Added 5/02/2010
Added 5/02/2010
ARE YOU READY TO ROCK? WELL, ARE YOU?!
The front man of the
country-punk-blues-rockabilly band The Legendary Shack Shakers, Col. J.D. Wilkes
(the Pride of Paducah!), mentioned "Kentucky Book of the Dead" in the lyrics to
the song “Hills of Hell” on their latest CD, "Agri-dustrial." An earlier album,
"Pandelirium," featured a song based on a chapter in Offbeat Kentuckians, “The
Ballad of Speedy Atkins.”
The Shackshakers’ many fans include Stephen
King and Robert Plant. To hear samples from their albums, go to their Amazon
page!
Added 3/30/2010
I always meet remarkable people when I attend book signings, and the event at Carmichael’s in Louisville last Saturday was no exception. Before the signing began I met Steven Block, an art collector who has donated over sixty pieces—including Rembrandts, Whistlers, and Picassos— to the University of Louisville’s Hite Art Institute and the Speed Art Museum.
Readers of The Great Louisville Tornado of 1890 may remember the story of the doctor who narrowly missed being killed in the storm. Carmichael’s Bookstore is located only a block or so away from a “tornado-proof” house built by the doctor in later years. The current owner is Dick Wallingford, vice president of Gilford fabric and finish studio. He showed me the outside of the house, which remains as a testament to the doctor’s phobia. It has seven-foot-thick brick walls, a double coating of plaster, and many more supporting beams than is absolutely necessary.
The Rev. ClydeCrews, professor emeritus and university historian at Bellarmine University and author of The Faithful Image (1986), showed me a photo of Sister Mary Pius, the nun who was killed when the tornado struck the Church of the Sacred Heart.
On top of all that, an employee at Carmichael’s named Jim made a piece of original artwork by creatively gluing together promotional cards for The Great Louisville Tornado: a model of a tornado rumbling through a city! A photo will appear on this website as soon as possible.
Added 8/19/2009
I LOVE CICADAS!!!! (Written summer 2008)
Every seventeen years the cicadas pay us a visit. They are big, heavy, ugly bugs with eerie little red eyes and they swarm like something out of Exodus. The cicadas are out in full force this year (have you noticed?). Everywhere I go I hear people complaining bitterly about how ugly cicadas are, how noisy cicadas are, how creepy cicadas are when they swarm. To these people I say: Aw, gwan, ya big babies! Cicadas rule! I love cicadas!!!
How do I love them? Let me count the ways. I wish every cicada in the whole wide world could be transformed into one giant female cicada, and then I would marry it. Whenever I see a dead cicada, I lovingly scoop out a grave for it, erect a wee tombstone with a whimsical name carved on it, and provide it with a dignified burial with full Presbyterian rites. I milk female cicadas using tweezers and a microscope so I can enjoy a frosty glass of cicada milk before I turn in at night. I have a recurring dream in which I am the King of Cicadas, and I fly through the air with the grace of a six-legged Nureyev, landing on peoples heads and basking in their admiration. I try to convert cicadas to Christianity so I will continue to enjoy their company after death. I am building a shrink ray so that I might fulfill my lifelong ambition of saddling a cicada and riding it. If Santa Claus came once every seventeen years, you would understand how I feel when its a cicada year.
But why, you may ask, do I love cicadas so much? For the following reasons, and oh so very many more:
1. People gripe about the ungodly racket cicadas make, and it is true that if you listen to them long enough your ears will ring as though you had been in the front row of a Who concert after they played jackhammers. But I like to think of the cicadas grating cacophony as the aural equivalent of the Rorschach inkblot test. Next time youre outside and you hear cicadas, close your eyes. Let your imagination carry you aloft. It might sound like maniacs are brandishing chainsaws all around you. Scary! Or it might remind you of a thousand neohippies shaking tambourines in the forest. Blissful! Or it might seem to you like invaders from space discussing their evil plans in their native tongue. Insane! Whatever the siren song of the cicada sounds like to you reveals a lot about your personality. Or it might not.
2. Cicadas are the friendliest critters on earth, and they think absolutely nothing of sharing your personal space. They love to tunnel through your hair and kiss your ears and ride on your shoulder like a pirates parrot. Last Saturday I had the entertaining experience of watching a woman at an antique fair walking around for nearly half an hour, completely unaware that a plucky cicada was clinging to the back of her left leg, just below the buttcheek. (I got that technical term from a medical journal, by the way!) Why not use the cicadas amiability and curiosity about human anatomy to your advantage? Go to the woods. Take off all your clothes--all of them!--and let the cicadas walk where they will. Its like getting a totally free back (or whatever) rub. Imagine dozens of tiny vibrating hairy legs kneading every tired, tense, taut muscle on your luscious, smooth, supple body! I vote that we start calling cicadas natures little masseurs.
