We were going to be rich. My great grandfather made very expensive shoes. He  left his considerable fortune to his grandchildren but left one of his own sons in charge. When the place went bankrupt in 1965, that son had tapped every account and pissed it all away. It had been an estimable enterprise, nationwide in its reach, still memorialized in Wikipedia:

Laird Schober Shoes began in 1870 in Philadelphia, United States as a small manufacturer of ladies’, misses’, and children’ shoes by three young men in their mid-twenties.[1] The company grew with sustained and measured increase until closing its doors in 1965.

Samuel S. Laird, the senior partner, his brother-in-law George P. Schober, and their friend George A. Mitchell, were joined by Samuel’s younger brother, John, in 1875.[2] This is also the year that William S. Duling joined the company as a young designer.[3] Duling worked tirelessly from the beginning and the company saw large increases as a result. The company expanded into all areas of the country and he helped to maintain the highest quality of output. The three men were equipped with all the necessary details of the business and its demands to guide its growth. Constantly adding new machines, including the McKay that could sew 100 pairs of soles onto women’s shoes in one hour in 1858, and the Reese Buttonholer [4] that made 100,000 button holes a week in 1891. Continuously taking on more responsibility and earning greater trust from the senior partners, Duling was made a partner himself in 1894. The company name was changed to Laird Schober & Co.[5]

The craftsmanship, design and comfort of the latest technology led to increased recognition and prominence of Laird Schober shoes. The company won many awards[6] at international expositions and when a group of French shoemakers, in 1921, were shown the handmade, microscopic stitches on the welts, they exclaimed “magnifique!”[7]. This was considered high praise because the French were deemed the best in the trade.

Laird Schober & Co. won the Franklin Institute Engineering Award in 1900[8], for Excellence in Manufacturing of shoes, collaborated with fashion designer Elsa Schiaparelli in 1938, and were sold in fine department stores like of Wannamakers, and Strawbridges and Clothiers of Philadelphia.

January 16, 2009

A miracle? Maybe.

SMIRKS AHOY. It always makes me nervous when people start tossing around the term “miracle.” Not because I don’t believe they ever happen, but because I can feel the insipid grin of the disbelievers, waiting for any opportunity to restate for the umpty-umpth time the threadbare objection, “Why do bad things happen to good people?” Every purported miracle is, to them, a reminder of all the miracles that somehow didn’t occur somewhere else at some other time.

I hate that grin and all the arrogant banality which congratulates itself on knowing the physics of a universe honest physicists know they don’t, and maybe can’t, fully comprehend. So I’m going to risk the scorn and ridicule of the sophists by proposing an analogy that may help others consider a new way of thinking about the “bad things happen to good people” objection.

In the grand scheme of things, miracles are pretty rare. That is, the kinds of events which even people who believe in them might call miracles are rare. When you think about it, rarity is built into the definition. If every bad thing that threatened to occur were somehow prevented or reversed after the fact (like sudden total remissions from terminal cancer), the outcomes wouldn’t be considered miracles. They’d just be the way things work. Miracles are an exception. OR they are subject to particular conditions which are hard to bring about, especially since we don’t have much of an idea about what those conditions might be. For example, winning the Powerball lottery is an incredible long shot that nevertheless does occur; however, it does have an unavoidable pre-condition. You must first purchase a Powerball ticket.

On to my analogy. From time immemorial divinity has been closely associated with lightning. Zeus, Jove, Jupiter, and even the Bible’s Yahweh have been associated with lightning bolts, and there’s no mystery about why. It’s an ipso facto perfect symbol of a power from above visibly impacting the earth (and its inhabitants) below. Lightning strikes are pretty common events. Fatal lightning strikes on individual people are less so. That power from above is more or less always there. Its direct connection with human beings is limited by certain pre-conditions. People who know better than to wander around out in the open during a thunderstorm are not likely to be struck. And, generally speaking, lightning is more likely to strike big tall things like trees and church steeples rather than little things like people. But why does lightning strike tall things? Repeatedly. Which it does. Does it know that the tall things are there? And if it doesn’t, why wouldn’t it just strike randomly all over the place until it happened to connect with something it can light up? Why does it strike the tree more often than the outstandingly conductive bronze lawn ornament 24 inches off the ground?

Why? Because a lightning strike is a two-way process. The lightning bolt reaches down from the sky, and prospective targets on the ground reach up. They send out what are called streamers, which meet up with the lightning bolt and establish a connection. Here are two photos of streamers.

