Jumping Off The Tallahatchee Bridge

You young’uns may not remember the song Ode to Billie Joe, but let me tell you it was a monster hit back in the day, the day being 1967. It was written and performed by Bobbie Gentry and for a short time it became a bit of a cultural phenomenon. Part of the reason, in addition to the fact that it’s a pretty good little tune, was the national debate that raged over some of the perceived mysteries found in the song’s story.

Those of you who are old enough remember that the song told the story of Billie Joe McCallister committing suicide by jumping of the Tallahatchee Bridge. During the song it is also revealed that Billie Joe and the female narrator had recently been seen throwing “something” off that same bridge. What they were throwing off and why Billie Joe killed himself is never revealed, but forty years ago there was plenty of discussion about it, let me tell you boy howdy.

Nine years after the song was recorded a movie called Ode to Billy Joe was released (And if you’re thinking that I spelled “Billy” wrong in the movie title you’re absolutely wrong and I’m right. As usual.) to help clear up some of the mystery. In the movie it turns out that Billy Joe threw the narrator’s rag doll off the bridge, and then threw himself off because of a failed homosexual affair. (Or as Billy Joe himself might have said, “They don’t call me B.J. for nothing.)

Whatever Bobbie Gentry had in mind when she wrote the song, it sure as hell wasn’t that! In fact from the beginning Gentry has always insisted that the point of the song was how unfeeling the family was around the dinner table regarding the death, especially in light of the fact that Billie Joe was the boyfriend of a family member. When asked about the song again at the time of the movie’s release Bobbie Gentry admitted that she had no idea why Billie Joe killed himself.

Ah but what was that mystery object that was so carelessly tossed off the bridge? Again, Bobbie Gentry doesn’t know or isn’t saying. It wasn’t meant to be the focus of the story. Yet some of the speculation turned out to be a lot of fun. I remember a comedy show at the time (Yeah, I can remember forty year old TV skits but not what I had for lunch. Go figure.) where a man was being threatened with a gun. He yelled, “Please don’t shoot, I’ll tell you anything you want to know. I’ll even tell you what Billie Joe threw off the Tallahatchee Bridge!” Sure, it doesn’t mean much now but trust me it got major yuks in the olden days.

In addition to the aforementioned rag-doll there was speculation that Billie Joe and his girlfriend were throwing drugs off the bridge. This of course would undoubtedly lead to BJ’s subsequent suicide. This theory was obviously created by some anti-drug organization that predated DARE and those other spoilsports. Another theory was that BJ and his girl were throwing their newborn illegitimate baby into the river, and the suicide was because of BJ’s guilt over this act.

I flipped the first time I heard this one. I love this theory, even though it’s obviously wrong. I think if this were the real meaning behind the vague lyrics it would have made the song twice as good as it already was. In fact if I had written the song I would have admitted (after the debates had died down and all the money was in, of course) that yes, this was indeed the meaning of the song. A baby! Priceless!

So do you remember the song? The movie? If this song came out today, what do you think that Billie Joe and his girlfriend would be throwing off the Tallahatchee Bridge? A typewriter? Oprah? An iPod filled with Bobbie Gentry songs? Come on, use your imagination and let’s have some fun!

John Lennon's Last Concert

Good Ol’ Lenny, my childhood chum, has come through again. This time he has sent me a DVD of a John Lennon concert that took place in Madison Square Garden in 1972. (He also sent a video tape collection of the complete Abbott and Costello Show, bless him, a discussion of which we can save for a later date.)

The Lennon concert was special for a number of reasons, not least of which is because it was the last one he would ever do. It was even more special for Lenny and I because we were there.

Here's what I remember about the concert: The only reason we got tickets was because they added a second show. I remember Lenny and I, 18 and 19 at the time, driving around Long Island like a couple of maniacs trying to track down an outlet that sold tickets. We ended up sitting in the next-to-last row at Madison Square Garden, just about the farthest you could get from Lennon and still be technically at the concert.

I also remember I didn't particularly enjoy the concert. I thought it was too loud and Lennon didn't play his best stuff. It was that era when both Lennon and McCartney were trying to prove that they were more than just Beatles. (I saw McCartney a few years later and he did two, maybe three, Beatles songs. Can you imagine?) And even when Lennon did go back to the Beatles ("Just one time," he scolded.) it was Come Together, probably my least favorite of the Beatles #1 songs.

John Lennon was 32 at the time, almost exactly halfway between his historic appearance on Ed Sullivan and getting shot four times in the back. (Eight years either way.) The concert was a benefit for what used to be called the retarded. I always felt that with this concert Lennon, who was at the time under the threat of deportation, was attempting to show what an asset he was to the United States and thus should be allowed to stay.

