I was old enough when I found out about it that I was more surprised than shocked. The distance between what we are shown and what really is was known to me from an early age, at least to that time in second grade when I picked up the little cup of cherry Kool-Aid and found out it was tomato juice. As always, part of the blame for that is mine: why on earth would our lunch ladies be giving us cherry Kool-Aid anyhow? What we WANT to see takes precedence over what’s really there.
So today we are going to talk about scenic landscape postcards which have been somewhat amended to show the world as postcard publishers think we want to see. We will NOT be discussing pure works of art, like the collage “Water Tank” by Michael Langenstein at the top of this column, nor the massive Brooks Catsup bottle in Collinsville, Illinois, which is really there and has not been touched up at all in this postcard.
What tipped me off was a series of Our City at Night postcards like this one. If you have ever tried to get a glowing and romantic a picture like this on your own camera, digital or otherwise, you know it takes patience and care. But postcard companies put these things out by the dozens. Were their photographers that good, or did each company have one picture-taker who specialized in night scenes? Even more complex are the night-time street scene postcards, where a busy district in town has been photographed during the evening theatre hours. How was this even possible, given the unpredictability of tragic and weather?
Well, you can go into the archive of some of these companies and find out. (Curt Teich did a lot of this work, beautifully.) They DID have great photographers. These photographers would take a picture by daylight and then have the artists in the design department paint the sky a nice midnight blue and draw in a brilliant moon. Or take that photo of the theatre district and paint lights in the windows and a beautiful evening sky.
Our ancestor discovered the process for portrait paintings in the nineteenth century. It takes a long time for a person to sit still and be painted, so why not take a photo, blow it up to a size suitable for hanging on the wall, and have an artist paint OVER it. Properly done, no one can tell how much of the picture comes from the original, and how much from the mind of the artist. More authentic than leaving the whole picture up to the painter and more flattering than the version from the camera. (I’m not sure I’m seeing ANY of the original photo in this beautiful sunset.)
Of course, once one has discovered the process, anything is possible. A company in New England produced dozens of small town city views presented as photographs of what the town would look like in a hundred years, with subway entrances added to quiet corners on Main Street, airships and aeroplanes above. Similar enjoyment of the joke goes on to this day, with some improvement in technology.
None of these postcard companies are trying to lie to us. Especially with those night photographs, the goal is to show us reality while omitting the details of actuality that get in the way. I am not at all certain this view of San Francisco is an honest to goodness photo. But as Vincent Starrett wrote, after all, “Only those things the heart believes are true.”
The ship that might be the Dragonshelf dropped almost straight down on the nasty-looking orange and black one. Nubry had known Bott could fly, but watching it from here made that really obvious. If only he hadn’t been a pirate as well! Her eyes moved to where the captioned dialogue was rolling up the screen.
DEAR ME, CAPTAIN DARLING. COULD WE NOT RECRUIT THEM AS CREW?
NO, SWEET NBASSADA. EVEN COPIES OF THAT INSANE LIBRARIAN MIGHT RUIN OUR TRIUMPH.
THEY’D INSIST ON KEEPING THE BOOKS. AND TJEY OUTNUMBER US.
This sort of thing had upset her at first. But there was no sense in getting angry. She wasn’t likely to live long enough for it to make a difference.
All that she asked was to be completely dead before she saw them destroy the books she had sworn to protect and defend. It couldn’t be long now. The cuffs were surely all that was holding her up. One foot stretched out in front of her as if she were climbing a very shallow staircase. Her hands were clasped behind her head, pressing forward just enough to hurt.
I THINK WE SHOULD JETTISON THE BOIOOKS AS WE LEAVE, TO CONFUSE THE SENSORS WHEN THEY TRACK US.
I SAY SET THEM ALIGHT AS WE DROP THEM, TO CAUSE A DIVERSION.
I DO HOPE YU LADIOES AREN’TGOING TO ARGUE. WE HAVE A LOT OF WORK TO DO AND YOUR CONTINUED FRIENDSHIP IS KEY TO OUR SUCCESS.
“Bilstim controls!”
Nubry frowned. That had been Bott’s voice; she hadn’t run across that particular expletive anywhere else. Were they fighting right under this room? Would she have heard it, even so? And why didn’t it show up on the monitor?
She rolled her eyes to the Emperor, who was using a long blue swizzle stick to stir small ichikans who struggled in a solvent which destroyed their bodies without killing them. He reached for a straw.