Connection made.

Connection sought.

The streamer is, in our analogy, a pre-condition. It’s the act of buying the Powerball ticket. And it helps to be a tall tree or a church steeple or a steel water tower at the center of town when a thunderstorm is in the air.

All of which is a fancy way of saying that miracles may, in fact, be precipitated by their recipients. Not through goodness or virtue alone but because they are also associated with preparedness, mass of some sort, and the kind of sharp focus we see in the streamer photographs.

That’s what’s so cool about the so-called Miracle of the Hudson. We can actually see a confluence of circumstances that apparently, luckily, resulted in — but just possibly catalyzed — an incredibly unlikely outcome. A variety of fortunate circumstances cannot explain away the improbability of the outcome, however much we want to play games with odds and statistics. The fact is, commercial airliners without engines “fly” with as much lift as a falling boulder, and they, well, effectively never land with wings straight and level on the water.

But in this case there were streamers. A pilot who was not only skilled but learned in the split-second differentials of commercial air disasters, who had made a long academic and practical study of air safety under emergency conditions, and who (to be frivolous for a moment) bears a striking resemblance to Douglas Fairbanks, Jr.

Captain Sully of Flight 1549 and Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. (Commander
Fairbanks’s uniform is real btw. He won the Silver Star in WWII.)

He was sending up a streamer. As were the ferry crews and FDNY personnel who responded so swiftly, as well as the passengers who quelled their impulse to panic and responded to the ancient call, “women and children first.” Preparation, determination, and cool heads with a fervent desire to do the right thing are all streamers, and there was mass behind the entire effort. The lightning bolt that could have remained in the clouds reached down to make a connection, and the incredibly (impossibly?) unlikely outcome occurred.

Just an analogy. Not even a theory. But if we follow the analogy, we can also glimpse the possibility that just as lightning bolts are chaotic things, so might be miracles. In my own mind, the collapse of the Twin Towers was a miracle for its relatively low loss of life. It could have been upwards of 20,000, as many surmised it was in the darkest hours of 9/11. But how many brilliantly bright streamers went up that day, from firefighters and policemen and gravely unselfish civilians, to connect with the lightning that brought so many thousands of people to safety? I know the grinners would cite that day as a miracle that didn’t happen. But you have to remember that they live in an irretrievably drab world of actuarial tables and lottery tickets that win nothing but heartache and ruin.

But when their turn in the storm comes, they too will pray for a miracle. And they might even receive it — if they’re prepared, focused, and united in unselfish resolve.

– posted at 5:27 pm by CountryPunk Permalink

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

Can’t wait to see the new “chin whiskers.”

CORONATION UPDATE. Ain’t life grand? Who would ever have thought that Abraham Lincoln would become a decorator’s “inspiration piece” in the 21st century? But according to inside sources, that’s exactly what’s happened. Not only will the Anointed One be using the Lincoln Bible for his swearing-in ceremony, he will also be looking to the Great Emancipator for menu and other style tips during the inaugural festivities:

Part of the meal will even be served on replicas of the china picked out by First Lady Mary Todd Lincoln at the beginning of her husband’s first term in office in 1861.

The appetizer will feature a seafood stew in puff pastry – including scallops, shrimp and lobster – in honor of Lincoln’s love of seafood.

The main course of a “Brace of American Birds (pheasant and duck)” with sour-cherry chutney will be served with molasses sweet potatoes – a nod to the root vegetables and wild game that Honest Abe ate as a child in Indiana…

“It’s always good to model yourself after a great president,” said Eric Foner, a professor of American history at Columbia University. “The proof will be in the pudding.”

Thanks to our own highly placed sources, we can give you proles even more information than that. Here’s a look at the official keepsake menu for that luncheon:

And, yes, the fare really will be authentic. An elite detachment of Secret Service agents has been trained to kill all the necessary game with the aforesaid Kentucky long rifle. Kewl.

As we understand it, guests will also be awarded valuable door prizes for digging out the bullets that killed their lunches. (I’m sure DC dentists are thrilled about this part of the gala.) These will be collected by the period-era waiters who will be serving those in attendance:

Predictably, though, protesters have already promised to do everything possible to disrupt the most sickeningly unacceptable aspects of this inaugural feast.

