Saturday, May 20, 2006
There Must Be Some Mistake!
While driving down to Valdez, I developed a bit of a headache to accompany a frightful backache, so we decided to stop off at the Princess Lodge at Copper Center. However, there was a slight problem. They were not officially open. But since we did not look like official types, they gave us a room anyway. It is a bit strange to be the only guests in a lodge or hotel although there may have been other guests who did not look official either.
It was not the first time I was the only occupant of a large housing unit. Back in 1964, Luzette Cherry and I were selected to represent Southern State College at a regional political science conference on international affairs at Southern Methodist University. We were to be housed in university dorms (they had not yet become residence halls). When I walked up to the desk to register, the clerk took one look at me and then looked back down at her list and uttered a single expression; “There must be some mistake!” I had no inkling of any kind of mistake. She handed me a key and gave me a room number and sent me down the hall. After a while I became conscious of an ominous quiet. Dorms were never noted for being quiet. I could not detect the presence of a single floor mate. I eventually figured out that I was the only occupant on the whole floor. That night at dinner I compared notes with Luzette. She had the same experience as I had. She was the only female on her floor. Then it hit us like a ton of bricks. We both suddenly realized what the “mistake” was. Someone had confused “Southern” State with “Southern” University in New Orleans. We were both segregated on our respective floors.
It was not the only time I was to be mistaken for an African-American. Back in the early eighties I was visiting Seattle with my wife. We stayed at her parent’s house on Mercer Island. They had gone out and left the two of us alone. Suddenly the phone rang and Rosalie asked me to answer it. Big mistake! A voice on the other end asked if this were the residence of Harold Brown. I assured him it was. He then informed me that he knew there was a party at our house and would I would be so kind as to give him the address and directions to the house. I assured him that there was to be no party at the house that night. He did not believe me. Now, I can drawl and twang like the best southerner that you ever heard. Now that was my misdoing. The voice on the other end then identified himself as Jack Sikma, the center for the Seattle Supersonics. He knew for a fact that “Downtown” Freddie Brown was throwing a party for the Supersonics at his father’s house. His father’s name was Harold Brown—the same as my father-in-law. The tonal qualities of my voice assured him that he had the right phone number and the right person on the line. I just was not being co-operative. He then said something to the effect of like father, like son. We argued for quite a while about whether there was a party or not. Then a solution to the conflict came to mind. I asked Jack if he would like to speak to Harold Brown’s daughter. “Yes,” he said, overjoyed that he would soon be making his way to the party. Rosalie and he talked for good fifteen minutes. Her tonal qualities soon convinced him that he had made a mistake. This was the wrong Harold Brown after all. He never made it to the party. Oh, we did offer to let him come by the house and see for himself.
While driving down to Valdez, I developed a bit of a headache to accompany a frightful backache, so we decided to stop off at the Princess Lodge at Copper Center. However, there was a slight problem. They were not officially open. But since we did not look like official types, they gave us a room anyway. It is a bit strange to be the only guests in a lodge or hotel although there may have been other guests who did not look official either.
It was not the first time I was the only occupant of a large housing unit. Back in 1964, Luzette Cherry and I were selected to represent Southern State College at a regional political science conference on international affairs at Southern Methodist University. We were to be housed in university dorms (they had not yet become residence halls). When I walked up to the desk to register, the clerk took one look at me and then looked back down at her list and uttered a single expression; “There must be some mistake!” I had no inkling of any kind of mistake. She handed me a key and gave me a room number and sent me down the hall. After a while I became conscious of an ominous quiet. Dorms were never noted for being quiet. I could not detect the presence of a single floor mate. I eventually figured out that I was the only occupant on the whole floor. That night at dinner I compared notes with Luzette. She had the same experience as I had. She was the only female on her floor. Then it hit us like a ton of bricks. We both suddenly realized what the “mistake” was. Someone had confused “Southern” State with “Southern” University in New Orleans. We were both segregated on our respective floors.