OH, WE COULD NEVER ALLOW PETTY QUARRELS TO INTERRUPT OUR DEVOTION TO YOU,DEAR CAPTAIN.
THERE, CAPTAIN. GIVE HER A SHOT UP THE TAILPIPE, THE WAY YOU DID
Nubry’s head jerked to one side. She’d heard him say “flowers”. She knew she’d heard him. Ignoring what felt like a million red hot needles in every muscle of her body, she turned her head, looking for some alternate source of communication.
Catching the movement, His Imperial Worship glanced at his captive and then back at the battle. “Pity your captain doesn’t realize one of his ladies is feeding us secrets.”
“Is she really?” That black spot on his earlobe: it wasn’t the only spot on his face but it was the only Kydczak earphone. She strained to hear: Bott was saying something about circles.
WE SHOULD POUR ACID ON THE BOOKS AND MAKE THEM REALLY DANGEROUS WHEN WE DROP THEM.
“Only a tiny fraction of what she tells us is any use.” The Emperor took a long drag on the straw. “But the odds were so goof I thought I should bet on one of them making it out alive.”
“Why are you wearing….”
A hand slid from his beaker to the controls. Nubry’s face was lowered to the level of her waist. Her ankles came sharply together and then spread left and right.
She felt herself moan as her feet were jerked above her head. But her brain was busy with that tiny earphone. If he was listening to the prisoners with that, all the words on the computer could be lies. Bott probably wasn’t planning to destroy the books at all. Why would he? No pirate would destroy something he could sell.
Her nose itched; ti would run if she wasn’t so dehydrated. It could simply be something else, someone else’s voice. Or the words on the monitor could be delayed, while the Emperor was listening to them in real time. And she wasn’t going to live to find out. As that long hand reached for the nastiest button on the console Nubry recited to herself the Schlatter Seed Carakog Inventory. Maybe if she realty concentrated, she could ignore the pain.
The thumb held its position just above the vital control. Imperial eyes had turned to the screen. Nubry was about to cheer at the sight of the perhaps-Dragonshelf moving around behind the wicked-looking other ship, but remembered in the nick of time that she was possibly very angry at the pirate.
The tiniest vibration in the big eggshell told her the Imperial thumb had not forgotten its duty. A second later, her face was on fire, and the familiar flaming claws were tearing flesh from her back.
The Emperor took another drink.
Hot coals forcing themselves up through her throat told her the new copy was about to arrive. She forced herself to think of something else, to concentrate as she had during long days on the Dragonshelf. Having read a number of books on mental powers, she had tried to force characters from other books to materialize, and talk to her. She wanted to ask Lilu Lemonleaves why she had never, in the course of fifteen novels from Decledy, trust her husband. She intended to discuss weather with rain deity Kilaui Dumm-Dumm, and introduce Susan Sedan to Justin Alastair. Right now, if she worked hard enough, perhaps she could materialize the reading room around herself, and be aboard the Dragonshelf, ordering a conversation between people who never got to meet.
A figure was hovering just on the edge of reality. The copy, of course: Nubry’s powers of concentration had never materialized anything even this ephemeral. She had always felt a little guilty about forcing dialogue into the mouths of other people’s characters. As her spine seemed to roll into a little ball, cracking and splintering in phantom stabs of red agony, she decided to stop feeling gulty about it.
“Move back,” she thought, staring at the spot where the copy was growing but not allowing her eyes to focus. It was the same method she used when trying to materialize Lily Lemonleaves. “Move back.”
Suddenly the copy was solid, and suddenly the trap door opened. But between the suddenlies, the copy rolled one leg over the other and moved away from the opening in the floor.
Nubry glanced at the emperor. At first she thought he was enrapt by the way the big ship of black and orange (hereditary colors of the hawk people of Wilnead) was desperately trying to elude the maybe-Dragonshelf. But no: his eyes were fixed on a smaller monitor showing the current odds, his hands flexing to change the conditions in the big white room in any way that might enhance his profit.
Looking down, she saw the poor girl trying to get up. She did not look at all well. His Imperial Worship must have twiddled his controls to make her look even worse. Surely she, herself did not look so raw, so flimsy.
The Nubry on the floor tried to get her legs under her. She had very thin legs. She opened her mouth as if she had to cough.
“Don’t cough,” the original Nubry thought. The copy swallowed.
On the big screen, the library ship rose swiftly against the bottom of the larger one, trying to smash it against the ceiling. Nubry nodded; she might have tried that.