Well, that’s life in America. Can’t please everybody, can you? What everybody is guaranteed to love is the immediate enshrinement of our new president in two important venues. First, the head of Lincoln has already been sawed off the retro sculpture at the old Lincoln Memorial in favor of that of the new Great Emancipator.

AND, the first great public works project that will put millions of stupid, unskilled Americans back to work in the new era has already been decided — in fact, will be announced via presidential decree during the post-luncheon audience our new leader will grant to the press — the reconfiguration of America’s equivalent of the great pyramids of Egypt.

This is going to be the Greatest. Inauguration. Ever. You heard it here first.

– posted at 5:40 pm by LocoPunk Permalink

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

THE LINCOLN LOG. Just a quick update on inauguration details, in case you’re one of the estimated 50 million people who will be squeezing into Washington, DC, for the festivities. You’ll need to park your car in Poughkeepsie, Scranton, or Raleigh and walk the rest of the way to the ceremony, so wear comfortable shoes like these.

But the good news is, thanks to a last-minute congressional bailout that has (approximately) doubled the inauguration budget from $150 million to $4.5 trillion, the bells and whistles are going to be even splashier than promised. The oath of office will be administered by the Lord and Creator of the Universe himself since Abraham Lincoln was, for some reason, still unavailable.

For this reason, the Secret Service will be standing down today, and security will be handled by some of God’s peeps instead.

In another last minute change, Beyonce will NOT be singing the Etta James classic “At Last.” Etta will. (Thank God for that. He sort of insisted.)

Out.

In

But Beyonce will still be on hand, wearing a sexy dress with her Air Jordan XXOs. Something she’s actually good at.

The only bummer — and we hate to mention it, but you need to know — is that due to federal regulations and space limitations, the authentic Lincoln-Pottie everybody will be using is located behind the FBI building, next to the Nixon Memorial Tape Dumpster. Be prepared to wait in line for a few weeks if you need to go.

Have a nice time. I’m sure it will be worth the few inconveniences you’ll have to put up with.

posted at 7:43 am by CountryPunk Permalink

Buster thinks I belong to him.

Just to set the context. This all happened tonight. I don’t have a picture of the brand new magnetee, Mel, who threw away his mom in favor of me and lolled and purred until I made him stop.

Then there was Kiki, who’s a nasty little girl until she decides my lap belongs to her and her alone.

And Mr. Elliott, who patiently waits his turn because he’s always known my lap belongs ultimately to him.

Not to mention Eloise, who thinks my right hip is exclusively hers.

Iris too. The perfect white cat. What does she do? Waits till I’m sound asleep and occupies my lap till I wake. Not kidding. The missus will back all this up.

What should I say about all this? Nothing obviously. what life is like.

Thursday, January 22, 2009 [recovered from Archived Instapunk.com]

What its YouTube author is calling the ‘Post Barackalyptic Wasteland.’

JUST A BAD DREAM. Everybody copes in his own way. IP decided to think about other stuff and so generated his list of 25 movies about America. I chose another route, opting to find what media I could that was not all about the Second Coming of Abraham Lincoln. No cable news. No newspapers. No newsweekly magazines. No women’s magazines (They’re just The View on slick paperstock if you want to know.). In fact, I thought, here was a golden opportunity to catch up on the specialized periodicals that couldn’t possibly have anything to do with a change in the political leadership in the United States. Was I right? Judge for yourselves.

For example, everyone who reads this blog knows that I’m a motorhead. Years ago, I was a huge fan of Car and Driver Magazine, which once scandalized the automotive world by conducting a performance test of the Ferrari GTO and the Pontiac GTO — and preferring the Pontiac. I lost contact with C&D; for a few years during a sojourn in the midwest. When I left the east coast, they were vociferous opponents of airbags. When I returned, they were among the most fervent advocates of same. Apparently, the possibility that airbags could flat-out kill small women and children by functioning normally had ceased to bother them. But let bygones be begones, I thought. Maybe they’d be a palliative in the new age of messianic politics.

Not so much, really. Even the Obama article was disappointing. Apparently, the president doesn’t know how to drive a stick, and he has an anxiety attack whenever the highway speed tops 55 mph. Oh, and he positively loathes “Detroit Iron.” Who knew? But the editors found him charming, brilliant, and well-versed on the topic of hydrocarbons. They’re bad.