3. Cicadas have a tendency to fly in front of cars and get splattered on the windshield, the side doors, the roof, the bumper, and everywhere else. People call this disgusting, but they simply need a change in perspective. Think of this way: those noble cicadas are sacrificing their regrettably brief lives in order to decorate your car with their streaks, splatters and droplets. Its as though Jackson Pollock turned your car into a piece of mobile modern art! If the cicadas hit hard enough their innards spread out in a flowerlike pattern, and then you can pretend its the year 1974 and youre driving a custom-painted car that all your cool friends will think totally groovy and wiggy! Thanks for customizing my car, sweet cicadas!
4. Cicadas taste good--darned good. How do I know this? Because last Saturday one flew right into my open mouth. It tasted like chicken--fuzzy, red-eyed chicken--with just a faint suggestion of almond. I bet theyre good with mustard.
In conclusion: love the cicada. Embrace the cicada. Understand the cicada. They provide entertainment, clinginess, something to eat, full body massages, and a constant racket. I suspect that must be what its like to be married.
Added 8/10/2009
BAD TOE DAY
I am staring at the middle toe of my left foot. The rest of my foot has a normal appearance, but that particular toe now looks as though it belongs on the foot of a guy who has been dead about three weeks.
Its transformation began with an absurd accident Saturday morning as I was unloading groceries. A one-pound can of baked beans rolled out of a bag and landed squarely on the digit in question. (Exactly how this happened is something of a mystery since there were no holes in the bag and it was tied at the top. Perhaps I have recently angered a magician.) I didnt say any swears, at least not any really bad ones. Within seconds my toe was purple and swollen; the nail was the color of a Concord grape and looked ready to fall off. I could even see a white dent across my toes made the edge of the can.
After limping around for a while and watching little lightning bolts and stars emanate from my throbbing toe just like in the cartoons, I decided to take a shower. As I sang the chorus to Donna Summers Bad Girls I dropped the soap--not a thin sliver either, but a fine new relatively heavy bar. Guess where it landed? This time I did swear. I could not help it. I said things that would have offended a pirate. All the same, I was glad that I had not dropped a shampoo bottle on my toe.
Act three in the Drama of the Injured Toe--or is it a dark comedy of excess?--occurred a couple of hours later when I craved a refreshing glass of Mountain Dew. (How do you like those crazy new flavors, by the way?) The refrigerators ice maker filled the glass with cubes--alas, too full! One caromed over the side of the glass and made a perfect three-point landing on my toe, sharp end facing downward. I did not say anything unseemly at all the third time around but I did cry a little.
I finally took the hint and stayed off my feet the rest of the day, but not before threatening my toe with amputation if it dared get injured again. I also ate the can of baked beans to show it who was boss.
Added 5/8/2009
A DUDE'S GUIDE TO WATCHING "STEEL MAGNOLIAS"
After about the fifteenth woman insisted that I watch the movie Steel Magnolias with her, I finally realized what was going on. It is not just an ordinary "chick flick;" it is a test. A woman determines whether her date is a sensitive guy or a boor by observing whether he laughs or cries at the appropriate moments during the film. The problem is that, according to my scientifically tested calculations, 99.7 percent of straight men HATE Steel Magnolias and would rather leap headfirst from a speeding train than watch it.
Not to worry. Having seen Steel Magnolias fifteen times (at least), I can offer dudes a few tips on how to impress women by hiding their true feelings and baser instincts while watching the film. Gentlemen, ignore the following advice at your own peril!
1. Laugh at the gray armadillo cake being served at the wedding reception. It is cute and it really is kind of funny!
2. Weep copiously at everything else in the movie, not excluding the opening and closing credits. If by chance you accidentally laugh at an inappropriate moment, say something like: "Behold how our sexist society has conditioned me to laugh at the plight of these female Southern stereotypes! I am ashamed of myself!"
3. For extra points, when the movie is over explain its title to your date. Say this: "The Southern female characters are lovely as the magnolia, yet their spirits are tough like steel--hence they are steel magnolias, as it were!"
4. You are strongly advised to keep your vast storehouse of Dolly Parton jokes to yourself.
5. Very important!!!! Your date will pay especially close attention to your reaction to the film's climax, when Shelby (the Julia Roberts character) dies. Here are four possible responses, three of which are wrong, wrong, wrong:
A. RIGHT RESPONSE: "How tragic! Shelby wanted a baby so badly that she intentionally got pregnant, even though she knew she would die after childbirth due to complications from her Type 1 diabetes! Such, such is the generous and nurturing essence of Woman!"