“Catch your breath,” she thought, as the other Nubry struggled to rise. She wondered why the copy didn’t look back. It was really quite interesting. One to thing watch oneself moving on a screen; the brain could explain that away. Seeing Nubry in the flesh, leaving bloody streaks as she dragged herself along the floor, was an entirely other thing.
Yet here she was, dangling in mid-air high above the light blue tile. The copy ought to take a look, Nubry’s whole career was based on sharing interesting things.
Now look: the copy’s mouth was open and her tongue was hanging out. Where did that come from ? She never did such a thing. Did she? Well, hardly ever.
QUIT PLAYING WITH THEM, CAPTAIN SWEETNESS. JUST FINISH THEM OFF.
YOU JUST WANT ME TO PLAY WITH YOU SOME MORE.
Nubry frowned. Interesting as this was, there ought to be something useful she could do with it. That she could give instructions to the copy was an achievement, perhaps the last of her life. But what did she want it to do?
The emperor nodded as the possible Dragonshelf swooped. The other ship was way too low as it came across those tall cones.
“Go up and take those controls away from him,” Nubry thought. “Take them away.”
The copy’s head turned toward the Imperial chair, her tongue still hanging out, her torn chest heaving with deep breaths. The Emperor did not look back. The large ship pulled up too late.
“Hurry,” thought Nubry.
The copy’s shoulders bounced. Muscles tensed in her legs. The bottom of the orange and black ship was torn open.
“Boy hey!” cried the Emperor, as the copy leapt.
Both Nubrys shrieked as the copy hit the forcefield around the Imperial chair, One stopped sooner than the other. The surviving Nubry watched the copy fall to the floor, emitting smoke in a dozen places.
“My compliments,” said His Imperial Worship, as the copy fell into ash. “I’ve never had a duplicate try to take my life.”
“I never….” Nubry found her head being pulled up and back. Her hands were still behind her, but her elbows drew in.
“It must frustrate you more, but I need to inform you this shield has neither a battery to steal nor a cord to cut.”
Nubry tried to explain again that killing him was not her plan, but found herself unable to speak through a neck bent this way. Her lips rose in a smile she didn’t intend as an Imperial hand swept across a spherical control.
“You must not hurt enough.” He spun another sphere on the console. “Let’s augment the power and see if that doesn’t occupy your mind.”
Last week, we touched on some of the problems for me in assessing comedy of the middle of the twentieth century, as I have occasionally threatened to do in a series called “Is That Even Still Funny?” One problem was that there was so MUCH of it. Except when the news was on, and I ignored it, our television was almost always tuned to either a sitcom or a variety show, where what I found most interesting was the comedians. If we watched a movie, it was a comedy. True, there was the occasional National Geographic animal special but even THAT was heavy with baby bears bumping into porcupines, otters sliding downhill, and albatrosses coming in for bouncy, bumpy landings. I can’t go back and watch EVERYTHING.
And, at that, I forgot about some of my very favorite sitcoms, which are very seldom discussed when comedy of the 1960s and 1970s are concerned. These were those little one minute sitcoms crammed between segments of longer shows. Oh, the uninitiated might call them “commercials” or “ads”. But we knew the characters, and reveled in the situations they found themselves in in each installment. These really entered into our consciousness because, unlike longer sitcoms, which in those dark days were broadcast once, seen a second time in reruns, and then disappeared until someone sold the show for syndication, these could be enjoyed several times a night for up to a year.
So to redress my own neglect, as well as that of scholars, let us consider those thirty to ninety second shows we all watched and quoted for years thereafter.
QUESTIONS
Q1.Smokers of what cigarette were always having part of it torn off by passing darts, an elevator door, or a butcher knife because they were “A silly millimeter longer?
Q2.As with the Three Stooges, we KNEW the violence was coming. What “fruit juicy” soft drink always resulted in the hero knocking the same innocent bystander for a loop?
Q3.what long-running series hero yearned to steal a breakfast cereal that was colored “raspberry red, lemon yellow, and orange orange”?
Q4.What hero was trying to keep his marshmallow and cereal combination (which included “green shamrocks”) from being stolen by others?
Q5.what product spokesman, instead of trying to steal his product or protect it from being stolen, was obsessed with proving he had enough good taste to get a job with the company?
Q6.Sunny, another series hero, had to be prevented by his friends from even SEEING what product because he would “go cuckoo”?
Q7.Silent movie slapstick was the main feature for whose commercials which featured a bear in the land of sky blue waters, a brief commercial for the product, and then the bear again?
Q8.What was the name of the authority figure who spent his time in the grocery store trying to prevent a crime, only to be (always) caught committing that crime himself?