So I turned instead to Scientific-American. Surely they wouldn’t give a fig about the tsunami of rhetoric that was sweeping the ignoramus commoners of the nation.

When I read the cover article, I could hardly blame them. It turns out that Barack Obama does practically everything at an expert level (except, possibly, drive with a manual transmission). He can play five games of chess simultaneously and stalemate them all, while hitting the highest number of triple-word scores in Scrabble ever registered, and extemporize on the bleak philosophical implications of quantum physics as he’s writing a record third doleful autobiography and cleverly losing a game of dominoes to his two children and their fashion advisers. No wonder the magazine had to dedicate three-quarters of the current issue to his cerebral feats of derring-do.

That’s when I remembered National Geographic. The magazine that taught all American boys whose fathers didn’t subscribe to Playboy about breasts.

I’m not saying the cover article was uninteresting. But there were no breasts in it. And what does it mean exactly that a forensic reconstruction of Tutankhamen’s face from his shattered mummy looks exactly Barack Obama? There’s no particular indication that the boy king was an exceptionally able pharaoh. For all we know, the accomplishments of his administration were largely the work of the exceptionally able Speaker of the Egyptian House, Pel Osi, whose remains are on display at Harvard University’s Fogg Museum.

NOTE: Silicone implants don’t age well.

Besides, National Geographic isn’t what you’d call serious. You’d be hard pressed to find any teenage boys who subscribe to the Journal of the Amercan Medical Association, which always puts high art on its covers with absolutely no indication of what the content inside might be.

I suppose I should have taken a cue from the fact that JAMA’s post inaugural issue started all over at Issue 1, Volume I, signifying the beginning of the new era in free healthcare we could all look forward to from now on. But I didn’t. I tried to read the cover article. Which was all about how Hippocrates and Galen and Salk and DeBakey were just redneck asshole plumbers compared to the astonishing medical genius of the new president of the United States. I stopped reading when they claimed he could drive a manual transmission.

If you can’t trust anyone else, you can trust Popular Mechanics. Hardheaded realists all. Right?

Wrong.

So I figured there was one periodical so high toned, so snooty, so divorced from everyday reality that the very worst I might encounter would be Donald Trump’s latest makeover of his largest Manhattan penthouse. Architectural Digest does not care about the stray zephyrs of political fashion.

Which is when I gave up on periodicals. I turned on the TV again, but this time with an eye to the imperturbably irrelevant channels, the ones that couldn’t be topical if they tried. Like Nickelodeon. They do reruns of Star Trek, the real one, for God’s sake.

Something to do with warp drive. I know it is.

There had to be some safety somewhere. After all, what could anybody do to the Honeymooners?

He’s the president of the Raccoons or something. Something bad.

And so, before I even looked, I knew that the gush had reached I Love Lucy too. Which I never even liked in the first place.

She just LOVES him. Doesn’t she?

By then I knew. The TOON channel:

Spongebob has ALWAYS believed in hope and change.

And HGTV.

Bob Vila can feel the love, too. Obama is very handy with power tools. They say.

And even the Food Channel.

He can whip up an omelet or devise a masterly fruit compote. Paula Deen thinks he’s the best thing since chicken dumplings.

Drudge says the Obama inauguration got 35 times the worldwide coverage of the Bush inaugural. I’m pretty sure he’s misunderstimated the total by a bunch.

But I don’t mind. There’s only one icon that will send a chill to my bones. And we may be months and months away from that.

How does the line go? “Build it and they will come.”

Like a dead man.

posted at 2:40 pm by CountryPunk Permalink

Monday, January 26, 2009

OBAMATRIX REDUCTIO. Well. The short answer is that he hasn’t been tested yet. Maybe that’s what Biden was talking about when he warned of dire international challenges early in the Obama administration.I looked around for old-fashioned, low-tech gif animations just to be fair in my comparison. Here is the most popular one I could find that featured the new POTUS.

Yes, he’s having fun, but it’s not a One-ish type thing, is it?

And then there’s the inevitable dancing…

Which, I suppose, is cool, but does it really hold a candle to this?