B. WRONG RESPONSE: "Why didn't she just adopt?"
C. WRONGER RESPONSE: "She intentionally had a baby even though she knew it would kill her??? That's like getting paid a million dollars to blow yourself up--you'll never live to enjoy it!" *(See instructive footnote below.)
D. WRONGEST POSSIBLE RESPONSE: "Screw this, let's watch the Stooges!"
Follow this advice, and watching Steel Magnolias for the 75th time will be only about as painful as having your teeth extracted one by one with pliers.
* On one memorable first date I made the fatal mistake of pointing out this logical flaw in the plot to my companion. The following dialogue ensued:
SHE (icily): You would never understand because you are male and you can never know the thrill of feeling life stirring within you.
ME: I had a tapeworm once.
There was no second date.
INTERNET SURVEYS: FIRST IN A SERIES
Friends are constantly sending me internet surveys--you know, the ones you fill out and forward to everyone you know in Christendom. I love filling out those things! In fact, I'm going to start posting some of the ones I really had fun answering. Consider it an ongoing series, and pardon me if some answers get repeated! You know how repetitive these surveys can be. Now prepare to learn far, far more than you ever wanted to know about The Kevmeister.
THE PAST SIDE
> Boredom level [1-10]: Zero-- I am NEVER bored.
> Why are you filling out this survey: The little devil who lives on my right shoulder is urging me to do it.
> Nicknames: I have never had a nickname that stuck, but I like to be called "Your Highness."
> Birthday: I was born during the Summer of Love! (But don't hold it against me.)
> Do you have high self-esteem: With the passing of years I have obtained both Buddha Nature and the higher self-esteem that comes along with it.
> The thing you miss most: "Manimal." Why did they ever cancel that show????
> TV show you wish they'd re-air: "Manimal," of course.
THE FUTURE SIDE
> Occupation: I see myself as a night-shift laborer in a robot head electroplating factory.
> Dream car: '72 Gremlin, puke green.
> Marriage: If I meet the right woman or lemur, whichever.
> Future son's name: If I ever had one, I think Hippolyte Grendel has a ring to it.
> Future daughter's name: Ariana Victoria Tatiana Banana.
> Day of the Week: Any day that does not have the letter Y in its name.
> Phrase to over use: Can't think of any phrases in particular, but these are words I tend to overuse: suburb, tungsten, agog, kohlrabi, zed, merkin, flabbergast.
> Candy: Does beef jerky count as candy?
> Fast food restaurant: KFC and Long John Silver's. I am a man of elevated tastes.
> Shampoo/Conditioner: I make my own out of stale champagne and cow livers.
> Sport: Pushing my luck.
> Hangout: Most convenient park bench, alley or unoccupied dumpster.
THE PEOPLE YOU KNOW SIDE:
> Funniest: ALL my cronies have a good sense of humor; otherwise, how could they stand me?
> Craziest: That guy who thinks he's James K. Polk.
> Best Teeth: I have no idea, but if all my friends will line up and bite me I will let you know.
> Biggest Pervert: I have no idea, and I'm not sure I want to know.
> Quietest: I dunno-- probably whichever one is the biggest pervert.
> Been on a plane: I was on a plane once, but the stewardess told me I had to ride inside it like everyone else.
> Only on Tuesdays: I have no idea what this means.
> Gone skinny dipping: No. I have this phobia concerning snapping turtles.
THE WHICH WOULD YOU RATHER BE SIDE:
> Blue/Purple: I would rather be blue, because so many words would rhyme with me.
> Pen/pencil: A pen. Pencils get sharpened.
> Plumber/trashman: Plumber. I would love to dig around in strangers' septic tanks!!!!
> Rich and unhappy/poor and happy: Well, I'd like to give rich and unhappy a shot.
> Tall/short: I will not rest until I am seven feet tall.
THE QUESTIONS THAT DON'T MATTER BUT I'M ASKING ANYWAY SIDE:
> Do you sleep with a stuffed animal: Can I count myself?
> Do you like this survey: Yes, but I feel so violated.
> How long are you in the shower: 7 minutes or less. I make a game of it.
WHATS IN MY CRIB, HOMIES
Imagine no possessions. --John Lennon
NO!!!! Me.
Actually, I have enough trouble imagining John Lennon with no possessions. But while Im on the topic of possessions (hows that for a segue?), I thought Id make a list of some of the more off-the-wall things I own, all of which are destined to be donated to museums when I die without heirs (i.e., next Tuesday).