It was not the only time I was to be mistaken for an African-American. Back in the early eighties I was visiting Seattle with my wife. We stayed at her parent’s house on Mercer Island. They had gone out and left the two of us alone. Suddenly the phone rang and Rosalie asked me to answer it. Big mistake! A voice on the other end asked if this were the residence of Harold Brown. I assured him it was. He then informed me that he knew there was a party at our house and would I would be so kind as to give him the address and directions to the house. I assured him that there was to be no party at the house that night. He did not believe me. Now, I can drawl and twang like the best southerner that you ever heard. Now that was my misdoing. The voice on the other end then identified himself as Jack Sikma, the center for the Seattle Supersonics. He knew for a fact that “Downtown” Freddie Brown was throwing a party for the Supersonics at his father’s house. His father’s name was Harold Brown—the same as my father-in-law. The tonal qualities of my voice assured him that he had the right phone number and the right person on the line. I just was not being co-operative. He then said something to the effect of like father, like son. We argued for quite a while about whether there was a party or not. Then a solution to the conflict came to mind. I asked Jack if he would like to speak to Harold Brown’s daughter. “Yes,” he said, overjoyed that he would soon be making his way to the party. Rosalie and he talked for good fifteen minutes. Her tonal qualities soon convinced him that he had made a mistake. This was the wrong Harold Brown after all. He never made it to the party. Oh, we did offer to let him come by the house and see for himself.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Dat Mine!
Benjamin Thornton was arrested in Pearland, Texas, after trying to pick up a nine-year old girl. He told her at that it was illegal for her to be holding a toy while waiting for a school bus. Although he was dressed as a police officer, she spotted him as a phony immediately. He apparently was totally ignorant of child psychology. At some point in their life every child goes off to school with a favorite toy, book or some other object that he or she holds dear. This goes way back. Well, as far back as you can go when you are dealing with a nine-year old. Every child is familiar with the Toddler’s Creed even if he or she has never read it.
If I want it, it's mine.
If I give it to you and change my mind later, it's mine.
If I can take it away from you, it's mine.
If I had it a little while ago, it's mine.
If it's mine, it will never belong to anybody else, no matter what.
If we are building something together, all the pieces are mine.
If it looks just like mine, it is mine.
But it does not end there. If you have something that I want, it’s mine. If I see it in Wal-Mart, it’s mine. And if you put it back on the shelf, it’s still mine—just wait until we get to the checkout line and it suddenly reappears. Try taking it from me and the entire world will know it’s mine. Boy will they know. And if by some miracle you leave the store without the item, at least twenty or thirty people are thinking why did you not just buy the blankety-blank thing and spare us all that agony. Any nine-year old knows what the Uniques set to music back in the Sixties—“It’s all these things that make you mine!” The first words out of many a baby’s mouth are not “mama” or “dada,” but “Dat mine!” And you better believe it. Any self-respecting parent will go miles and miles out of his or her way to avoid taking junior to Wal-Mart, or if that is not possible they will live on bread and crackers for a few days to avoid another confrontation at the checkout line. Ok! We all agree that any toy or trinket belongs to the brat—uh, that darling child. The same goes for chips and cokes.
But after that is where they draw the line. And any decent food is “dat not mine.” Or maybe they are a little more sophisticated than that. “I don’t like that!” “How do you know? You never tasted it!” “I just know.” “Well how do you know, if you have never tried it?” “Broccoli almost killed President Bush when he was in Japan.” Leave it to Beaver to have the lowdown on every food poisoning incident in the history of the United States—before he is six years old. My teenage daughter once had a boyfriend over for dinner and he was up front about what he did not like. It if was orange or green he did not like it. He apparently had never been served anything purple before in his life. When something purple was offered to him, he announced that now he did not like anything orange, green or purple. I said, “How do you know if you have never tried it?” “I just know,” he replied.