Be honest. Don’t you miss the old (lowercase) one just a little bit already?

posted at 12:58 am by CountryPunk Permalink

Toward the end of 2018, I wrote a Facebook post on the concern I feel about the new popularity and availability of marijuana. I had been there in the sixties when it rolled out of the closet into the middle class, and I had firsthand knowledge of the fact that, all claims to the contrary notwithstanding, “weed” was and is absolutely a gateway drug. I went on to identify a phenomenon that has been quite invisible in American culture, in terms of media coverage and general public awareness. Call it a dog that didn’t bark in the night, in this case the striking absence of Baby Boomers from the list of great creative achievers in writing, music, fine art, and film. A body of momentous work that should have been there and just isn’t. I wrote:

<<…and I’m asking myself a big question… what have they [the Baby Boomers] accomplished in the creative arts over two generations? From where I sit, not much.

Fine arts like museum quality paintings, forget it. Since Picasso dismantled the shapes and forms of art and Matisse proved only a few simple lines is all that’s necessary in drawing, Dali finished things off by proving a crazy artist is the key to the city. So there was Warhol and then no one.

Certainly nothing to write home about in writing either. The novel has been dead since the last drunken old fool typewriter-jockey passed away. But they managed to leave a lot behind… Faulkner, Waugh, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, O’Hara, Cheever, Thurber, Benchley, Dorothy Parker, Raymond Chandler, et cetera. Where are the creative writers of today? Self indulgent and often sleazy autobiographical tripe, bad sci fi, cliched detective stories, graphic novels, and truly awful, incoherent, unwatchable movie scripts… well, nothing really. Want to hang your hats on Hunter S. Thompson, Quentin Tarantino, or Marvel Comics? Be my guest.

It’s a similar story with music. Most of you don’t know that the real creative burst in sixties and seventies rock, pop, and soul came from musicians born before the Baby Boom, before blacked out teenage bedrooms smelling of incense and fat kids with munchies. The impact of the great initiators has faded as they have died away through time. We all really know there’s no music left. No sense of adventure or real romance, nothing breakthrough or life-changing. Just auto-tune and scummy lyrics. Something I’ve been thinking about a lot — What people used to talk about when they were being bad with substances they weren’t supposed to have. Drinkers used to talk about all the wild stuff they’d done drunk and would be doing later tonight. Apparently a good many of them went on to write about such adventures and their consequences. Potheads talked, still do I suspect, about how good the weed is and how stoned they are. Then they do it all over again. Where are the Cheetos? I think that’s where the creativity of youth disappeared down the rabbit hole. I think that’s why people below a certain age really don’t have much to talk about, and they don’t know how to talk about it anyway. Never really did the talking thing. Or the doing thing. Or the damn-the-torpedos breakthrough thing. They had more Cheetos instead. And then dribbled out a Piss Christ or two on the way to the john.

Thinking all this has something to do with why people don’t read, can’t spell, can’t frame an argument in favor of some worthwhile objective… in fact, they think an argument is always about tearing down someone else’s stated opinion, like a good lawyer would, only they weren’t so hot at the LSATs either and so they have to argue by calling everyone they disagree with vile names.

I’ll stop there. I’m well aware of the span of attention issue. Have a great and relaxing evening. Ciao.>>

It was an observation by an eyewitness to the turbulent years that led to our own turbulent era. An observation that’s difficult to prove in factual terms. But data do exist, and it is fair to examine the data and draw personal conclusions from them. That’s why, with some prompting, I compiled the following list. Some will see only critical omissions and cherry-picked selections in the list. But a couple of hard facts I do want to stress. The Baby Boom is a very specific, dateable phenomenon. It begins precisely at the end of World War II in August 1945, in the United States specifically, when American troops started coming home to resume their lives, marry, have children, and launch an amazing new generation of American prosperity. The Boom officially ended in 1964 when birth rates returned to normal levels. The children of the boom were so numerous that they constituted, and still do, a bubble in the census timeframe. Theirs was a generation widely praised as the healthiest, most favored, most talented, most promising ever. They had all the advantages and their parents, members of the so-called Greatest Generation that survived the Great Depression and won WWII, were proud to death of them. Now let’s take a look at what they accomplished over 60-some Years in the creative realms where all that talent should have shone like gold.

The List

Dates shown are birthdates. Obviously more names can be included. Tried to focus on those who were especially brilliant, pioneering, innovative, and/or trend-setting. Left out the interpretive arts like acting, singing, musicianship, etc, which are in this context secondary in terms of creative contribution. No Denyce Graves, no Tom Hanks, no Joshua Bell. Necessary omissions.