The irony here, of course, is that Lennon was eventually permitted to remain in this country, which is why he was able to walk freely down that New York City street on December 8, 1980.



ADDENDUM: George Harrison was the only Beatle I never saw in concert. I remember that I did stand in this long line with my girlfriend Irene in a futile attempt to buy tickets for the Bangladesh benefit concert. I also remember that I was planning to buy tickets for Lenny and I, but not for Irene. What a dick.

Little Doug Kenney

It was supposed to be a Christmas present to me, but when Spike asked for the tenth time, “What is that thing you wanted again?” I looked it up myself on Amazon and found it now cost only $13, rather than the original $45 list price. So I bought it for myself.

It’s a DVD-ROM that contains every National Lampoon ever published, a total of 246 issues. Including all the ads that comes out to 22,632 pages, all there on one slim disc for less than the cost of a movie ticket and a small popcorn. I don’t care what you say, the technology today is astounding.

The first issue of National Lampoon was published in 1970. I discovered it in 1971 and read, literally, every word of every article for ten straight years. I still remember sitting in the high school lunch, giggling uncontrollably. National Lampoon was shocking and irreverent, and was the natural next step for us boomers who had now outgrown Mad Magazine.

I’ve written before about Douglas C. Kenney, one of the founders of National Lampoon. He is mostly forgotten, and when he is remembered is it usually for either writing Animal House or Caddyshack, or for falling/jumping off a cliff to his death in Hawaii in 1980 at the age of 32.

But Kenney became my hero not because of those two arguably over-rated movies or his dramatic exit, but for his work on the printed page. And those were the pages of National Lampoon. And so it was with some excitement that I opened the package and inserted the little disk that contained a big chunk of my youth.

Perhaps the one example of Kenney’s humor I remembered most and best was not actually an article but a simple subscription advertisement. It was a take-off on the “starving children” ads of the day, and a photo of the full-grown Kenney is featured, made up as a poverty stricken urchin. That’s it on top of this article, but in case you can’t read it I’ll re-type the words here, for that’s where the true gold lies...

Little Doug Kenney will go to bed hungry tonight.

…unless you help. Raised in a small village called by the natives “Ohio,” Doug has never had the things that your children have had. He was 10 years old before he owned a pair of Florsheim shoes, he was almost 20 before he had his first ride in a Lincoln Continental, and his parents were too poor to send him to a fancy Swiss private school like his playmates. He has never tasted caviar…
Won’t you find it in your heart to join the National Lampoon Foster Subscription Program? It costs only pennies a day and can do so much. If you buy a one-year subscription little Doug Kenney can have a crust of bread and a cup of milk every day. A two-year subscription will send him to school, where he will learn to read, write and play polo. A lifetime subscription will enable him to throw an entire coming-out party for his less fortunate friends in the south of France.
Just $5.95 will give you a year of reading pleasure.
And little Doug will love you.
Subscribe, dammit!

I probably couldn’t have recited this ad word-for-word, but I certainly would have come up with most of it, even after all this time. And yes, by now you’ve noticed that the “Subscribe, dammit!” written by Kenney nearly forty years ago is not dissimilar to my often used catchphrase “Buy my books, dammit!” Some may consider this literary theft. I prefer to think of it as an “homage.” Tomayto-tomahto, eh?

I was able to print out this classic piece of humor onto shiny photographic paper, frame it and hang it on my wall, a cheery reminder of a glorious time when Doug Kenney, biting social satire and I were all young.

Thanks, Doug.



TOMORROW: A MEMENTO OF ANOTHER HERO OF MINE WHO DIED IN 1980

It's a Bird! It's a Plane! No, It's Just Another Dopey Quiz!

Sweet Lorraine, who you might remember requested the alcohol quiz a while back, has now asked for a quiz about Superman. There may be some sort of alcohol/comic book link going on there, but so what? Who are we to judge? Besides, we all love Superman and have admired his blue hair and manly exploits ever since he first appeared in…ah, but let’s not give anything away. So get out your pencils, Kids, and see how well you score on this quiz all about our strong, speedy, and annoyingly self-righteous pal, Superman. By the way, we’ll be taking most of our questions from the old-school Superman folklore tales and not the post-Crisis ones that DC came up with in 1985. Sorry about that, youngsters. And keep your x-ray vision on your own paper.