Q9.What product offered a domestic sitcom dealing with the protagonist’s varied menu, resulting catchphrases like “I can’t believe I ate the whole thing” and “Try it, you’ll like it”?
was the catch phrase of the domestic sitcom which centered on the efforts of the protagonist’s wife to provide exciting new, if undigestible dishes?
Q10.What product used silent movies as the inspiration for commercials which, among other things, reminded people women achieved the right to vote in 1920 AND featured one of the most hated jingles of its day?
ANSWERS
A1.Benson & Hedges 100s
A2.Hawaiian Punch
A3.The Trix Rabbit
A4.Lucky, the Lucky Charms leprechaun
A5.Charlie the Tuna, for Starkist
A6.Cocoa Puffs cereal
A7.Hamm’s (the beer refreshing)
A8.Mr. Whipple, who wanted people to stop squeezing the Charmin
A9.Alka-Selrzer
A10.Virginia Slims Cigarettes (Sing it with me, “You’ve come a long way, baby, to get where…what, out of time? Gee whiz.)
The Western’s popularity rises and falls, but has not gone away for at least a century and a half. The last big era for postcards coincided with an era that valued Westerns highly: they were still popular in cheap, kid-friendly movies (“oaters”), proliferated across radio (“Return with us now to the thrilling days of yesteryear”), and were about to explode all over television (thanks to William “Hopalong Cassidy” Boyd’s perceptive investment in his own movies.)
During this decade, as in others, there were actual cowboys paying attention to all these phenomena. And one or two voices were always ready to rise and complain “That ain’t the way it was, by Ned!” The makers of mass-market westerns would respond that they were making mass entertainment, not trying to bring out the most historically accurate views of the Old West.
But postcards go back a couple of generations prior to the mid-century adoration of Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, Tex Ritter, the Lone Ranger, Red Ryder, Lash LaRue, etc. So perhaps we can get a more accurate look at what the cowboy looked like. The hat, especially, was an important part of the mythos.
The problem is that the general myths go back even farther than that. In the late nineteenth century, writers like Bill Nye were complaining that cheap magazines had given the folks back East a picture of the cowboy that was romantic, adventurous, and hopelessly inaccurate. (Bill Nye claimed that the average cowboy, given a handgun, was more likely to shoot his own foot than anything else.) This postcard is a hundred and twenty years old, and looks…like a cowboy from the cover of a paperback romance. MAYBE some outfits expected their cowboys to shave every day, but how did he get to be a cowboy without any sign of a tan? (Some sage Native shaman selling an ancient potion called SPF-66?)
There ARE some postcards in inventory which show off drawings by Charles Russell, the great cowboy-turned-painter, so we can see what the nineteenth century cowboy looked like (perhaps modified by memory or the market? This chap also looks rather clean-shaven and pale-faced. Or am I just recycling someone else’s mythical construct of the stubbled cowboy with leathery hide?)
But however far away from reality, we can at least get some truth-adjacent observations on the cowboy’s hat. This cowpuncher’s hat seems a little small, but perhaps in a situation like…I forget what I was going to say.
The brim seems to be the most important part of the hat anyhow, to keep the sun off…yes, I know what I said about tans, but only a very few cowboys, mostly on television, wore hats broad enough to shade their arms.
Another part of the cowboy wardrobe that can be observed in both early and late postcards of the Wild West are chaps, those protective leggings you may have observed various cowpokes wearing in earlier parts of this column.
Their popularity on postcards, though, is due to another sort of joke which also goes well back before the mid-nineteenth century. She does have the right hat, though, and that’s what counts. (It doesn’t seem big enough to prevent a third degree suntan. Zorro never had to deal with these things.)
At the height of the high white flight of stairs was a small landing and a tall wooden door. Bott and his crew studied it for a moment without detecting spikes, poisoned nails, or opening for projectiles. It lacked even a knocker with a nasty expression. One hand on a grenade, Bott turned the knb and walked through.
“Well, when UI milk the president into his own hat!” cried Louba.
Light blue walls were hung with gold draperies. Under each set of curtains sat a handsome golden chair with a blue cushion. Between each display f chair and drapes was another plain white wooden door.
“Leastways, we gets ta rest our foots,” noted Louba, heading for a throne.
Chlorda raised one gold hand. “Don’t, dear. If either of you deposits your poundage on one of those, we’ll have shiny kindling.”
“Neato squeato,” said Bassada, thrusting one hand down the collar of the aristocrat’s gown. “Jes’ right fer toastin’ shiny tiny toes.”