1. A genuine voodoo doll from New Orleans, complete with black and white pins to give someone bad or good luck. I would guess that I am the only teacher in the English Department who keeps one in his office.
2. Documents written by Arthur Leigh Allen, a leading suspect in the infamous, unsolved Zodiac murders. (See separate blog for details.).
3. A 1920s-era embalming fluid bottle. The brand name is Vein-O, which I find unaccountably hilarious. Just the thing to drink Kool-Aid from!
4. Collins Mortuary sign, hanging up near the bottle of Vein-O. This was a funerary establishment in Richmond, KY, in the 1920s and 30s.
5. A painting made by Cheeta the Chimp from the old Tarzan movies. Yes, hes still alive and making modern art masterpieces in retirement.
6. A sock doll knitted by Charles Manson. I plan to tell the whole story after he passes onto his reward. Punk rocker extraordinaire Dr. Frank (Frank Portman) calls Manson the Voice of His Generation.
7. Bedroom bells. While at an antique store, I saw a cardboard display featuring a salacious cartoon couple looking at each other with hungry eyes while ringing little cowbells. Sure enough, the display includes two little such bells with lusty mottos written on them. The idea is that you ring a bell to get your mates attention when youre ready for a little love fun. When I saw this ridiculous item I knew it just had to come from the 60s or 70s, and sure enough it has a copyright date of 1968. I had to buy them, for conversation purposes of course.
8. A first edition copy of The Oldest History of the World (1926), written by Benny Evangelist, a Detroit citizen who started his own bizarre religious cult in the 1920s. Like L. Ron Hubbard many years later, Evangelist expressed his beliefs in the form of a fantasy novel. Oldest History is incoherent and clearly the work of a man who doesnt have a firm grasp on reality. Eventually someone broke into Evangelists house and slaughtered him and his family with an ax.
9. Busts of various historical figures. Dunno why, but lately Ive had this thing for collecting busts of people I admire, mostly composers and writers. So far my office is teeming with the heads of Beethoven (three, in varying sizes), Mendelssohn, Mozart, Mark Twain, Dickens, Lincoln and Bach. There is also a memorial bust made of William McKinley after he was assassinated in 1901.
10. Figure of a two-headed lamb. Speaks for itself.
11. Toy Oscar Mayer Weinermobiles. Make of that what you will.
12. Action figures: Oscar Wilde, Poe, Van Gogh, Chaplin, Laurel and Hardy, Bigfoot, and Darren McGavin in the film A Christmas Story.
My ultimate goal in life, as this list suggests, is to become a real-life Gomez Addams.
CORNWELL
Not long ago I was talking about famous unsolved murder cases with an acquaintance. I mentioned the granddaddy case of them all, Jack the Ripper. “Oh, that case was solved a few years ago!” said my acquaintance. “What?!?” said I, thinking I had somehow missed the news reports.
“It’s true! It was solved by the mystery writer Patricia Cornwell. Jack the Ripper was an artist from that era named Walter Something-or-other!”
With all due respect to my friend and to the redoubtable Ms. Cornwell, the Jack the Ripper mystery has not been solved and in fact remains as murky as ever. To put it gently, she is absolutely nuts.
Cornwell’s theory is that Jack the Ripper was actually the painter Walter Sickert. I first realized that she is nuts when I saw her on the TV news show 20/20 months before her book came out in 2002. Adopting an “I know I’m right because I’m a big-shot mystery novelist, dammit, and I will brook no arguments” tone of voice, she told Barbara Walters that she had spent something like $6 million of her own money to prove her theory and said she would “stake her reputation” on it. All I can say is, there goes her reputation. She didn’t even come up with a new, never-before-researched suspect; Sickert as a JTR suspect had been debunked and debunked some more for decades. Her arguments were absolutely laughable. Just for starters: destroying a painting for DNA evidence to compare to DNA on Ripper letters is the height of folly, because it is more than probable that ALL the Ripper letters are fakes except perhaps one, and any DNA on that one is long gone after a century of being touched and tested and manhandled. She didn’t have even one compelling piece of evidence against Sickert except that his paintings look creepy. A lot of his paintings show scantily clad women lying back in fairly sexual poses—his models were often prostitutes and Sickert himself was a lech, so what else do you expect? But in Cornwell’s eyes, the pictures are supposed to represent murdered women reclining because they’re dead! Here’s how she reasoned it: serial killers like to keep souvenirs, so why not paint a picture of your murder victim from memory so you’d have a picture to salivate over? Yeah—why NOT paint a picture of your victim, frame it, and hang it up so everyone can see the evidence? As I recall she got a lot of factual details about the JTR murders wrong, too, and she had no explanation as to why Sickert stopped killing after November 1888, and anyone with a JTR suspect must explain that away.