1. What color was the sun on Superman’s home planet of Krypton?
a. Yellow
b. Blue
c. Red
d. Mauve

2. Who played Superman on the popular 1950’s TV program?
a. Steve Reeves
b. George Reeves
c. Christopher Reeve
d. Martha Reeves

3. Superman first appeared in 1938 in what comic?
a. Superman Comics #1
b. Justice League of America Comics #14
c. Weird Tales Comics #22
d. Action Comics #1

4. What was Superman’s dog’s name?
a. Farfel
b. Streaky
c. Krypto
d. Superman didn’t have no damn dog, man.

5. Where did Superman imprison criminals?
a. The Phantom Zone
b. Planet Crios
c. The Lost City
d. Crawford, Texas

6. What is Clark Kent’s middle name?
a. Joseph
b. William
c. Clayton
d. Clark Kent didn’t have no damn middle name, man.


7. Who is Jor-El?
a. Superman’s mother
b. Superman’s father
c. Superman’s sister
d. Superman—it’s his real name

8. What were the first names of the Kents, who adopted the baby Superman?
a. John and Mary
b. Jonathan and Martha
c. Eben and Sarah
d. All of the above

9. Which form of kryptonite permanently removes Superman’s powers?
a. Red Kryptonite
b. Green Kryptonite
c. Gold Kryptonite
d. Blue Kryptonite

10. Where did Superman keep the shrunken city of Kandor?
a. In The Phantom Zone
b. In an abandoned barn in Smallville
c. In the Fortress of Solitude
d. In his tights


How’d you do? Most of these are fairly simple for those of us who rotted our youthful brains on comic books, but there are a few facts in there that I was surprised to discover. (Not to mention the ones you’ll be correcting me on tomorrow.) I’d say if you score an 8 or higher you really know your Superman.

ANSWERS:

1. RED SUN. Everybody knows that.
2. GEORGE REEVES played Superman on that classic TV series and may or may not have killed himself. Christopher Reeve played him in the movies. Steve Reeves played Hercules. And Martha Reeves had many hit songs with her group Martha and the Vandellas. (Heat Wave, Dancin’ In The Street, etc.)
3. ACTION COMICS #1. Superman got his name on his own comic the next year.
4. KRYPTO. He was Superman’s pet on Krypton and was launched into space in a test rocket by Superman’s nutty old dad. Streaky was the name of a super-cat. There was also a super-horse named Comet and a super-monkey named Beppo. Yes, really.
5. IN THE PHANTOM ZONE. Remember the Phantom Zone Projector? Sure it looked like a plastic piece of crap with two buttons but it sure got the job done, eh?
6. JOSEPH. Give yourself full credit if you thought it was Jerome. That’s the name they’ve been using on Smallville to honor one of the creators of Superman, Jerry Siegel.
7. SUPERMAN’S DAD. His mother was Lara and his real name was Kal-El.
8. ALL OF THE ABOVE. I'm so sorry for this question, I really am. And if it ruined your perfect score, well tough toenails. Originally the Kents first names were John and Mary. They were later expanded to Jonathan and Martha and were named Eben and Sarah on the TV series. No, I don’t know why--leave me alone.
9. GOLD KRYPTONITE will take away Superman’s powers for good. Green Kryptonite causes pain, and can kill Superman if he’s exposed to it over a period of hours. Red Kryptonite causes some bizarre but temporary effect. The effect is different each time and has over the years transformed Superman into a giant, a midget, a lunatic and an creature with an ant’s head. Blue Kryptonite kills Bizarros, so be careful out there.
10. IN THE FORTRESS OF SOLITUDE. In a bottle. The post-1985 version will tell you that the city has been restored to its normal size and moved to another planet, but for me, I think I’ll just stick with the original story. They’ll be no revisionist history for this Superman fan.

July 6, 1957

On July 6, 1957 I was four and a half years old. I don’t remember the day, of course. Perhaps some cultures celebrate half birthdays; perhaps even some families in our culture do. Mine didn’t. In fact I don’t particularly remember any day from the year I was four years old, though I’m told it’s quite possible that I could. The point is that I don’t readily recall the day I turned four and a half, and I was most certainly unaware that it was day so historic that it would have a profound effect on me for most of my life.

On that same day thirty-three hundred miles away, while I was celebrating my obviously unmemorable half-birthday, a band named The Quarrymen was performing at the Woolton Parish Church. The band’s leader, a brash 16-year-old named John Lennon, spotted a friend of his named Ian James. James has brought to the fete a friend of his own, another budding musician, specifically to hear Lennon’s band. The friend listened to the Quarrymen perform, and was then introduced to Lennon. The friend, of course, was the fifteen-year-old Paul McCartney.

