The Northward Contrail

From the dawn of television news

While looking around for something else, I found this, and I can hardly believe it: NBC coverage of the 1948 Presidential Election, as Part I and Part II.  Note, among other things, the partnership with Life Magazine for the coverage, which is basically radio with pictures.  (Reuven Frank writes memorably about 1948's coverage of the election in his wonderful book Out of Thin Air.)  For the television historian, this is nothing short of priceless.

Boeing Boeing 707

Found online, in six parts: a wonderful look back at the Boeing 707's first year.  Start here with Part 1 and work your way forward.  Not to be missed in Part 3: a segment about President Eisenhower's historic trip aboard a certain beloved aircraft.

Enjoy!

On not phoning it in this time

It's coming up on the semester midpoint, and so far, it's gone well.  I never thought I'd hear myself say that, but it's true.

Up until last semester, I often operated by the seat of my pants.  Some classes, I'd have lecture notes, but in others I'd let the class dictate its own flow.  Sometimes, that was a good thing.  Most of the time, it wasn't that wise.  In addition, I'd let myself get crossed up on my own course policies, and sometimes I'd fly by the seat of my pants on those, too.  I'd look the other way sometimes when I should have put my foot down, and then later I'd get mad with myself for being such a soft touch.

I'd been able to get away with it until something happened one day last semester, and a situation with a student and an ambiguous policy (and something I didn't remember saying, too, and probably didn't say) made my whole world blow up in my face.  As painful as that was to endure, I probably had it coming.

After that, out of determination as much as irritation, I started overhauling everything.  And I mean everything.  Syllabi got retouched, reviewed, and retouched again.  New lecture notes got written for courses I'd previously just sort of floated through.  New assignments and exercises were created.  The autopilot I'd been operating on for six years was switched off.  Now, my hands would be on the yoke, my head would be on a swivel and my eyes would be out the window, always looking to head off trouble before it began.  

It all looked great in theory.  But then January came, and with it a new semester.  I wondered if I'd be able to make it happen.  But the first day came, and I laid it out.  New rules, new expectations, new assignments and new opportunities.  And to my surprise, thus far it's worked.  The problems that plagued me last semester have pretty much gone away.  Not every problem is solved -- some, no matter how you try, you won't be able to prevent -- but most of this semester, so far, has been completely different.  Better still, the courses with retouched notes have gone very well, and the students have responded favorably to the new exercises and activities.  

The best part, though, has been that I literally feel different, and for the better.  For the last few years, I've almost behaved as if my career was some sort of accident and I was just playing along the best I could.  Oh, I hit my marks and delivered the material fine, but there wasn't too much fire there.  Now, though, my attitude is different.  Now I feel in command of myself, and of my material.  I do things with more confidence.  I don't walk into the classroom with dread the way I used to.  It's almost like, over the off-season, I told myself, "It's time you really got serious about this."  So I did.

And to think, all this happened because of one of the worst days of my professional life.  Sometimes the most useful education does come from a skinned knee.

Glass houses

I grew up surrounded by trucks.  Not just pickup trucks, but big trucks.  Our dad drove trucks as part of his work, so my brother and I were riding on 18 wheels from the time we were, as they say, knee-high to a grasshopper.  (If I had a dollar for every mile I spent in the cab of an R-600, I'd never have to work again.  Man, those were fun days.  And, yes, there's another Jim Rockford parallel with my life: a dad who drove trucks.) 

It was also the 1970s, the heyday of Smokey and the Bandit and Movin' On and Convoy (the song, and then the movie) and what not, when CB radio was the big thing and "10-4, good buddy!" and "What's your 20?" were commonplace.  It was everywhere: in the music, on television, in the toy stores (care to guess how many of these types of things my brother and I built?) and elsewhere.

So whenever there was something truck-themed on television, we'd watch.  Movin' On was a staple, and we liked it in our home.  (We never did warm up to B.J. and the Bear, I think because it was a bit silly and because it was a bit too pretty-boy for our tastes.  Though I think we did watch Sheriff Lobo when it became its own show.)