However, Cornwell did come up with some bullplop about how Sickert’s paintings reveal an “aggressive, violent, slashing painting technique.” If that’s all you need to identify the Ripper then I hereby propose my own sensational suspect: Vincent Van Gogh!!! In fact, Van Gogh is a “better fit” than Sickert, if you don’t care much about facts. Van Gogh was definitely crazy and spent some time in asylums; he had a prostitute girlfriend; he was handy with a knife (he cut off his own ear, right?); his paintings also show an aggressive, slashing brushstroke style; and—get this—he committed suicide in 1890, less than two years after the Ripper murders ended!!!! I’m just as wrong as Patricia Cornwell, and I didn’t even have to cough up $6 million!
A few months after her interview, Cornwell’s book came out and I checked it out from the EKU library--I refused to buy it, because I did not want to help her recoup the $6 million she had spent on her idiotic pursuit. Once I had a chance to actually read the full details of the theory she had been fanatically espousing, I found that her book had nice illustrations, and she turned up some interesting details about life in London of the Ripper’s era, but it is destined to stand as a kind of monument to how far a person can go off the deep end when she is obsessed with some farfetched theory and has enough money to pursue it.
The BIG mistake: her entire theory is apparently based on the ridiculous assumption that practically every taunting letter Scotland Yard received was genuine as long as it was signed Jack the Ripper. (How did she explain all the different styles of handwriting? With the usual excuses: he wrote the letters with his non-dominant hand; or perhaps, when he wrote he was in such a fury that his handwriting changed.) In fact, as mentioned above, of all the letters the police received, only one stands a good chance of having been actually written by the Ripper, and even then no one can say for certain. The real Ripper may very well have been illiterate or a foreigner who could barely write English. All her lengthy arguments concerning ink, stationery, etc., come to naught if you believe, as does every reputable authority on the subject, that the Ripper did NOT write all those letters. The famous “first letter” from Jack the Ripper, the one that starts “Dear Boss,” is now universally considered a journalistic hoax. The hoax letter includes the phrase “ha ha” a couple of times. But one thing that convinced Cornwell all these dozens of taunting JTR letters are genuine is that so many of them contain the phrase “ha ha.” According to her logic, the same person must have written them all! But it’s pretty obvious that all those writers of crank letters included the phrase “ha ha” because, having read the influential (but fake) first letter, they figured that was what a letter from JTR “should” sound like. It’s a classic case of the tail wagging the dog. Any idiot could have told Patricia Cornwell that, but unfortunately she didn’t ask any idiot.
As already mentioned, Cornwell looked at all these paintings Sickert did and imagined that they resemble JTR’s victims. The real Ripper would have seen his victims only for a few minutes, in the dark, and he would not have had access to crime scene photos. Cornwell claimed that DNA found in a Ripper letter matches Sickert’s DNA—assuming, of course, that it’s a real letter from the Ripper. Even if the DNA does match, that might only indicate that Sickert sent the police a crank letter, as did thousands of people who, like him, had a morbid obsession with the case.
One letter to the police reproduced in Cornwell’s book ends with the phrase "R. St. W.” The obvious theory, which she acknowledged, is that this is the address of a street beginning with the letter R, abbreviated British style, i.e. "R— Street West." But Cornwell convinced herself that it is a convoluted abbreviation of "Walter Richard Sickert."
Most glaring of all, Cornwell decided that Sickert’s hatred of women of women must have begun when he had a botched operation as a child that mutilated his genitalia. But there is no evidence either in her book or anywhere else that Sickert ever had such an operation. It’s a figment of her imagination--exactly the sort of thing you would expect a writer of mystery fiction to dream up.
In all, this is what you have when you boil down Cornwell’s theory: Walter Sickert must have been JTR because his art is sick and twisted; he hated women; he was obsessed with the Ripper murders; and he liked to wear disguises. Murder She Wrote notwithstanding, professional writers of mystery fiction should not try to solve real-life crimes. Novelists are always subconsciously on the lookout for the solution with the most literary value, the solution with the richest irony, not the simplest and most logical answer. What could appeal to a novelist more than the Ripper, the criminal who baffled Scotland Yard, having been a famous painter or a member of the royal family? What could annoy a novelist more than the Ripper having been an anonymous lowlife dockworker, a butcher or a garden variety madman?