Lennon was immediately impressed that McCartney could so easily tune a guitar, knew the lyrics to many of the rock ‘n’ roll songs of the day and could show Lennon some new chords. As McCartney later said of the historic meeting, “I showed him a few more chords he didn`t know. Ian James had taught me them, really. Then I left. I felt I`d made a good impression, shown them how good I was." Because of that meeting Lennon asked McCartney to join the band.

We didn’t have a cake or presents or anything on that day. It was, after all, just my four and a half year birthday. And there was no way I could know that on that same day across the Atlantic a simple meeting between two rough-and-tumble teenagers in Liverpool would have such an effect on my life.

It was less then seven years after that meeting took place, after that obscure half-birthday, that the Beatles exploded onto the world stage, and onto my consciousness forever with the happiest sound I would ever hear. And yes, there are a thousand zigs and zags that might have occurred on July 6, 1957 and prevented the meeting from ever happening. But it did happen.

And it was fifty years ago today.

Joey Greco Gets His

It should be the goal of each person to live his life non-violently. From the moment of birth until the last breath, a life well-lived is the one that never has inflicted physical injury on another human being. That being said, wasn’t it cool when Joey Greco got stabbed?

For those of you who actually have a life, Joey Greco is the host of the reality television program Cheaters. If you’re fortunate enough to not have seen the show, allow me to describe it: People who are suspected of being unfaithful to their mates are followed by undercover detectives and their antics are recorded. The taped evidence is then presented to the often weeping cuckold or cuckoldess. The pay-off comes when the victim confronts the cheater right at the scene of the crime, led by the smug and smarmy Joey Greco.

Greco really is an annoying self-righteous little bastard. He’s not above lecturing the cheating party in a holier-than-thou attitude that makes you want to reach through the TV screen and snap his pencil neck. I believe he really thinks that he is a force for good; that he is truly doing God’s work.

A quick check of this weasel’s biography provides a clue or two how a person becomes like this. The research tells us that he attended something called Evangel University, a school affiliated with the Assemblies of God Church. OK, so now we know where the self-righteousness comes from.

Greco often gets right up in the cheater’s face and begins his sermon. He’ll say things like “Is this how you treat your wife?” or “How can you cheat on your boyfriend like this?” In the early years of Cheaters the confrontations never went past the verbal stage, but at some point the producers must have taken a look at The Jerry Springer Show and saw the correlation between violence and good ratings. And so now with each confrontation on Cheaters you can be pretty much assured that at least a scuffle, and probably more, will break out.

In truth I never have seen the episode when Greco got stabbed. But I have watched the clip on YouTube. Over and over again. It’s truly a delight to see Greco on the screen quiet for once, sitting in a stunned silence. God bless the new technology.

Oh, stop worrying. Greco is fine. He missed a few shows, but apparently they replaced any blood and/or smugness that might have leaked out and he’s back in all his sanctimonious glory. So if you really want to see Joey Greco you can watch him anytime on Cheaters. But if you want to see him at his most entertaining, just head on over to YouTube.

Joan the Receptionist

“How do you like our friendly receptionist?” sniped one of the women, as the other cackled along with her. The comment from my co-worker had an ugly feel to it, and for some reason I decided not to join in. I can’t say for sure why I chose not to laugh along with the two women; certainly it was not that I was incapable of such low behavior, or had never participated in it in the past. Still, this time something stopped me from joining these women in their nasty verbal attack.

The truth is I liked Joan, the receptionist at the company for which I worked. Oh, we weren’t particularly close friends nor did I even look at her as a potential sex partner. We did talk once in a while, and she always laughed at my jokes.

Yet I too had noticed the recent change in her behavior. Never a particularly outgoing person, Joan would now barely respond when she was greeted or asked a question. And, perhaps the worst crime of all, Joan no longer was interested in my jokes, or in anything else I had to say. Joan had retreated into her own world, and I’d be lying if I said that I, too, didn’t resent her attitude just a bit.

It was just before Joan’s change in behavior that I approached her reception desk and suddenly noticed that she was on the phone and that she was crying. Oops, I thought, time to beat a hasty retreat. I had no desire to intrude on, or to become involved in, anybody’s personal drama, and that went double for problems of the female variety.

A month later Joan went out on sick leave and a new, more cheerful, receptionist was hired to take Joan’s place. And a few weeks after that Joan died of cancer. And suddenly I knew what had caused the sudden and dramatic change in Joan’s personality. I also knew why Joan had been crying on the phone that day and what she was being told.