Bott was studying the doors. Bolted to each doorframe, above the actual entryway, was a row of brass letters, different on each. Bott could read none of these: “NOT THIS WAY”, “THIS DOOR AND TWO LEFT TURNS AND YOU’RE FREE”, or “VERY HUNGRY WEIRNETS BACK HERE.”
“Ow!”
He turned to find the gold sitting on the floor next to one of the chairs. “I don’t mind going plop if it entertains little brains.” She said, rubbing one hip as she rose. “But you might’ve smashed my lunch.”
“I was over here, Teeny Top,” said Louba, giving the hangings around another chair a yank, and stepping back to see if anything happened.
“Don’t care where ya sits,” said Bassada, easing herself gingerly onto the seat of another chair. “Long’s it ain’t me face.”
“You’d have to wash your face,” snapped Chlorda.
“Flallop!” Louba spun to face them, looking from one to another. “Still got that rope on ya, do ya, Cap’n?” She rubbed both hips vigorously.
Bott set his back against a door labeled ‘GRENADE STORAGE”. “We’re not alone. Did it feel like an insect bite?”
“Whoops!”Bassada jumped out of the chair. “If it’s a bug, it’s got mighty educated fingers!”
”Let’s leave, shall we?” Chlorda reached for a door marked ‘THIS IS A SHOWER WITH BOILING WATER.”
“No!” Bott shouted. “We’re a crew, remember? Over here! All of you!”
He shoved a hand in one pocket as the Klamathans grouped around him. “We’ve got one or more invisible characters in here with us.” His fingers ground together; he lowered his voice. “They’re here to force us through one of these….”
The gold’s hair floated forward a little on the left side. Bott pushed her away and reached out with his handful of crushed berries. The temptation to go for the face was resisted; farther down, there might be cloth which would hold a stain.
A dark blue smudge hung in the air for a moment. When Chlorda and Louba lunged, it disappeared.
“He’s runnin’ for it!”
“Watch what door it opens!”
The smudge showed again for a moment as its wearer looked back. This second second was the one too many. Three bodies collided at that point.
“Don’t kill it!” Bott had a grenade out in case there was evidence of a larger group. “It may be useful.”
“It’s got hair,” said Bassada, groping the invisible prisoner. “Useta have two ears!”
“I think I’ve found a swotf!” Chlorda drew something from below the smudge.
“Think I know what I found, too.” Louba pulled out a dagger she had never drawn in self-defense. “Mebbe I’ll keep it, as a souvenir.”
The Klamathans moved closer as the body struggled. Louba thumped the top of its presumed head. “Nah, more fun if I leaves it on. Cap’n’s right; he might be useful.”
“Don’t grab,” snarled the blue. “Yez’ll get yer turn.”
“I was going to check its pockets,” said Chlorda, with some dignity. “I…what’s that?”
“That” was a bump in the previously flat carpet. As they watched, it rose into a hill. “Bet back!” Bott ordered, rather unnecessarily as they began to slide. “Take him with you!”
“Hooptydoo!” Louba fell backward. “Who yanked the rug frum under me toes?”
Something hissed. Bott yanked open the satchel and dropped the grenade back in. “Where’s the rope? Did we bring it?”
“Here ‘tis,” said Louba, reaching into a pocket. “Want us ta truss him up?”
“No.” Bott took the rope; he hoped it was long enough. :Just stand right there. Bassada, you go to that corner. Chlorda, that one. Come in as the rug comes in. Pass the rope along.”
The hill continued to rise until the sides were nearly vertical. It did not fill the room. “Don’t let it tip.” He finished his loop of rope. “Keep moving.”
The lump, still hissing, continued to rie. Louba’s face shone with hope as she turned it toward the ceiling. The end of the rope came back around to Bott, and he slid it through the loop.
“Okay. Keep moving. Pull it tight and make sure to keep it above the edges of the carpet.
His heels lifted from the floor. There wasn’t much left of it but a large hole, which had stopped hissing. “Hop to it, Cap’n!” Bassada roared.
“Hoopta!” Louba agreed.
Gold hands gripped the rope just below his. Bott hoped it was long enough to accommodate all four passengers. He also hoped whatever gas was filling this cloth bubble was light enough to lift three Klamathans at once. He frowned. And an invisible saboteur as well?
His hope held, as did the rope. All his crew swung in the air. Louba was kicking at the far end. “Sorry, feller! Crew only.”
“Let him get his own balloon,” Bott called down.