This was the same boyfriend who volunteered to drop our garbage off at a county dumpster on his way home. Only thing was that he forgot. Believing that my daughter would never date anyone who was not as good as his word, I trusted him. Foolish me! About two weeks later I got a call from an irate landowner who demanded to know why I had chosen to dump my garbage all over his land. He made it quite clear that he had a good notion to dump my body parts all over his land to cover up my garbage. After a few minutes of our heated exchange, the light dawned: Jimmy had never made it to the dumpster. And my garbage was indeed all over this other fellow’s land. I explained what I thought had happened and asked if I could call him back in a few minutes. I called Jimmy and asked, “what did you do with my garbage?” Of course, I did not really think of it as my garbage at that time, but his garbage. I gave Jimmy three days to pick up every shred of garbage on that other fellow’s land or else. I think that he must have picked up three or four pick-up loads of garbage. After that he told me that he did not like anything orange, green, purple or anything that went into a garbage bag. I thought if I give you something, it’s yours. There is no warranty. It is yours forever. Even if it is only purple garbage.
Benjamin Thornton was arrested in Pearland, Texas, after trying to pick up a nine-year old girl. He told her at that it was illegal for her to be holding a toy while waiting for a school bus. Although he was dressed as a police officer, she spotted him as a phony immediately. He apparently was totally ignorant of child psychology. At some point in their life every child goes off to school with a favorite toy, book or some other object that he or she holds dear. This goes way back. Well, as far back as you can go when you are dealing with a nine-year old. Every child is familiar with the Toddler’s Creed even if he or she has never read it.
If I want it, it's mine.
If I give it to you and change my mind later, it's mine.
If I can take it away from you, it's mine.
If I had it a little while ago, it's mine.
If it's mine, it will never belong to anybody else, no matter what.
If we are building something together, all the pieces are mine.
If it looks just like mine, it is mine.
But it does not end there. If you have something that I want, it’s mine. If I see it in Wal-Mart, it’s mine. And if you put it back on the shelf, it’s still mine—just wait until we get to the checkout line and it suddenly reappears. Try taking it from me and the entire world will know it’s mine. Boy will they know. And if by some miracle you leave the store without the item, at least twenty or thirty people are thinking why did you not just buy the blankety-blank thing and spare us all that agony. Any nine-year old knows what the Uniques set to music back in the Sixties—“It’s all these things that make you mine!” The first words out of many a baby’s mouth are not “mama” or “dada,” but “Dat mine!” And you better believe it. Any self-respecting parent will go miles and miles out of his or her way to avoid taking junior to Wal-Mart, or if that is not possible they will live on bread and crackers for a few days to avoid another confrontation at the checkout line. Ok! We all agree that any toy or trinket belongs to the brat—uh, that darling child. The same goes for chips and cokes.
But after that is where they draw the line. And any decent food is “dat not mine.” Or maybe they are a little more sophisticated than that. “I don’t like that!” “How do you know? You never tasted it!” “I just know.” “Well how do you know, if you have never tried it?” “Broccoli almost killed President Bush when he was in Japan.” Leave it to Beaver to have the lowdown on every food poisoning incident in the history of the United States—before he is six years old. My teenage daughter once had a boyfriend over for dinner and he was up front about what he did not like. It if was orange or green he did not like it. He apparently had never been served anything purple before in his life. When something purple was offered to him, he announced that now he did not like anything orange, green or purple. I said, “How do you know if you have never tried it?” “I just know,” he replied.
This was the same boyfriend who volunteered to drop our garbage off at a county dumpster on his way home. Only thing was that he forgot. Believing that my daughter would never date anyone who was not as good as his word, I trusted him. Foolish me! About two weeks later I got a call from an irate landowner who demanded to know why I had chosen to dump my garbage all over his land. He made it quite clear that he had a good notion to dump my body parts all over his land to cover up my garbage. After a few minutes of our heated exchange, the light dawned: Jimmy had never made it to the dumpster. And my garbage was indeed all over this other fellow’s land. I explained what I thought had happened and asked if I could call him back in a few minutes. I called Jimmy and asked, “what did you do with my garbage?” Of course, I did not really think of it as my garbage at that time, but his garbage. I gave Jimmy three days to pick up every shred of garbage on that other fellow’s land or else. I think that he must have picked up three or four pick-up loads of garbage. After that he told me that he did not like anything orange, green, purple or anything that went into a garbage bag. I thought if I give you something, it’s yours. There is no warranty. It is yours forever. Even if it is only purple garbage.