Back then, the trucking movie that was most widely seen was when ABC's prime-time movie series would show White Line Fever with Jan-Michael Vincent.  Back then, it seemed ABC would show it two or three times a year.  We'd watch.  But a couple scenes would terrify me as a kid.  One was when Slim Pickens would get killed.  But nothing could match the stark raving terror I'd feel when this scene played.  Now I can watch it and laugh, but back then, it scared me to death, and I'd have to turn my head and close my eyes.  Go figure.

The cornfield

You've probably seen that Twilight Zone episode "It's a Good Life."  It's the one where the little kid is the ultimate bully: he can read people's minds, and has the power to make horrible things happen.  If he didn't like someone, one of the things he could do was "wish them away to the cornfield." Years later, the actor who played the little kid told an interviewer that, mentally, a little bit of that remains and he thinks about the cornfield when someone makes him mad.

One of the things I'm trying to work on in this life is forgiveness.  I try to be as forgiving as I can, but sometimes someone will just lay into me, and I really have trouble letting go of it.  For instance, a few years ago while serving as a forum moderator, I upset someone who wasn't even a participant in the original discussion, and I got this outrageously offended e-mail from this person who tried to use all this legalistic jargon on me, who tried to impress me with all this about how he'd written outraged letters to politicians and to companies to express his displeasure with things they'd done, and all that sort of stuff.  Basically, it was the kind of spleen-venting I'd worked through by the time I was 25, when I finally realized the world was indeed cruel and owed me nothing, and the best I could do is realize that not every inconvenience or disappointment in life is a Constitutional Law case.  I tried to reason with him, but how can you when someone acts as if "offended" is an ennobled state?  After a while, I realized it was pointless, so it was off to the cornfield with him.

That's one example.  There have been others through the years.  Most recently, I let myself get pulled into a debate with an ideologue, one of these types who's unavoidable, who injects politics into subjects even when they're not political in nature, one of these types who likes the tussle...and one of these types who doesn't exactly go by accepted forensic standards when he wants to make a point, if you catch my drift. I got out of it when I'd said my piece and realized it was serving no further purpose, but I still felt dirty for having let myself get drawn in, especially after having seen countless times over how this person operates. Yes, there had come the moment of "that's all I can stands, I can't stands no more," and I landed my punches, but all this time later, I'm having trouble letting it go.  I can't figure out if I'm madder because this person operates this way, or because I let myself get sucked into a losing proposition to begin with.  To some extent, I'm still fuming about it, and I feel stupid for it. 

The worst part?  When someone offends me -- even if it's not something done directly to me, but even if they rub me the wrong way somehow -- more often than not, I want nothing to do with them, ever again.  I talk a lot about how life is shades of gray, but I'm the first to admit I'm a phony when the rubber meets the road. When somebody does this kind of thing, I want to send them off to the cornfield.  I avoid them in person, and I avoid them online, and when their names come up in conversation or even cross my mind in passing, I start to glower.  In fairness, it takes something big to set me off like this, but once you get on my bad side, it's awful hard to get out.  I have a longer memory than I really need for this kind of thing.  I don't wish anything bad on you when you cross me, and I don't stop respecting you as a human being...but let's just say that, in certain regards, you no longer matter.  And I'm not so sure that's a healthy attitude to carry through life.

Someday soon, I hope, I'll finally get it right and become proficient in sending the experience, and not the person, to the cornfield.

And now, a word from Lou Crosby

For Christmas, one of the surprises I got from my parents was a two-DVD set of old television commercials.  One disc was nothing but automotive commercials, and in the middle of it was a great pair of production pieces from The Lawrence Welk Show, back when it was sponsored by Dodge.  One was a big song-and-dance number, with plenty of brass and cars on stage, for the Dodge "Power Giant" trucks -- "Giants of the Low-Priced Three."  There was also a live, outside-the-building commercial showing the trucks in action, too. All the while, there was this low tympani roll.  It was eleven shades of awesome.