“Lala!” Chlorda noted, as the ceiling opened above them. Bott leaned back to see where they were going. Knowing when to let go was going to be crucial. If they were given a chance for that at all, of course.
He forgot to let go. “Fazzlepig!” snarled Bassafa, as her eyes cleared the opening. Chlorda sighed.
It was a vast, beautiful, white room sprinkled with light grey cubes, cones, and cylinders. Bott also felt a mite discouraged at seeing this chamber again, but called down, “If we hang on, we might pass through this ceiling, too.”
“Gonna make a heckuva target,” Bassada told him.
“Captain?” Chlorda’s voice sounded congested. “Was that here before?”
She was pointing up. “Flallop!” Louba shouted.
Bott was too close to the bulge of the balloon to look straight up, and hate to wait until they had risen above the cylinders and cones, at which point the ship was too big for him to miss.
It was a BBB-44; whether it was THE BBB-44 was another question. The cargo ramp was down. “Don’t jump,” he ordered. “It may be a hologram.”
The loud hiss did not come from his crew. “Somethin’ up there’s real enough ta pop our balloon,” Louba pointed out.
“Okay, change the plan a bit,” Bott called down. “Jump!”
He obeyed himself on the word of command, considering the possibility that the ship was real but the cargo ramp was a hologram. The theory was abandoned as he landed hard on the platform. He clawed himself up before his crew could drop on him, and looked for signs that this might actually be the Dragonshelf.
“Don’t let her come along,” gasped Bassada, landing next to Chlorda. “She’ll tip it over.”
“Everyone in this crew has a role to play,” Chlorda informed her, hauling her up toward the body of the ship. “We might need an anchor.”
Bott left them to it, and raced to the cockpit. Experience in dozens of spacecraft had given him the ability to recognize any vehicle he’d flown in before. The contours of a seat, the feel of the controls, a combination of things on the periphery of vision that he could not have listed if asked—a light here, a reflection there—all combined to tell him this was NOT Nubry’s ship.
Looking up and finding the console before him was bright red with knobs shaped like flowers helped, too.
“Quite the decorator, yer sweetie,” noted Bassada, joining the captain.
“This isn’t the Dragonshelf.” Bott rose from the seat. “It’s another trick. We….”
He fell back into the seat as the ship jerked. “’At a trick too?” Louba demanded, “Or is we movin’?”
“One way to find out,” he said, leaning toward the control console.
“Do you think you can play with these toys?” Chlorda pushed past her larger companions to plop into the co-pilot seat.
“If they’re functional. I can fly anything when I’m sober and I haven’t had a drink in three days.”
He shifted a blue blossom; the shipped turned right and dipped. A grinning face appeared in the center of the flower, but he decided to ignore this. He pressed a long yellow bloom forward. The ship picked up speed.
“They….” The ship bounced, in response to no command of his.
“We ain’t alone!” Bassada dropped into another seat and pointed at a screen.
Asecond ship, guns still firing, zipped around the BBB-44. Bott sucked in his breath, then nodded. It was a replica of his own pirate ship: just the thing to amuse an Emperor. Put him under attack by a ship he might hesitate to destroy.
Bott did not feel like amusing His Imperial Worship. Judging by the other blossoms, the ones that controlled the guns should be down her, just to the right.
“Hey! ‘Ey’re callin’ us!” Bassada peered at a monitor. “Wanna see?”
It was part of the show, of course. There would be replicas of his old crew, and perhaps him as well, to plead their case. He could take it. “We’ll listen.”
She tried a couple of flowers before finding the right one. A small screen lit up, showing the cockpit of his old ship crewed with a number of nude Nubrys, looking as if they’d been liberally sprinkled with red pepper. “In the name of Thomas, Lord Fairfax,” they ordered, I unison, “Stop following us. We are taking the library ship to a safe place. Once we find it.”
Bott’s first impulse was to fire. Then he called, “Can we reply?”
“Could ‘n’ should,” Bassada replied, twisting another flower.
“Hailing the librarians,” Bott called. “Let’s look for the Dragonshelf together. Our two ships together ought to e able to blow holes in this little shooting gallery.”
The ship bounced underneath him again. “That was our last warning shot, Bott!” the Nubrys intoned. “Beware. We are armed with peteseeging missiles. Are we? Yes, we are!”
“Duno if bluetush pushed the wrong petal,” said Louba, leaning over the screen, “But it looks to me like ‘ey don’t has any ears switched on, Bottsy Cap’n.”
