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.

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Catching Some Zs at the Jens-Marie
by Bryce Martin

The bus radiator is spewing
hot steam in the air
Life in minor league baseball
doesn't seem fair
The dog days of August
The heat most robust
Conditions are spare
No air conditioning anywhere

Yea, we'll soon be in Ponca City
inside of Oklahoma
And home away from home-a
Gonna catch some Zs
And rest a spell
At the fabby Jens-Marie Hotel

I'll have a photo taken of me
Standing in front of the Jens-Marie
It's where the oil deals are made
And it's where the ballplayers stay

Under a revved-up ceiling fan
Resting up for that game at hand
The curtains drawn in real tight
To cover up all that hot daylight

When the game is played and done
And time to move on to another one
I know I will have slept well
Catching some Zs at the Jens-Marie Hotel

Catchin' some Z's at the Jens-Marie

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Titans Either Not Willing Or Not Up To The Task
by Bryce Martin

Is the Titans organization capable of curtailing the actions of troublemakers such as Pacman Jones? Or, are they merely enablers for those with a bent for bad conduct?

NFL commissioner Roger Goodell, to his immense credit, just recently indicated that clubs, such as the Titans, will be held accountable as well as players.

Goodell told reporters Monday, "We're going to hold the clubs more accountable. If the clubs are providing resources that have a positive impact on personal conduct, we will take that into account."

Goodell is supposed to announce soon a more sweeping crackdown on what has become an epidemic of off-field bad behavior and downright contempt for the law from NFL players.

Based on some past history, I'm not sure the Titans fully understand what the word "accountable" entails. Granted, the following article I wrote was from five years ago, but the Titans still have the same top brass in command, namely owner Bud Adams, head coach Jeff Fisher and general counsel Steve Underwood.

March 14, 2002:

Titans miss Josh Evans' message

Facing a possible third suspension by the NFL for substance abuse, former defensive tackle for the Tennessee Titans, Josh Evans, does not seem to be learning much from his past.

Evans, an unrestricted free agent -- and most recently a defensive tackle with the Tennessee Titans -- is facing an indefinite suspension by the NFL for substance abuse.

The Titans should have seen it coming.

Not because such relapses are common, but because Evans may have already codified an alert.

During the 2001 NFL season, Nashville's premier daily ragette ran regular thumbnail profiles of Titans players, tossing up such pastries in Q&A form as to what music album they currently had loaded for play and their favorite movie.

Evans' responses sent up a red flag.

He had a Tupac Shakur readied for sound and he liked the flick Scarface best of all (I really have to make an assumption here. I'm going out on a limb in asserting that he was referring to the Al Pacino version).

While I would never belittle someone's music choices (unless it involves Kenny Rogers) or film genres, his passions, those worded from a two-time substance abuse loser, were suspect.

You have Shakur, the late rapper, tamer than some but a major player in the broad themes of a cultural enterprise where violence, drugs, and mayhem are central; and Scarface is, essentially, a primer for the start-up and operation of an illegal drug business.

Studies do indicate there is no real proof that a causal link exists between rap lyric content and behavior problems. The same can be said -- pardon me, Tipper -- about movies in general.

In comparing some of the thuggish rap lines to that of ancient classical literature, one essayist described the formula as "parodic signifying." In other words, it's harmless.

I wonder, though, about the percentage of substance abuse users who stay home and watch old Bob Hope movies while eating strawberry ice cream and rising from the couch mainly to press some church clothes and put on a Perry Como record.

Okay, how's this for an extreme. How about giving up all your old haunts, habits, and homeboys and finding some safer, healthier replacements? That's what is preached in addiction programs for those whose past problems continue to resurface, the type of program where Evans had to have been a mandatory participant.

Maybe he wasn't listening.

The Titans, either.

By Bryce Martin
Published: 3/14/2002

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That's Spilt Milk (addendum)
by Bryce Martin

Randolph gathered songs, poems, tales, anything he could capture regarding the culture of the people. His range was fairly narrow, primarily southeast Kansas, northeast Oklahoma, southwest Missouri and a corresponding part of Arkansas.

Big Jim Denoon. He was just Jim Denoon from Midco, Mo., being recorded by Randolph for his Ozark songs collection on such selections as "Root Hog or Die." Denoon moved to Salinas, Calif., and became Big Jim Denoon, "The Giant of Western Swing," recording for 4-Star and other record companies.

If you don't work, you don't eat. Hogs have to root to find food. In bad times, humans can find themselves in root hog or die situations.

Folklore? That is what folklore amounts to you ask. Imagine collecting some dirty jokes, some real crude ones, getting the person's name, their age and where they're from and then leaving a little explanation for each explaining what it means in a bigger, thematic context. Each entry fits into a numeric code system established by Kentucky folklorist Stith Thompson.


