along a school sidewalk, I spied a glint and reached and picked up a quarter. "Sacre bleu," I said. No response, except, "Wow, a quarter." I reasoned that finding money probably distracted from what it was I said.
It went on that way. No matter how I tried, I couldn't get "sacre bleu" in the streets, I couldn't get anyone to pick up on it and use it in their own way.
"Que sera." All it took was one song to get that one going.
-30-
Yo! Mater
compiled by Bryce Martin -- comments from a cast of cybersapiens
A 1951 International boom truck has given my hometown of Galena, Kan., more pub than it has probably ever had.
Gathered from the Internet:
November 12, 2006
It’s been the victim of neglect. The odometer reads 99,372 miles, and there’s no telling whether they’re original. Rust covers the entire body, where it nearly obscures the letters “Tannou” and “Joplin, Mo” on the door. The seats desperately need to be re-upholstered. And it gets its fuel from a storage tank that resembles a beer keg.
But it runs. And the residents of Galena, Kan., threw a party for it Saturday on the 80th anniversary of historic Route 66.
The vehicle is a 1951 International boom truck that served as one of the direct inspirations to Tow Mater, the unforgettable redneck tow truck portrayed by Larry the Cable Guy in the hit summer movie, Cars. Residents of Galena hailed the old truck’s rediscovery and sudden stardom with a party at an old Marathon service station at Main Street and Old Route 66 that’s set to be restored.
Nearby resident Dean Walker, who is one of the templates of Mater’s character, signed autographs. Mater sandwiches were served (it’s tomato, onion and butter or mayo on white bread). A birthday cake commemorating Route 66’s 80th birthday was served. The Cars soundtrack boomed from a stereo, and a DVD of the film was shown on a large-screen TV in the station. And since the name Tow Mater is already taken, a local child won a contest to rename the truck the equally redneck name Tow Tater.
The truck will be placed in storage for the winter until the as-yet-unnamed service station is restored and reopens in the spring. However, those who missed Tow Tater this past weekend can check him out during the Galena Christmas parade at 4 p.m. Dec. 2.
But nearly as big of a story is the station. Four women — Melba Rigg, Renee Charles, Betty Courtney and Judy Courtney — aim to make the old service station a Galena tourist attraction. Once the station is restored, it will be converted into a souvenir and antiques store, with farmers’ markets and a children’s play area.
“We keep hearing about how Galena is a ghost town,” Rigg said. “Travelers on Route 66 go through town and keep on going. We aim to put Galena back on the map (for Route 66ers).”
That’s just the beginning of what may be exciting things coming in Galena. I’ve been told that the same group also wants to restore an old Phillip 66 service station across the street and renovate a nearby house into a bed-and-breakfast.
Comments:
1. Meet the Inspiration for Mater from Cars - November 12, 2006
Route 66 News has a post showing the inspiration for Tow Mater from the Pixar movie Cars. I have blogged previously about how the Pixar guys went on a road trip along Route 66 before making the movie to get inspiration. Cruise around the Route 66 website for all kinds of Cars goodies.
...
2. Renee Charles - November 27, 2006
Thank you for the write up, and we would like to thank everyone that came out to our get together… Tater is just the beginning of things to come , so please keep your eyes and ears open.
Thanks again
Renee Charles
4 Women On The Route
...
3. Chee Yang - December 2, 2006
Cars Is COOL!
...
4. That was an eventful parade - Route 66 News - December 10, 2006
Galena, Kan., held its annual Christmas parade Saturday. Larry and Judy Courtney were grand marshals. Larry owns the C&A Corp. in town, and he and his wife are helping restore an old Marathon gas station along old 66 in town and acquired an old boom truck that was the inspiration to Tow Mater in the hit summer movie about Route 66, Cars.
...
5. Ashley Pullens - March 27, 2007
I love you Mater!!
...
I'm sure Mater feels the same about you, Ashley.
-30-
compiled by Bryce Martin -- comments from a cast of cybersapiens
A 1951 International boom truck has given my hometown of Galena, Kan., more pub than it has probably ever had.