The commercials were voiced by the deep, pleasant growl of Lou Crosby (for the '70s set, he was Cathy Lee Crosby's dad).  What a voice, right?  You don't get announcing like that anymore -- or, for that matter, live commercials as big production pieces.

While I can't find the "Power Giants" ads online, here's an example of a similar piece.  Dig that low, pleasant growl of Crosby's -- and that vintage Mopar iron, too.

And here's a little fancy footwork from Lou -- awful catchy!

Independence

Have you ever got up in the morning and said to yourself, "Oh, this is a beautiful day!  Oh, this is a glorious day!  Joy to the world!  I feel serene!"  And then you pick up the newspaper and you say, "Oh, Lord, they wouldn't do that?!"

                                                                            -- "Brother Dave" Gardner

Part of my job involves staying informed about what's going on.  I expect it of my students, particularly since I give them current events quizzes each week.  But I have to stay informed, too.  Besides that, it's something a good citizen should do, anyway. 

On the other hand, it's awful hard to stay informed without getting dejected these days.  And, some days, you shake your head and wonder what the hell it's all coming to.  Certainly since, in the last two decades or so, our public discourse has turned into a really bad television show in which the teams are more focused on cutthroat competition, outrageous antics and up-yours endzone dances than anything of lasting benefit.

Which, among other reasons, is why this blog stays out of public affairs, except in certain circumstances.  I write these little meditations as a diversion for myself, to share with the world some things that, I hope, we can take some mutual interest in regardless of where we are on the spectrum. Besides, there's plenty other people out there on the Internet doing political crap now, right-wing and left-wing.  Go see them if that's what you want.  I really don't want any part of it here.  I'll write my representatives and cast my ballots on my own time, my own way, thank you.  And I don't want to give voice, or space, here to polarization.  It never gets anything done.  Nor do I want to get my inbox flooded by people who either think what I write is the greatest stuff ever written and that I should run for office or have a talk show, or clogged with hate mail from people who think I'm either a fascist or a commie and should be run over by a bread truck at the earliest possible opportunity.

(By the way, if you've read this blog for however long and you think you've figured out my political views, or think I speak for you...well, no matter what you may have concluded, guess again.  And then guess that answer again.  Sure, you may find some things here and there that resonate, but I can guarantee there's stuff in my views that would comfort, distress and confound conservatives and liberals alike.  That's part of why I don't let myself be bound by an organization or a label.  Plus, I'm skeptical of every candidate, every party, every movement, every organization, every conspiracy theory, every talk show host...you name it, at least in that realm, and I'm a skeptic.  I'm not necessarily a "skeptic" in the hostile sense; rather, if you make a claim or an assertion, I really want to know how you got there, and what you're basing it on.  I've seen too much, learned too much from history, and know too much about the cycles of politics and media to take any of it at face value.  Nor do I want to join any organizations or parties or groups in the political sphere.  If I did, I'd give up my independence, and I've had bad experiences in which I've joined groups, only to find out they spend too much time on things with which I don't agree.  No, thanks.)

None of that is why I'm here.  I try to keep this blog as an oasis, a reasonably politics-free zone.  I like it that way.  There's plenty other places to go for the other stuff.  But here, I like being out of the fray.  I like the quiet and calm a lot better.  If you read this little blog, I hope you find something here that's nice, too.

Oh, mister...?

I was still a youngster a couple or three years or so into grade school when this commercial came out.  The concept of travel didn't grab me so much as the man in the conductor's uniform.  I didn't know who he was, but that completely over-the-top "nnnnyyyeeeesss!" thing fascinated me.  And, it turned out, it also fascinated a schoolmate who carpooled home with us.  Every afternoon in the back seat of the car, it would be like a comedy routine.  I must have annoyed my mother no end imitating the man I called "Mr. Passport."  (I didn't know enough to know he was dressed as a conductor.)

A couple years later, when I discovered Jack Benny, I came to find out this was the great Frank Nelson.  He put in appearances on all kinds of radio and television programs, and stayed active in television and voice-over work into the mid-1980s.  But he's well-remembered for his work with Jack Benny, as a guy who would show up in various places to torment our blue-eyed protagonist.  So it was a delight to discover him in another context I already loved.  (I've long felt like Jack Benny's world was much like my own, with its little defeats and put-downs.  It's why I've always loved that kind of humor, the kind with just a bit of an edge to it.)