"What do you want to know for? Writin' a book?"
"As a matter of fact, I am."
"Then, kiss my ass and make it a love story."

Bryce Martin
Galena, Kansas
1958, overheard in a high school library

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Jimmy Jones And His Aerial Didoes
by Bryce Martin

You had to have been there when to know that no one burst onto the recording scene with more unbridled zeal than Jimmy Jones with a magic two discs back in 1959.

The first one, "Handy Man," would have been a great summer song but it came out when golden, autumn leaves were falling and was unlike anything I had heard. Jones was not only ear piercing loud, his voice didoed up and down during manic octave leaps. I knew loud. Little Richard had introduced me to loud (and raucous) with "Long Tall Sally." (Since the music business is a copycat industry, Larry Williams sought to emulate the style and ferocity of Richard's vocals with "Short Fat Fanny," with moderate and short-lived success.)

And Little Richard liked to drill his lyrical messages home. Who could ever forget "True Fine Mama," where he repeats the word "honey" twenty-five times in succession?

Jones had most of the country singing, "Come-a, come-a, come-a ..."

Little Richard, for all his vocal bluster, was monotone loud. Jones, on the other hand, varied in degrees. Richard came on like a Cape Canaveral rocket trying to free itself from gravity while Jones screamed in rising notes of stupendous layers of loud and from joyous levels one never imagined possible.

His high-note exercises were so great even falsetto-king Del Shannon recorded "Handy Man" a few years later. One had to reason, though, that Shannon recorded it not because it was such a great song but so he could imitate the falsetto styling imbued by Jones. The song itself did have merit, however, as evidenced by James Taylor's much-slowed version several years after Shannon. Who would have thought to slow down the song a la Taylor after hearing Jones ride it to such extreme heights?

The best place to hear the original, for me anyway, was from the clear and strong signal belonging to WHB radio out of Kansas City, Mo. It was AM radio at its best.

Then, just to prove that country music had no lock on dropping "g's" (the list includes darlin', drinkin', cheatin', and so on), Jones came out with an amazing followup -- "Good Timin'." After coming on like gangbusters with "Handy Man," here he was trying to outdo himself.

I was at first dazzled that Jones seemed to have pulled it off, then just as puzzled wondering if I had been duped. Was "Good Timin'" really an equal to "Handy Man"? Or was it just more of the same?

I decided it did not matter. "Handy Man" was a rare treat, and for Jones to nearly equal it on a second try was enough to validate the strident pleasure of the original, to sustain the foot-to-the-floor aerial word climbs only Jones could pilot.

Jones did not make a third attempt. If he did, it failed to find many radio turntables. I never heard from him again.

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Visiting Sunset Strip, 1963
by Bryce Martin

The route I chose on beautiful Southern California sunny days would take me down Santa Monica Boulevard to Sunset Boulevard. The area called Sunset Strip took up maybe a dozen blocks between Doheny and La Cienega. To heighten the excitement I felt coming, sometimes I would drive around before settling in on Sunset. Nearby was Beverly Hills. Just being in Beverly Hills was like a dream. The area street names, too, were magical, especially Hollywood and Vine. Once, I made it a special occasion to park my car and walk to the corner of Hollywood and Vine, just to know for myself I had stood there with my own two feet. Another time I drove to the end of the Strip and beyond and breathed in the lusty breeze coming from the direction of the Pacific Ocean. I drove way up into the Hollywood Hills, on winding, steep roads and past big iron gates that framed elaborate estates, where I knew had to be hidden movie stars and famous film directors.

Clubs on the Strip showcased on their marquees go-go girls and rock bands such as local favorite Pacific Gas & Electric Co., and teenage girls hung around outside on the sidewalks, wearing long dresses and waiting around as if this was the place to wait around for whatever it was they were waiting around for. An exchange of pleasantries, a light if they asked. They were there to hustle up some drug money, to feed their addictions. The idea of having sex with any of them was a turn-off. I thought of drug addicts as being scabby and having who knows what kind of diseases. True or not, it was not an image I could shake.

The Whiskey A-Go-Go was fairly small inside, the band's music painfully noisy. Regularly, I went outside for a cigarette just to see if my ears still worked. When the lingering girls accepted I was not a recruit they spoke openly among themselves. They talked of needing a "spoon" in hopeful and optimistic tones.

In one of the lounges I looked around from my bar seat and spotted Sal Mineo. His gaze caught mine about the same time. I was a rebel in a pause. It would be like this every night, I thought, if I lived around here. It would be expensive, too. The draft beer I was drinking from a tall, tapered glass held less than the contents of a regular beer bottle, and I paid a dollar. In Tijuana, a bottle of Carta Blanca was a quarter. But, sure, that was Tijuana. This is Hollywood, Sunset Strip and it's all one big dreamland, or "Gollywood" as I remembered how columnist Walter Winchell described it.