Monday, May 15, 2006
The Seven Wonders of the United States!
Almost everyone can name at least one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World—the Pyramids. Controversy still rages over how the pyramids were constructed. At least one person insists that one of the pyramids was a hydrogen power plant. Pyramids are even reputed to have all sorts of mystical powers. Some people put seeds underneath plastic ones to ensure that the plants will be full of vigor. Others lay claim to special mental powers if one sleeps underneath one. I once entered a drug store and saw to my amazement hundreds and hundreds of red plastic pyramids piled from the floor to the ceiling. The owner had bought a truckload lot hoping to turn a quick profit. Having sold only two or three after three or four weeks he decided it was time to admit defeat and have a gigantic clearance sale on pyramids. He offered me one for $2.99. Out of curiosity and friendship I briefly glanced over the accompanying instructions. Forty or fifty possible benefits were described—including souped-up special powers for sleeping under one. It would have fit only over my nose and mouth. I thought immediately of the consequences of oxygen deprivation and decided to pass on a “real bargain.” Even at $2.99 there is a limit as to how far friendship will go.
Pyramids have burst back into the news. Semir Osmanagic, an amateur archeologist, claims to have discovered three pyramids in Bosnia. Historians and professional archeologists outside Bosnia claim that they are only hills. They say there is no record of anyone in the area who possibly could have built pyramids. He is unswayed by their arguments. The “hills” are oriented towards the cardinals points. He has started a five-year project to dig the “pyramids” out from underneath tons and tons of dirt. Most of the work is being done with pickaxes and shovels. Meanwhile the community of Visoko is raking in the tourist money. The Hollywood Hotel has been renamed the Motel Bosnian Sun Pyramid. Restaurant meals are being served on triangular plates. Every conceivable trinket incorporates a pyramid in its design. One souvenir hawker has proclaimed, “This could be our oil well!” Sure! Some day you just might find some ocean front property in Arizona.
Speaking of pyramids, did I mention the most famous pyramid in the United Stares? No, not the one on the dollar bills. The one in Rock Lake, Wisconsin. Hundreds of research papers have been written about it; actually copied or, uh, “plagiarized.” It has its own web site. Thousands of librarians reference it constantly. They used it as an example of what one can find on the web. Pure fantasy! But that has hardly made a dent in the research papers. Hope springs eternally for students needing a quick research paper—even if it is someone else’s and pure fantasy.
But the United States really does have its own pyramid. Well, sort of. Thanks to William Hope Harvey. Harvey served as advisor to William Jennings Bryan in 1896. In 1932 he ran for President in his own right. He got 54,000 votes. While helping Bryan in his campaign he came to Rogers, Ark. (the general area where Wal-Mart is headquartered). He liked the area and decided to build his own resort, which he named Monte Ne, which means Mountain Water. Amazingly, he did not consider the name Wal-Mart. But then who could have known Wal-Mart would attract tens of million people everyday. Convinced that civilization was on the verge of collapse (the Great Depression was only a few years away), he set out to build a structure that would house all the useful knowledge of his age: a collection of books mainly his own, an automobile, a safety pin and assorted miscellaneous paraphernalia. A pyramid or obelisk was to house his historical artifacts. People from throughout the United States flocked to Monte Ne where the “train meets the gondola”—real Venetian gondolas no less. After the local railroad ceased operation, Harvey became the primary spokesman for the Ozark Trail Association which campaigned to build a regional highway from St. Louis to Monte Ne, and from there on to Roswell and Las Vegas, New Mexico. Much of this route would later become the famed Route 66. Alas, his budding empire began to self-destruct with the 1929 Wall Street collapse. Only the base of the pyramid was ever constructed. Monte Ne disappeared completely with the creation of Beaver Lake in 1966, four years after Sam Walton founded Wal-Mart.