Ever since I saw that commercial in 1981, I've been working on my own "nnnyyyeeesss?"  And, I have to say, I've pretty much figured it out.  Every once in a while, the stars align and I get a chance to use it, too.  It's a real hit in the classroom!

As an aside, here's a neat little essay by someone who worked with Frank Nelson in his later years.  (I hope that Frank, wherever he is now, looks down and realizes my imitation of him is done with love.  Although, if he likes, I'll donate whatever royalties to a charity of his choosing, of course.  That will happen as soon as I get royalties from my classes.)

The long day

It's a Tuesday, and Tuesdays are my long days.

They didn't start out this way.  When I put together my course schedule for the semester, I put most everything on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.  The 50-minute class format works best for the kinds of things I do in most of my courses.  I work better when I parcel things out in bites, and 50 minutes three times a week is just about right.  There's one more course I teach, and I do it on Tuesdays and Thursdays.  It's a supervised seminar in which the students do all the work and I'm there basically to make sure they complete their assignments and stay out of grief.  

I'd had it all figured out for the semester.  Monday, Wednesday and Friday would be the long days, when I'd come in early and stay later.  On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I'd come in early, use the morning to get some things done, then go supervise the seminar and go home.  That would leave two afternoons a week free for frolic and detour with hubby, when we could go get groceries and have lunch.

But not so fast.  Right before the start of the semester, I ended up having to take on an additional student who wants to take our classes.  But he has a full-time job and can't get here until later in the afternoons.  Originally, we were meeting late on Wednesdays.  But something came up, and we moved it to Tuesdays.

I know what you're probably thinking, and, no, I don't really mind doing it.  It forced me to rethink my plans, sure, but this student has been worth the effort.  He is a willing and able student, he catches on quickly, and he has the right mindset.  So that part, I don't mind. 

Instead, it means that on Tuesdays, I have to find a way to kill the five or so hours between the end of the seminar and the time the student shows up.  Sure, there are little tasks I catch up on (it's a good time for working on next week's assignments, making sure the bugs are out of the remainder of this week's lesson plans), but those really don't take me that long.  Sometimes I go for a walk down to the post office, but when the weather's bad out, it's not such a good idea.  Other times, I'll drive into town to take care of an errand or two, but there are certain times of the day when that's not such a good idea, at least if you want to park within the same zip code when you return. 

So, most of Tuesday is spent just station-keeping.  Perhaps it wouldn't be a bad idea to bring a couch in here so I could sack out.  On the other hand, considering how much noise there sometimes is out in the hallways (transient students, production stuff going on, doors slamming, etc.), I doubt I'd get a lick of sleep anyway.

Life is like the old saying: hours of boredom punctuated by moments of fright.

What if?

Sometimes you build castles in the sky for their own sake.  And then you look at them and realize they're so top-heavy they'd never stand.

This happens when I'm in a downtown area and see a vacant storefront, especially one of the older storefronts with the display windows and recessed entryway.  The mind boggles!  Why, think of all the things we could do.  In my mind's eye, it would become a different kind of store.  We'd have books, of course, all kinds of new and used books.  And hubby would be in charge of our hobby department.  Near the back would be my department dealing in gadgetry: cameras, typewriters, old telephones and so on.  I'd have my workbench at the back of the store; it would be dimly lit back there, and I'd have a swing-arm lamp over the workbench, just like every classic concept of a workbench you can imagine.  (And nearby would be my office, from which I'd run my media consulting firm.)

Of course, to make a million dollars doing this, we'd have to start off with about a hundred million dollars.  Because our concept of the perfect little store is so idiosyncratic, there's no way we'd ever turn a profit.  Maybe in a huge city where these types of little shops can find an audience, we'd stand a chance, but certainly not in a small town.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the sound of a castle in the sky collapsing on itself.  Thank you.