Some of the clubs on the Strip I had never entered, and some I was sure I never would. The Playboy Club. Can you spell r-i-p-o-f-f? Playing big shot, or watching others in the role, is a sad waste. Dino’s, I liked the arty Dino's sign, but I was sure Dean Martin could survive without my help. Shelly’s Manne Hole sounded way too corny. After I found out Shelly Manne was a jazz drummer I knew it was not for me. If it had been Sandy Nelson's Teen Beat, that would have been a different story. Nelson had the hit instrumental "Teen Beat" during my not to distant high school days.

I was mostly an observer. That kept me plenty busy, even if it might not have looked so sometimes from the viewpoint of observers watching me. There had to have been some. Watching as if you're not watching is difficult to pull off. I felt I had mastered the form. Girls I attempted conversations with in the clubs were way beyond my maturity level. Neither did any of them seem sweet. It was as if each had their own particular hustle, and they could write a textbook on it.

I frequented the corner where the Whiskey A-Go-Go stood. Sneaky Pete’s was next door. Sneaky Pete’s was a dump. That is what I told myself each time I went inside. I drove all the way down here from my lost-city apartment out on the Mojave Desert for this? The few people milling around inside would fidget and fumble around with items drawn from their pockets, open up folded squares of paper and study them and then be off on their way to their real destinations. Around the corner was PJ's. It was a club with peppermint-striped awnings, like what you might see on a pair of pajamas. On the marquee was the name Joanne Worley. She would be a name I recognized later on the TV show Laugh-In.

A nice stretch of the legs involved walking up the street to Pandora’s Box, a club building situated smack dab in the middle of the split intersection. It was painted an outlandish purple color and located where the Strip began. The club's black drummer wore a mop hairdo and shot everyone the bird as they entered. With his hair he looked like Larry of the Three Stooges. I thought it brazen, his mannerisms, and his appearance was outrageous. Wild it was, this area. I'd be back.

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BOXING IN SOUTHEAST KANSAS AT TURN OF CENTURY
by Bryce Martin

On April 1, 1898, James “Rube” Ferns, a future world welterweight boxing champion, knocked out Frank “Dutch” Neal in the sixth round in a match held in Galena, Kansas. Ferns fought twice more in Galena before the year was out. The “Kansas Rube,” who was born 25 miles from Galena in Pittsburg in 1874, again knocked out Neal, this time in seven rounds, on June 8, and on November 9 he floored Paddy Purtell.

Ferns won the world welterweight title in 1900, lost it and won it again in 1901.

In a manner of speaking, the first Ferns-Neal encounter in Galena was barely legal.

New York in 1896 was the first state to make professional boxing legal. Most all other states fell in line shortly thereafter, freeing the sport from the primarily free-for-all, no-holds barred spectacle it was, although on occasion bouts were fought as close as possible under the Marquess of Queensbury Rules established in 1867.

Boxing matches, though considered low-brow on the meager entertainment scale of the times, was welcome entertainment to the working men of southeast Kansas and nearby environs. Ferns came from the coal camps of Crawford County. Galena was more noted for its lead and zinc industry. As rough as it was in the boxing ring, life in the numerous mining camps in Cherokee and Crawford counties was even rougher. Brawls were a dime a dozen and killings were commonplace. When the official name for the city street with the most activity is dubbed Red Hot Street, as it was in Galena, the word is out.

It may even have been safer in the ring.

Ferns died in 1952 in his hometown of Pittsburg at the ripe old age of 78. His brother, Owen, however, was shot and killed in 1905 in Harry Wilson’s chili parlor near Galena in Scammon over an argument. He was 24 years of age. He was shot by a coal boss who had received a black eye in a skirmish the night before. When Owen Ferns remarked that another black eye would constitute a match, the coal man took extreme exception.

A look at history reveals that the first true sports star in America was John L. Sullivan, the great bare-knuckle blaster who blazed his way to a heavyweight title in 1888 and nationwide and even international glory. Old-timers in the 1950s still talked glowingly of Sullivan. My Cherokee County Kansas lead-mining grandfather knew the story well and related it fondly in his latter years how Sullivan offered anyone – anyone at all -- $500 if they could stay on their feet against him for just one round. That was in 1879, the year my grandfather was born. Sullivan was still repeating the offer nine years later when my grandfather was a tad, and at a time when $500 was still a good amount of money, and tempting to the tough of mind and body who inhabited the various mining camps and towns.

Note: Purtell, who was once based in Kansas City, Kansas, fought regularly in Leadville, Colorado. He died there at age 30 on June 9, 1901, after being thrown to the floor in an altercation.

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