Only a smattering of Harvey’s ideas have survived. There was Route 66 and a series of little miniature concrete pyramids that lined the highway. Today only seven of them survive. The wonder is that any of them still survive
Almost everyone can name at least one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World—the Pyramids. Controversy still rages over how the pyramids were constructed. At least one person insists that one of the pyramids was a hydrogen power plant. Pyramids are even reputed to have all sorts of mystical powers. Some people put seeds underneath plastic ones to ensure that the plants will be full of vigor. Others lay claim to special mental powers if one sleeps underneath one. I once entered a drug store and saw to my amazement hundreds and hundreds of red plastic pyramids piled from the floor to the ceiling. The owner had bought a truckload lot hoping to turn a quick profit. Having sold only two or three after three or four weeks he decided it was time to admit defeat and have a gigantic clearance sale on pyramids. He offered me one for $2.99. Out of curiosity and friendship I briefly glanced over the accompanying instructions. Forty or fifty possible benefits were described—including souped-up special powers for sleeping under one. It would have fit only over my nose and mouth. I thought immediately of the consequences of oxygen deprivation and decided to pass on a “real bargain.” Even at $2.99 there is a limit as to how far friendship will go.
Pyramids have burst back into the news. Semir Osmanagic, an amateur archeologist, claims to have discovered three pyramids in Bosnia. Historians and professional archeologists outside Bosnia claim that they are only hills. They say there is no record of anyone in the area who possibly could have built pyramids. He is unswayed by their arguments. The “hills” are oriented towards the cardinals points. He has started a five-year project to dig the “pyramids” out from underneath tons and tons of dirt. Most of the work is being done with pickaxes and shovels. Meanwhile the community of Visoko is raking in the tourist money. The Hollywood Hotel has been renamed the Motel Bosnian Sun Pyramid. Restaurant meals are being served on triangular plates. Every conceivable trinket incorporates a pyramid in its design. One souvenir hawker has proclaimed, “This could be our oil well!” Sure! Some day you just might find some ocean front property in Arizona.
Speaking of pyramids, did I mention the most famous pyramid in the United Stares? No, not the one on the dollar bills. The one in Rock Lake, Wisconsin. Hundreds of research papers have been written about it; actually copied or, uh, “plagiarized.” It has its own web site. Thousands of librarians reference it constantly. They used it as an example of what one can find on the web. Pure fantasy! But that has hardly made a dent in the research papers. Hope springs eternally for students needing a quick research paper—even if it is someone else’s and pure fantasy.
But the United States really does have its own pyramid. Well, sort of. Thanks to William Hope Harvey. Harvey served as advisor to William Jennings Bryan in 1896. In 1932 he ran for President in his own right. He got 54,000 votes. While helping Bryan in his campaign he came to Rogers, Ark. (the general area where Wal-Mart is headquartered). He liked the area and decided to build his own resort, which he named Monte Ne, which means Mountain Water. Amazingly, he did not consider the name Wal-Mart. But then who could have known Wal-Mart would attract tens of million people everyday. Convinced that civilization was on the verge of collapse (the Great Depression was only a few years away), he set out to build a structure that would house all the useful knowledge of his age: a collection of books mainly his own, an automobile, a safety pin and assorted miscellaneous paraphernalia. A pyramid or obelisk was to house his historical artifacts. People from throughout the United States flocked to Monte Ne where the “train meets the gondola”—real Venetian gondolas no less. After the local railroad ceased operation, Harvey became the primary spokesman for the Ozark Trail Association which campaigned to build a regional highway from St. Louis to Monte Ne, and from there on to Roswell and Las Vegas, New Mexico. Much of this route would later become the famed Route 66. Alas, his budding empire began to self-destruct with the 1929 Wall Street collapse. Only the base of the pyramid was ever constructed. Monte Ne disappeared completely with the creation of Beaver Lake in 1966, four years after Sam Walton founded Wal-Mart.
Only a smattering of Harvey’s ideas have survived. There was Route 66 and a series of little miniature concrete pyramids that lined the highway. Today only seven of them survive. The wonder is that any of them still survive