MY LONG-DISTANCE SEARCH FOR THE GRAVESTONE OF HARRY EDSEL SMITH: AN EPIC TALE OF PERSEVERANCE
People sometimes say: "Gracious and heavens to Murgatroyd, doesn't it take a lot of research to write those books?" Yes it does! Just to show how much work I am willing to do to find out something that interests me, and to prove once and for all that I don't have a life, I hereby tell the story of my search for the gravestone of Harry Edsel Smith, whose gravestone is reputed to bear a hilarious epitaph.
1) I first read about Smith's epitaph years ago in The People's Almanac, and later saw it in a friend's forwarded e-mail concerning funny gravestone inscriptions. Both sources said Smith was buried near Albany, N.Y., and claimed that his gravestone reads: "Harry Edsel Smith. 1903-1942. Looked up the elevator shaft to see if the car was on the way down. It was." Unfortunately, neither source provided the name of the cemetery.
2) I mailed an inquiry to the New York State Department of Vital Statistics, which confirmed that a Harold E. Smith who had been born on August 10, 1903, died in Albany on September 9, 1942, at age thirty-nine. I decided that had to be Harry Edsel Smith, since the town, birth year and death year all matched the alleged tombstone inscription. But again, the records did not name the cemetery where he was buried.
3) Through Interlibrary Loan I got a microfilmed set of the Albany Knickerbocker News of September 1942. There I found the obituary in the September 11 issue: "SMITH-Sept. 9, 1942, Harold E. of 628 Broadway. He is survived by a wife, Gertrude McKinney, a father, Howard Smith, a brother, Irving Smith. Funeral services Sunday 2:30 p.m. at Garland Brothers Funeral Home, 143 Orange Street." Damnstill no cemetery name. No mention of cause of death, either (i.e., squooshed by elevator).
4) I wonder idly: could the Garland Brothers Funeral Home still be in business, forty-seven years after Smith died? If so, maybe they still have the interment records on file? Using the Yahoo Yellow Pages (I love the Net), I look through the Albany directory and find that they ARE still in business! I write them a nice letter asking if they know where Harold E. Smith is buried.
5) Garland Brothers responds, telling me Harold E. Smith is buried in Albany Rural Cemetery in Menands, N.Y. Hurrah!! I now know the name of the cemetery!
6) I go back to the Yahoo Yellow Pages on the Net, looking in Albany under "Cemeteries." Another snag: there's no listing for Albany Rural Cemetery. However, there is a listing for an Albany Rural Chapel, located on Cemetery Road. I check a map of Albany and find Cemetery Road is located very, very near the suburb of Menands. Could this be it? Getting the address from the Yellow Pages I write another letter in April 1999, this time to Albany Rural Chapel, asking if they have a Harold E. Smith who died in 1942.
7) After mailing the letter, I pause to reflect that lots of people out there probably think I'm a total nut.
8) A few days later: success! Now who's nuts? Albany Rural Chapel is in fact located in Albany Rural Cemetery. Their records show that Harold E. Smith is there, along with a few other family members including his father Howard (see # 3 above), who died in January 1971. The records also show that this Harold E. Smith died on September 9, 1942, at age thirty-nine. They sent a map, so now I even know the plot number: Lot 17, section 207. Smith shares the cemetery with President Chester A. Arthur.
9) As a side project, I wanted to get a copy of Smith's death certificate to see if he really had been killed in an elevator accident. In July 1999 the State of New York Department of Health sent me the requested document. He died of coronary sclerosis, not in an elevator mishap. I also learn that he had been born in Valatie, N.Y., was black, was separated from his wife at the time of his death, andget thishis occupation had been elevator operator at Albany's Kenmore Hotel!
10) I wrote back to the Albany Cemetery Association at Albany Rural Cemetery and asked if they would please go look at Smith's gravestone and tell me if the famous epitaph is really there. They responded in June 1999 with the disappointing news that there is no such inscription. Alas, the legend of the epitaph must die, like all things, and I am its reluctant slayer.
11) My guess is that, inspired by his occupation, the dying Harry Edsel Smith had his relatives put the astonishing epitaph on his tombstone as a final joke and that it was later removed after attracting unwanted attention. Harry Edsel Smithhe of the twisted sense of humor has moved to near the front of the line of people I wish I could have met. He sounds like my kind of dude.
8) A few days later: success! Now who's nuts? Albany Rural Chapel is in fact located in Albany Rural Cemetery. Their records show that Harold E. Smith is there, along with a few other family members including his father Howard (see # 3 above), who died in January 1971. The records also show that this Harold E. Smith died on September 9, 1942, at age thirty-nine. They sent a map, so now I even know the plot number: Lot 17, section 207. Smith shares the cemetery with President Chester A. Arthur.