Writing
– Novelists
– Narrative Journalists
– Playwrights
– Screenwriters
– Poets

Not much to be said here, really. These were the famous ones, the celebrated ones whose works topped the bestseller lists, as well as the ones who drew the warmest praise in The New York Review Of Books. Only two problems. 1) All those celebrated ones, fifty years worth weren’t Baby Boomers. The dinosaurs managed to kill both the novel and serious drama without their help. Even the most popular popular thrillers sold by the millions with no Baby Boomer contribution; and 2) Not even these guys came close to equalling the achievement of George Orwell, whose 1984 — published a year before his death in 1950 — was the most important book published in the first half of the century. It’s all been downhill ever since, which I believe he was warning us about in a book called 1984.

J. D. Salinger (1919)
Jack Kerouac (1922)
Kurt Vonnegut (1922)
Joseph Heller (1923)
Tom Wolfe (1930)
John Barth (1930)
Donald Barthelme (1931)
John Updike (1932)
Hunter Thompson (1937)
Thomas Pynchon (1937)
Joyce Carol Oates (1938)
Charles Bukowski (1920, Germany)
Alan Ginsberg (1926)
Langston Hughes (1926)
Maya Angelou (1928)
Sylvia Plath (1932)
Toni Morrison (1931)
Alice Walker (1944)
Lawrence Ferlinghetti (1919)
Saul Bellow (1915)
Norman Mailer (1923)
ee cummings (1894)
Susan Sontag (1933)
Truman Capote (1924)
William Styron (1925)
Philip Roth (1933)
Samuel Beckett (1906)
Arthur Miller (1915)
Thornton Wilder (1897)
Harold Pinter (1930)
Mickey Spillane (1918)
John D. McDonald (1916)
Ross McDonald (1915)
Sue Grafton (1940)
Ann Rice (1941)
————————————————-
David Mamet (1947)
Stephen King (1947)
Patricia Cornwall (1956)

Music (Composition/Songwriting)
– Classical Composers
– Rock and Roll
– Country/Western
– Soul
– Jazz
– Movie Scores

Probably the most important category for our purposes. It’s the one the most people will be familiar with. The Baby Boomers have loudly and long taken credit for the creative music explosion that got underway in the late 1960s. Rock and Roll. Rhythm & Blues. Soul. Country Western ‘outlaws.’ Folk/Rock. Not much in Jazz, of course, because everyone knows heroin killed Jazz stone cold dead, and that wasn’t the Baby Boomers’ fault. Problem with this little thumbnail history is that the most important part of it isn’t true. You can’t avoid seeing the cluster of music star births in the years 1939-1944. These are not Boomers. They’re War Babies. And despite their much smaller numbers (dads away at war and all), they generated the Sixties Music Revolution almost all by themselves. And an incredibly high percentage of them were not Americans but Brits (marked * below)). The Beatles, the Stones, the Kinks, The Who, Pink Floyd, The Animals, Led Zeppelin, and others shaped everything that happened afterwards in Rock and Roll. Which is extinct now as a medium that still produces great works. Like musical theater, rhythm & blues, classical music (including opera and ballet), and the aforementioned Jazz. Movie scores. All the greats that scored the big movies we watched are also out of commission and not being replaced except by derivative pop music bands. John Williams, Henry Mancini, and Ennio Morricone. Seen their heirs anywhere? What can the Baby Boomers legitimately lay claim to in terms of their contribution to music in the last 60 years? Maybe 15 pop musicians who will either be remembered or worth remembering.

Philip Glass (1937)
*Andrew Lloyd Webber (1948)
Stephen Sondheim (1930)
John Williams (1932)
Miles Davis (1926)
Chuck Berry (1926)
Bob Dylan (1941)
*John Lennon/Paul McCartney (1940/1942)
*Mick Jagger/Keith Richards (1943/1943)
*Roger Waters/David Gilmour (1943/1946)
*Jimmy Page/Robert Plant(1944/1947)
*Ray Davies (1944)
*Pete Townshend (May 1945)
*Eric Burden (1941)
*Eric Clapton (March 1945)
Jimi Hendrix (1942)
Elvis Presley(1935)
Roy Orbison (1936)
Johnny Cash (1932)
Leonard+ Cohen (1934)
Janis Joplin(?)(1943)
Joni Mitchell (1943)
Judy Collins (1939)
Carole King (1942)
Lou Reed (1942)
Jim Morrison (1943)
Jack Bruce (1943)
Grace Slick (1939)
John Denver (1943)
John Fogerty (1945, May)
Jerry Garcia(1942)
Nina Simone (1933)
Smokey Robinson (1940)
Marvin Gaye (1939)
Ray Charles (1930)
James Brown (1933)
Phil Spector (1939)
Otis Redding (1941)
*Freddie Mercury (1946)
*David Bowie (1947, Brit)
*Elton John (1947)
*Ozzy Osborne (1948)
*Bono (1960, Irish)
*Amy Winehouse (1983)
—————————————————-
Jackson Browne (1948)
Stevie Tyler (1948)
Tom Waits (1949)
Bruce Springsteen (1949)
Billy Joel (1949)
Tom Petty (1950)
Pat Benetar (1953)
Prince (1958)
Michael Jackson (1958)
Madonna (1958)
Jay Z (1969)
Tupac Shakur (1971)
Eminem (1972)
Lady Gaga (1986)