Gathered from the Internet:
November 12, 2006
It’s been the victim of neglect. The odometer reads 99,372 miles, and there’s no telling whether they’re original. Rust covers the entire body, where it nearly obscures the letters “Tannou” and “Joplin, Mo” on the door. The seats desperately need to be re-upholstered. And it gets its fuel from a storage tank that resembles a beer keg.
But it runs. And the residents of Galena, Kan., threw a party for it Saturday on the 80th anniversary of historic Route 66.
The vehicle is a 1951 International boom truck that served as one of the direct inspirations to Tow Mater, the unforgettable redneck tow truck portrayed by Larry the Cable Guy in the hit summer movie, Cars. Residents of Galena hailed the old truck’s rediscovery and sudden stardom with a party at an old Marathon service station at Main Street and Old Route 66 that’s set to be restored.
Nearby resident Dean Walker, who is one of the templates of Mater’s character, signed autographs. Mater sandwiches were served (it’s tomato, onion and butter or mayo on white bread). A birthday cake commemorating Route 66’s 80th birthday was served. The Cars soundtrack boomed from a stereo, and a DVD of the film was shown on a large-screen TV in the station. And since the name Tow Mater is already taken, a local child won a contest to rename the truck the equally redneck name Tow Tater.
The truck will be placed in storage for the winter until the as-yet-unnamed service station is restored and reopens in the spring. However, those who missed Tow Tater this past weekend can check him out during the Galena Christmas parade at 4 p.m. Dec. 2.
But nearly as big of a story is the station. Four women — Melba Rigg, Renee Charles, Betty Courtney and Judy Courtney — aim to make the old service station a Galena tourist attraction. Once the station is restored, it will be converted into a souvenir and antiques store, with farmers’ markets and a children’s play area.
“We keep hearing about how Galena is a ghost town,” Rigg said. “Travelers on Route 66 go through town and keep on going. We aim to put Galena back on the map (for Route 66ers).”
That’s just the beginning of what may be exciting things coming in Galena. I’ve been told that the same group also wants to restore an old Phillip 66 service station across the street and renovate a nearby house into a bed-and-breakfast.
Comments:
1. Meet the Inspiration for Mater from Cars - November 12, 2006
Route 66 News has a post showing the inspiration for Tow Mater from the Pixar movie Cars. I have blogged previously about how the Pixar guys went on a road trip along Route 66 before making the movie to get inspiration. Cruise around the Route 66 website for all kinds of Cars goodies.
...
2. Renee Charles - November 27, 2006
Thank you for the write up, and we would like to thank everyone that came out to our get together… Tater is just the beginning of things to come , so please keep your eyes and ears open.
Thanks again
Renee Charles
4 Women On The Route
...
3. Chee Yang - December 2, 2006
Cars Is COOL!
...
4. That was an eventful parade - Route 66 News - December 10, 2006
Galena, Kan., held its annual Christmas parade Saturday. Larry and Judy Courtney were grand marshals. Larry owns the C&A Corp. in town, and he and his wife are helping restore an old Marathon gas station along old 66 in town and acquired an old boom truck that was the inspiration to Tow Mater in the hit summer movie about Route 66, Cars.
...
5. Ashley Pullens - March 27, 2007
I love you Mater!!
...
I'm sure Mater feels the same about you, Ashley.
-30-
Thursday, April 05, 2007
A Lesson in First Impressions
by Bryce Martin
Al Gore was one pot-smokin' cat.
Might be still.
After not living in Tennessee for very long, I began to see quite a bit of Al Gore Jr. on television and in the newspapers, and some guy named Clinton from Arkansas. I soon realized that I had heard of the senior Gore but knew little about him.
The Jr. had spent some time in Nashville, and he had been a reporter for The Tennessean. This and any little thing you'd care to know about him surfaced in the following days and months under the scrutiny of a national press troubled by deadlines and riding the waves of a presidential election.
Watching Gore as I did from time to time, I was taken back to my California sunny days in the 1960s. Those were years in which I worked with, lived around, and generally found myself among a certain type of people to an extent much more than I would have chosen if I had the ability to do so.