9) As a side project, I wanted to get a copy of Smith's death certificate to see if he really had been killed in an elevator accident. In July 1999 the State of New York Department of Health sent me the requested document_ He died of coronary sclerosis, not in an elevator mishap. I also learn that he had been born in Valatie, N.Y., was black, was separated from his wife at the time of his death, andget thishis occupation had been elevator operator at Albany's Kenmore Hotel!
10) I wrote back to the Albany Cemetery Association at Albany Rural Cemetery and asked if they would please go look at Smith's gravestone and tell me if the famous epitaph is really there. They responded in June 1999 with the disappointing news that there is no such inscription. Alas, the legend of the epitaph must die, like all things, and I am its reluctant slayer.
11) My guess is that, inspired by his occupation, the dying Harry Edsel Smith had his relatives put the astonishing epitaph on his tombstone as a final joke and that it was later removed after attracting unwanted attention. Harry Edsel Smithhe of the twisted sense of humor has moved to near the front of the line of people I wish I could have met. He sounds like my kind of dude.
ONE-SENTENCE MOVIE REVIEWS
More to be added as I think of them!
A.I. (2001): Stanley Kubrick's cynicism and Steven Spielberg's sentimentality do not mix well.
AMISTAD (1997): In real life the slave Cinque returned to Africa and became a slave trader himself, but mentioning that would have spoiled the ending.
THE ASTRONAUT FARMER (2006): If you are prepared to believe that a farmer could build a multi-billion dollar space shuttle in his back yard, you might enjoy this film.
THE AUSTIN POWERS TRILOGY (1997, 1999, 2002): Isn't it great to hear exactly the same jokes and see exactly the same routines three times over?
BACKDRAFT (1991): Don't miss the unintentional humor of the scene in which a firefighter allows an unattended child to mess around with a stove.
BATMAN BEGINS (2005): The film lives up to its title, for Batman does begin in it!
BATTLESHIP POTEMKIN (1925): Sergei Eisenstein might have been a genius at directing, but it appears he went out of his way to populate his films with the ugliest specimens of humanity that he could find.
BLAIR WITCH PROJECT (1999): Three foul-mouthed youngsters go into the forest looking for a legendary witch; nothing happens.
BOWLING FOR COLUMBINE (2002): Everything in this "documentary" is a lie except the closing credits, and I'm not even too sure about them.
BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN (2006): Unquestionably the finest gay cowboy movie ever made.
CASABLANCA (1942): Am I the only person who think Bogart's role should have been played by Shemp Howard?
CASPER (1995): Take away all the special effects and you've still got a fun movie about the ghost of what appears to be a dead little boy.
CHARLOTTE'S WEB (2006): Somehow I don't remember that farting cow being in E. B. White's book.
CHICAGO (2002): Bring on the singing, dancing whores!
DANCES WITH WOLVES (1990): In real life the Sioux were so vicious and so predatory that smaller Plains tribes used to beg the U.S. Army for protection, but perhaps Kevin Costner didn't know that.
EASY RIDER (1969): It makes sense to hippies.
EDWARD SCISSORHANDS (1990): The hidden moral: if you are different, you'd better stay at home.
E.T. THE EXTRATERRESTRIAL (1982): If E.T. can fly, why didn't he fly up to the mother ship at the beginning of the movie instead of getting stranded?
E.T. (1982)--DIGITALLY RESTORED VERSION: Steven Spielberg used computer technology to digitally remove the guns in the hands of government agents and replace them with walkie-talkies--in other words, its no longer okay to show a man holding a gun ina childrens movie, but it is still okay to have one child call another penis-breath.
FAHRENHEIT 9/11 (2004): See review of Bowling for Columbine, and triple it.
THE FLINTSTONES (1994): Funnier than the cartoon on which it is based, but so is prostate cancer.
FORREST GUMP (1994): True love and retardation conquer all.
FRIED GREEN TOMATOES (1991): I wish women would stop screaming "Towanda" at me.
FULL METAL JACKET (1987): Watch the first forty minutes or so, then turn it off.
GARFIELD (2004): Garfield is a dog.
THE GOLDEN COMPASS (2007): A magic-filled story, the point of which is that there is no magic.
GOOD NIGHT AND GOOD LUCK (2005): George Clooney reportedly was paid two dollars to write the script and direct; he was overpaid.
GREASE (1978): Proof that a great soundtrack can save an otherwise horrid movie.
GRIZZLY MAN (2005): A documentary proving once and for all that wild bears will kill and eat you no matter how much you love them.
THE HAPPENING (2008): Dont miss the scene in which people try to outrun the wind.
AN INCONVENIENT TRUTH (2006): By the way, was the DVD version of Al Gores alarmist documentary on global warming manufactured by wind-powered factories, and was it shipped to retailers via teams of yaks?