“They wouldn’t, of course.” Bott pulled the ship to dodge a direct shot, and reached for what he assumed were the firing flowers.
Every now and then, when I feel like living dangerously, I consider writing a series called “Is That Still Funny?”, in which I would examine the comedy that made me laugh when I was growing up. I have it all figured out: how I will guard myself against laughing simply from nostalgia, how we will skirt the issue of whether something can be offensive AND funny (and how many comedians have banked on getting the balance just right), and so on.
One of the problems with this is that I grew up watching almost exclusively comedy, from sitcoms to stand-up, from Saturday morning cartoons to Saturday afternoon showings of Abbot and Costello movies and, of course, the omnipresent Three Stooges shorts (which, for those of you watching them on television today, were actually run in their entirety ad commercials were stuck in BETWEEN them.)
The sheer variety of the offerings, which necessitates taking into consideration the comedy writers as well as costumes and sets, makes the whole thing impractical. Then you work in the question of catchphrases (as we used to label memes). These are a comedy staple going back decades, and almost certainly centuries, and each generation is mystified by the catchphrases of those before and those after. As “Vas You Dere, Sharlie” gave way to “Tain’t funny, McGee” to “And awaaaay we go” to “Verrry interesting” to “Can we talk?”, youngsters have looked on puzzled as their elders dissolved into helpless laughter.
So you will probably not be seeing me review Captain Nice or TomTerrific or Donald Kaul here. Unless I lose all sense of responsibility and start in on the research again. (I have tried. Erma Bombeck and Alan King, by the way, held up pretty well, while Space Kidettes did not.)
HOWEVER, just to hint at the difficulties, here is a quiz based on some comic mainstays of my formative years. If you know these from your own research into comic archaeology, good for you. If you REMEMBER all these, welcome to what I prefer to call Late Middle Age.
QUESTIONS
Q1.What were the names of the two seagulls Red Skelton used to impersonate?
Q2.What member of the animal kingdom was Dick Martin, of Rowan & Martin, justifiably proud he could imitate?
Q3.What creature spent Saturday mornings foiling Dick Dastardly and Muttley (in their Flying Machines?)
Q5.Who perpetrated knock knock jokes with Captain Kangaroo as his straight man?
Q6.What animal starred in another joke fad, often involving Tarzan or toenail polish or root beer?
Q7.Popular Italian comedian Topo Gigio made many an appearance on the Ed Sullivan show. What was especially notable about this very short media darling?
Q8.What singing group turned a popular comedy show into a recording career, in the eyes of some fans eclipsing the Beatles?
Q9.What singing group turned a hit Christmas song into a never-ending series of animated cartoons and movies?
It is with shock that I note the death, at 102 oerthereabouts, of another Book Fair buddy, perhaps one of the most significant, Nathalie F. Alberts. I am sorry the obituary did not mention (or I didn’t catch it) who put the H in “Nathalie”, but she probably spent a great deal of time over her century explaining that it was there. She was the great-grandchild of a man named Eliphalet, though. so perhaps the family LIKED to let people know how to spell names.
Nathalie was not shy about letting people know things, and that is how I got to know her. When the Newberry Library was going through a thin patch, she would tell the institution her great-grandfather helped bring into existence that what they needed was a big book sale. She had volunteered at one her local hospital had sponsored since World War II and she knew it would help bring the neighborhood into the building, raise useful money, and help books from being tossed in th garbage.
She explained this so often, in fact, that the Library decided to go ahead and have a book sale, just to prove to her it wouldn’t bring in enough money to bother with, so she would maybe shut up and let THEM decide how to raise money. Nathalie was always willing to put hr own money where her mouth was (I wonder whatever became of the huge banner she had printed and hung over a bit of the Newberry that didn’t get finished in the big renovation of the early 80s) so she bought an ad I the newspaper, hunting for Book far Volunteers. This caught the eyes of Evelyn J. Lampe, another woman who was not shy about explaining things, especially how to run a book sale. The result was in the low five figures, roughly ten times what the real fundraisers had expected, and the Book Fair Era began.
Nathalie was also one to invest sweat equity, and for years thereafter, she would show up at the loading dock with her SUV packed with book donations she had picked up. The tall, perky lady in blue jeans was a learning experience for staff and volunteers at the Newberry. “She doesn’t ACT like a millionaire!” one of her fans said of her.
We saw less of her as time went on; some busybody doctor probably told her not to risk her back picking up boxes of books. But she would still turn up at library events. No stodgy wheelchair for Nathalie, who drove a small electric golf cart with an antenna that sported a squirrel tail.