I don’t know if those two women ever realized why Joan’s personality had changed so suddenly and dramatically, or if they felt guilty about what they had said. Hopefully not, for surely they meant no harm and their crime, when taken in context, was minuscule. Still, I’ve always been glad, and perhaps just a bit relieved, that I chose not to betray my friend Joan on that day. You really can never be sure what somebody else might be going through, can you?

It's Nice to Be Kneaded

To me those $12 massages you get in the mall are one of the best bargains out there. Have you ever had one? Or perhaps you’re too shy to get a back and shoulder rub while dozens of shoppers are walking by gawking at you? Not me—I have no such problem. Hell, I’m 56 years old and still walk around starkers at the nudie beach. You think a little thing like a public shoulder rub is going to shame me? Pshaw!

Many years ago during my stockbroker era we used to have a guy who would come in once a week and give you a shoulder rub at your desk for ten bucks. Except for quitting time it was always the high point of my day. You’d be surprised how many of the male stockbrokers wouldn’t partake simply because the masseuse was a man. “I’m not letting another guy touch me!” they’d declare boldly. Being secure in my sexuality (if in nothing else) I didn’t have any such reservations. Not like those closet cases I used to work with.

Once in a while I’ll ask Spike to rub my chronically constricted shoulder and neck muscles. And she will, albeit with a heavy sigh that suggests I had just asked her to build a new addition onto the house. She doesn’t have very strong hands, and so she usually lasts about fourteen seconds. And I, of course, feel like I have no right to complain since that’s almost exactly how long I last when we…well, never mind.

I was at the Great Mall of the Bay Area about three months ago when I sat down for one of those mall massages. I’ve had them several times before, at various locations, but this one was somewhat different. That big Asian guy really beat the crap out of me. And I loved it. When it ended I felt so loose and invigorated I gave the smiling masochist an extra large tip.

Years ago I would once in a while go to this New Age-y kind of place for a full body massage. That operation had the whole rigmarole: incense, candles and warm smelly oils. The women who did the massages were young and attractive, and I remember that once one of them removed the sheet that had been covering my precious young buttocks and then immediately replaced it. I thought this behavior odd—as if the only reason for the action was to sneak a peek at my glorious hiney. I later told a friend about this and she said that doing that was very unprofessional. Which may be true, but I noticed that whenever I look back upon it I can’t seem to consider it anything but a lovely compliment. And I also pray that it wasn’t yet another in a long line of missed opportunities.

But frankly for a strong neck and shoulder massage I simply prefer man hands. God, I hope none of my childhood street chums see that last sentence. Oh, let them. It’s about stretching the muscles, and the stronger the hands the better. As long as the massage is performed with the correct combination of strength and expertise I don’t care if the masseuse is a man, woman or an orangutan. That is as long as the orangutan doesn’t incorporate the throwing of feces into the massage.

This weekend Spike and I are going up to Calistoga to pay good money to sit in mud. (Well, of course I’ll be telling you all about it.) After the mud bath we’re going to get a “couples massage” which, although I’ve never had one, I can pretty much guarantee is not as erotic as it sounds. When the phone reservationist asked if we wanted one male and one female masseuse I instinctively said, “That will be fine.” Then I thought about it for about five seconds and said, “No, let’s make that two females.” Like I said, I’m secure in my sexuality, but that doesn’t mean I want to create any more missed opportunities either.

Happy Black Friday!

This holiday give them one of Leonard Stegmann's mildly amusing books. It's the gift that says, "I care, but not that much."

Available at LeonardStegmann.com and Amazon.com.

I, Turkey

I’m proud that I’m a turkey,
A bird with so few peers,
Did you know that we’ve been around,
For about ten million years?

I also bet you didn’t know,
We’re among the fastest birds alive.
We can run at 30 miles per hour,
And fly at fifty-five!

Benjamin Franklin called us a symbol,
He thought we were quite regal.
And if old Ben had had his way,
You’d be feasting on bald eagle.

We often spend the night in trees,
We have carnuckles, a wattle and snood.
See, I’m rather smart and can name all my parts,
And I know what they are, do yood?

Not all of us gobble, only the boys.
Our females talk with clicks.
We have 3500 feathers,
Which makes us cute to chicks.

We have no ears, but we hear real well,
And we can nearly see behind us.
Which is why when you hunt us in the woods,
It’s really hard to find us.

We turkeys are such friendly birds,
We’re never mean or malicious.
The only bad thing about being one,
Is that we’re so delicious!