Fine art

Pathetic. Fine art is dead too. And no Baby Boomers anywhere near the scene of the crime.

David Hockney (1937)
Andy Warhol (1928)
Christo (1935)

Film

We all know movies suck, have sucked for decades. Why? The real talents retired or died. All pre-Boomer generation.

Gene Roddenberry (1921)
Sidney Lumet (1924)
Sidney Kramer (1925)
Robert Altman (1925)
Bob Fosse (1927)
*Stanley Kubrick (1928)
Francis Ford Coppola (1939)
Brian dePalma (1940)
Martin Scorsese (1942)
George Lucas (1944)
—————————————————-
Steven Spielberg (1946)
Oliver Stone (1946)
Edward Zwick (1952)
James Cameron (1954)
Quentin Tarantino (1963)

Afterword

The Boomers didn’t kill all the creative arts. In most cases they simply left them to die, with never an impulse or inspiration to pick up the fallen standard and raise the corpses back to life. They get participation trophies in the history of late 20th century popular music, but they offered nothing new, uniquely powerful, or vital for their peers and children. That’s the deal. However you mark it, their performance deserves a massively failing grade. Did marijuana play a significant role in that? Yeah. I think so.

Always hard to retrace one’s steps when they’re meandering. In reference to our recent loss, I posted a song by the Stones, Winter. Which reminded me, because it showed up in the margin at YouTube, of Some Girls, which reminded me that I’m widely regarded, like our president, as being a misogynist. Which I therefore played, and was led in turn to think what life as Mick Jagger must be like. How could you ever know who loved you for you and not as just as a ticket to the top?

So I played this for my wife, not quite as jeering as Some Girls. 

Which got us to thinking some more. Bear in mind, her eyes hurt still from the music I racked up in honor of our lost Raebert last night, and so she was open to my question about rock stars in general, how most of them die too young, except Keith and Mick of course. Which led to a discussion of female rockers, and, specifically, female rock bands.

We decided to make a list of the top ten female rock bands, meaning bands that were all or mostly female.

Here it is:

1. The Bangles

2. The Go Go’s.

3. Hole

4.

5.

Why we ended that list where we did. New list. Female hard rockers. Meaning HARD rockers. Our criteria here are women backed up by men on guitars, bass, drums, and keyboards. Which means they’re not really female bands. The women, in these instances, are the frontman for a male band. Even if they personally selected all the members of that band. Pop stars excluded. Got it?

1. Janis Joplin

2. Patti Smith

3. Wendy O. Williams 

4. Joan Jett

6. Tina Turner

7. Grace Slick

8. Chrissie Hynde

9.

10.

We discussed many others but finally agreed they were not hard core rockers but supremely talented singers whose bands were mere backup: Ronnie Spector, Pat Benetar,   Blondie, Heart, and Annie Lennox, to name a few.

The Dolphin icon on your Apple screen

1. Open Dolphin
2. Type in the Youtube url and hit return
3. Start the file playing
4. Without pausing it, leave Dolphin and open the IOS Control screen (bottom up sweep from any screen)
5 Find the sound box, which will show a file pause, and click play
6. Return to the file you were working in

ELAPSED TIME: 10 – 15 seconds

For Windows users, copy the url above, paste it into an email to yourself, and send. Open email on your smartphone and click the link. Listen as you return to your open Windows file on the PC. (This also works for Apple systems.)

ELAPSED TIME: 15 – 20 seconds