They were pot smokers, and as such came out of the same orange gelatin mold. Not before becoming potheads, but after. They all looked and acted the same, the heavy users did, and certain telltale Under the Influence tics and patterns hung around even during cessations when their bodies had remained potless. And it wasn't hard to distinguish the heavy users. They looked and played the part.
It was the eyes more than anything else, and the hesitancy, the little look like, "Oh, my God, where am I and what am I doing." It wasn't that apparent. More in the line of subtle.
And they were so-, so-, so-very-so adamant in telling anyone who would listen just how totally harmless pot was. That was comical considering that each one of them might as well have worn a T-shirt that read I Smoke Dozens Of Joints Every Single Day. Get a haircut, shower and put on a suit. If the person did all that, and had not smoked a joint in several days, it wouldn't have mattered as far as recognizing them as potheads. That residue of personality altered by the pot usage would have been a dead giveaway.
When you worked with potheads with the telltale traits, and who even acknowledged their strong usership of said weed, and you pulled double work shifts with them when they were complaining about being out of weed, and when they were never out of your sight or presence, you could still tell.
I recalled that look, those mannerisms when I watched Al Gore Jr.
I kept it to myself. I mean, boy, was I getting some wrong signals. Here was a guy, a junior in every aspect of that title, monied, and with his life so planned out by his father that he would have been perfect to a T. He was too vanilla, too milktoast, too boxer shorts corny and square to have ever even considered smoking pot.
Then, long after I had gotten over how poorly my alert triggering system had performed in assessing the speech and mannerisms of Gore Jr., I found out I was correct.
Holy of holies. What I saw was what I saw.
A former co-worker of Gore Jr.'s at The Tennessean told how no excess was too great when it came to Gore Jr.'s habit of toking weed.
Other workers at the daily newspaper said it was common knowledge inside the newsroom at the time.
I am not making any social comments, not about the culture of the 1960s, not about marijuana, not even about Al Gore Jr.
I am telling anyone who cares, trust your instincts. Especially the first ones.
-30-
by Bryce Martin
Al Gore was one pot-smokin' cat.
Might be still.
After not living in Tennessee for very long, I began to see quite a bit of Al Gore Jr. on television and in the newspapers, and some guy named Clinton from Arkansas. I soon realized that I had heard of the senior Gore but knew little about him.
The Jr. had spent some time in Nashville, and he had been a reporter for The Tennessean. This and any little thing you'd care to know about him surfaced in the following days and months under the scrutiny of a national press troubled by deadlines and riding the waves of a presidential election.
Watching Gore as I did from time to time, I was taken back to my California sunny days in the 1960s. Those were years in which I worked with, lived around, and generally found myself among a certain type of people to an extent much more than I would have chosen if I had the ability to do so.
They were pot smokers, and as such came out of the same orange gelatin mold. Not before becoming potheads, but after. They all looked and acted the same, the heavy users did, and certain telltale Under the Influence tics and patterns hung around even during cessations when their bodies had remained potless. And it wasn't hard to distinguish the heavy users. They looked and played the part.
It was the eyes more than anything else, and the hesitancy, the little look like, "Oh, my God, where am I and what am I doing." It wasn't that apparent. More in the line of subtle.
And they were so-, so-, so-very-so adamant in telling anyone who would listen just how totally harmless pot was. That was comical considering that each one of them might as well have worn a T-shirt that read I Smoke Dozens Of Joints Every Single Day. Get a haircut, shower and put on a suit. If the person did all that, and had not smoked a joint in several days, it wouldn't have mattered as far as recognizing them as potheads. That residue of personality altered by the pot usage would have been a dead giveaway.
When you worked with potheads with the telltale traits, and who even acknowledged their strong usership of said weed, and you pulled double work shifts with them when they were complaining about being out of weed, and when they were never out of your sight or presence, you could still tell.
I recalled that look, those mannerisms when I watched Al Gore Jr.
I kept it to myself. I mean, boy, was I getting some wrong signals. Here was a guy, a junior in every aspect of that title, monied, and with his life so planned out by his father that he would have been perfect to a T. He was too vanilla, too milktoast, too boxer shorts corny and square to have ever even considered smoking pot.