JFK (1991): John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas on November 22, 1963; everything else in the movie is a lie.
KANGAROO JACK (2003) (Also SNOW DOGS, 2002; AIR BUDDIES, 2006; BAILEY'S BILLIONS, 2005; COUNTRY BEARS, 2002; FIREHOUSE DOG, 2007): An ironclad rule: never see a movie if the poster features a picture of an animal wearing sunglasses.
LEMONY SNICKET'S A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS (2004): Well worth seeing for Jim Carrey's restrained and subtle acting performance.
THE LOST WORLD: JURASSIC PARK II (1997): The nice liberals survive; the mean hunters and greedy capitalists die.
LOVE STORY (1970): "Love means never having to say you're sorry" is the worst piece of advice ever doled out in a film.
MAN OF THE YEAR (2006): As his career amply proves, there is no screenplay (or paycheck) that Robin Williams will turn down.
MONSTER IN LAW (2005): Jane Fonda, once the idol of thousands of Viet Cong wanna-be's, has been reduced to being socked with a rubber skillet by Jennifer Lopez.
MY STEPMOTHER IS AN ALIEN (1988): The only person who has appeared in more bad movies than Robin Williams is Dan Aykroyd.
NATURAL BORN KILLERS (1994): The most violent anti-violence film ever made!
OCTOBER (1928): See review of Battleship Potemkin, above.
PEARL HARBOR (2001): A gazillion-dollar budget spent, and there are only about 15 minutes worth watching out of 184.
PINK FLOYD--THE WALL (1982): In which it is implied that being a miserable multimillionaire rock star is comparable to being a Holocaust victim.
POPEYE (1980): You know you're in trouble when the opening shot goes on forever--and all it shows is a guy rowing a boat.
PSYCHO (1960): I'm a sucker for a romantic movie!
REGARDING HENRY (1991): The hidden message: men are scum, but if you shoot them in the head they might just improve.
A ROOM WITH A VIEW (1986): No car chases and no 'splosions.
SAVE THE LAST DANCE (2001): People don't go to the 'hood to learn how to tap dance!!!
THE SHAWSHANK REDEMPTION (1994): How did Andy Dufresne re-tape the poster to the prison wall after he crawled through the hole?
SHREK 1, 2, and 3 (2001, 2004, 2007) (Not to mention Madagascar, Over the Hedge, Shark Tale, and whatever else they've released by the time you read this): In less than a decade, Dreamworks Animation became as formulaic as it took Disney sixty years to become.
SICKO (2007): In which the 900-pound multimillionaire Michael Moore lectures us on the excesses of capitalism.
SUPERSIZE ME (2004): What next, a documentary proving that drinking lots of vodka makes you drunk?
THE TEXAS CHAIN SAW MASSACRE (1974): The ultimate date movie!
THELMA AND LOUISE (1991): It is better for women to drive their cars off a cliff than live in a world populated with they're-all-the-same men.
THE THIN RED LINE (1998): Every single character in this otherwise grittily realistic war movie talks like a gilt-edged book of poetry.
TITANIC (1997): Spoiler alert: the ship sinks.
THE TROUBLE WITH HARRY (1955): Not one of Hitchcock's best, but worth seeing for the trees.
THE WIZARD OF OZ (1939): Admit it: the flying monkeys still scare you.
WORLD TRADE CENTER (2006): A remarkable (and remarkably PC) feat: Oliver Stone tells the story of the 9/11 terrorist attacks without even once mentioning who exactly the terrorists were.
WYATT EARP (1994): Yes, it is possible to make an excruciatingly boring movie that features the gunfight at the O.K. corral.
YENTL (1983): Barbra Streisand passes as a boy about as convincingly as Yao Ming passes for a midget.
RANDOM THOUGHTS THAT OCCURRED TO ME DURING A LONG SOLITARY DRIVE
SAFETY TIPS I LEARNED BY WATCHING THE MOVIE TWISTER
1. An underground storm cellar is NOT a safe place to be if an F5 tornado comes calling.
2. If you are in a vehicle and a tornado pops up, do not get out of the vehicle, head for a ditch and cover your head. Stay in the vehicle, because otherwise you will miss seeing flying cows and other cool stuff.
3. It is safe to run alongside a tornado that is only about thirty feet away from you. You can easily dodge fence pickets and other debris that it is throwing at you at speeds of up to 200 mph.
4. If a tornado rolls a house in front of your vehicle, drive through the house, not around it.
5. If an enormous tornado is right on your heels, a rickety old barn full of overhanging implements is a good place to seek shelter.