Then, long after I had gotten over how poorly my alert triggering system had performed in assessing the speech and mannerisms of Gore Jr., I found out I was correct.
Holy of holies. What I saw was what I saw.
A former co-worker of Gore Jr.'s at The Tennessean told how no excess was too great when it came to Gore Jr.'s habit of toking weed.
Other workers at the daily newspaper said it was common knowledge inside the newsroom at the time.
I am not making any social comments, not about the culture of the 1960s, not about marijuana, not even about Al Gore Jr.
I am telling anyone who cares, trust your instincts. Especially the first ones.
-30-
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Keeping it Safe at the Bakersfield Santa Fe
by Bryce Martin
Safety was a topic touched upon even if only slightly at every daily shift change meeting. At precisely 3 o'clock on the hour each afternoon, all swing shift crew hands gathered in a small room in the roundhouse for the daily briefing from the day's foreman.
At each meeting the same question was asked: "Does anybody have anything to say about safety?"
And each time, the same person said, "Use Trojans."
Sometimes real safety concerns were addressed and dealt with.
There were few reminders posted, stapled, painted, pasted or otherwise displayed regarding safety. One was the safety slogan with the odd looking little man named Axy Dent printed on blue shop wipe rags, or cloths (some called them "towels").
The crudely rendered little man was rushing forward to, one can guess, keep from getting wiped away.
The 17-inch by 14-inch wipe rag read:
Work Safely
WIPE OUT
AXY DENT
On The Santa Fe
The slogan also appeared in a painted square on the sides and in the middle of Santa Fe cabooses.
Watch Out
For
Axy
Dent
A circle was drawn in the square to contain Axy Dent, the fleeing figure.
Axy Dent?
It was not just a bad choice for a name, it was a bad choice for a slogan name in Bakersfield. The city was rich in agriculture and oil produce and products. Oil was big and Occidental Petroleum was a familiar name, or "Oxy" for short. Oxy Dent. It should have been Occidental's wipe rag.
To my way of thinking -- and I'm sure I put far more thought into those wipe rags than any of the other rail hands -- just the name "Axy Dent" used as the punchline in a key national safety slogan seemed such a stretch as to undermine the entire concept. Were all the good names taken? On the other hand, the drawn figure was so crude and folksy I was rather taken by its whimsical nature.
-30-
by Bryce Martin
Safety was a topic touched upon even if only slightly at every daily shift change meeting. At precisely 3 o'clock on the hour each afternoon, all swing shift crew hands gathered in a small room in the roundhouse for the daily briefing from the day's foreman.
At each meeting the same question was asked: "Does anybody have anything to say about safety?"
And each time, the same person said, "Use Trojans."
Sometimes real safety concerns were addressed and dealt with.
There were few reminders posted, stapled, painted, pasted or otherwise displayed regarding safety. One was the safety slogan with the odd looking little man named Axy Dent printed on blue shop wipe rags, or cloths (some called them "towels").
The crudely rendered little man was rushing forward to, one can guess, keep from getting wiped away.
The 17-inch by 14-inch wipe rag read:
Work Safely
WIPE OUT
AXY DENT
On The Santa Fe
The slogan also appeared in a painted square on the sides and in the middle of Santa Fe cabooses.
Watch Out
For
Axy
Dent
A circle was drawn in the square to contain Axy Dent, the fleeing figure.
Axy Dent?
It was not just a bad choice for a name, it was a bad choice for a slogan name in Bakersfield. The city was rich in agriculture and oil produce and products. Oil was big and Occidental Petroleum was a familiar name, or "Oxy" for short. Oxy Dent. It should have been Occidental's wipe rag.
To my way of thinking -- and I'm sure I put far more thought into those wipe rags than any of the other rail hands -- just the name "Axy Dent" used as the punchline in a key national safety slogan seemed such a stretch as to undermine the entire concept. Were all the good names taken? On the other hand, the drawn figure was so crude and folksy I was rather taken by its whimsical nature.
-30-