Was it an SUV loaded with books or that golf cart with the vinyl leopard skin seat that drove her through the pearly gate of the Great Golden Ultimately? I hope they found her something to do when she got there. Nathalie was also not the type ever to let herself get bored, and she may be organizing an event just inside the gates right now.
“Now, Mr. Edison, about this latest contraption of yours….”
“Yes. I call it the ‘autopen’. You sign your name on this template and load it into the machine, and the stylus follows that signature to sign it as many times as needed. It should be a godsend to the busy executive who must sign a stack of form letters. He can tend to important business while the machine….”
“I understood that, Mr. Edison. What I don’t understand is why my partner, William DeHavilland Smith, tried it and your ‘autopen’ wrote out an invoice for twenty horseshoes.”
“It what?”
“Our office boy, Willie Callahan, took a turn, and the pen wrote ‘Stop giving me the Willies!’’
“I don’t….”
“My own name is Fowler, Mr. Edison. That pen wrote ‘Those other guys had bad handwriting, but yours is worse’.”
“I apologize. I’ll take it back and try to find out what….”
“By no means, Mr. Edison. We’d like to make an offer on an exclusive use of your invention.”
“But it doesn’t….”
“Bill Smith got a bill from the blacksmith, Willie Callahan got a joke for being the second William to try the machine, and I was told that my handwriting was FOULER than theirs. I know any number of writers who will pay plenty to own an ‘autopun’.”
Bott hit the floor, and had enough experience by now to scoot out of the way before looking to see where he’d landed. The most immediate threat was coming down the chute.
“Wheeee-boomps!” shouted Louba, legs spreading left and wide as she tumbled toward the floor. ”Ah…yoo-hah! Wanna watch where ‘em knee bones goes?”
“Felt ‘em?”demanded Bassada, rolling off the expanse of overalls. “Troo all ‘at flab?”
“Got tender flab,” the green replied, rolling to get out of Chlorda’s way and, incidentally, to land on top of her blue companion.
”Git off!” Bassada ordered. “Ain’t heard a gold go splat fer nigh onto a fortni’t.”
As Chlordis landed, aiming unsuccessfully for either of her colleagues. Bott studied this new compartment. They were in a black box, the walls on the left and right punctuated by vast red-framed windows. Thick glass gave a view of red trees. Silver bolts and screwheads formed a double line above the floor on the otherwise blank black wall ahead of them. Behind was a black wall where a circular opening near the ceiling was now closing.
“Spose ‘is’s a doorbell,” said Louba, pressing her thumb on a red button near her elbow.
Bott opened his mouth to object but the screech that followed was not of his making. The red trees in the windows zipped right along toward the entrance end of the chamber.
“Hoo-ha!” The green clapped her hands. “Like to see ‘em akhain ketch us now!”
“Better brace ourselves.” The gold scooted backward to a corner of the back wall. “Wherever we’re going, we’re going to hit hard.”
Bassada sat back, slapping the tops of her thighs. “Sit on me lap, Cap’n! I’ll give ya lotsa cushions!”
Bott frowned, and moved over to a window. “Sumpm?” inquired Bassada.
“Prolly got a whiff o’ yer lap,” Louba told her.
Bott shook his head. He had, in fact, not smelled anything in particular, but now he did. “Smoke,” he said, without alarm.
“Movin’ too fast, ha?” inquired Bassada, crawling to the window. “Burnin’ rubba?”
“Not moving at all.” Bott kicked at a wisp of smoke rising from the floor. “It’s the scenery that’s moving. Another bilstim fake.”
Bassada pointed several not random fingers from Louba to the floor. “Yer the one started it. Fling yerself over ‘em holes.”
Bott moved past them to the fourth wall. “Everybody pick up some tools?”
“Won’t ketch me passin’ up what’s useful an’ free.” The blue took an assortment of implements from about her person. “Let’s try ‘em out!”
Bott frowned from the wrench to the bolts. This had been planned. The tools had been too convenient to the place they’d be needed. But the smoke was building up.
“Tink ya kin get it ‘fore we gits smoked like lumpucks in peco sauce?” the green demanded.
“I can open anything when I’m sober,” the captain replied, waving smoke away from his face. “And I haven’t had a drink in three days.”
“I have small hands,” the gold put in. “Let me have a screwdriver.”
“No time fer that,” Bassada replied. “Gotta use ‘em to get out first.”
There were eight bolts and seven screws holding the door down. Bott felt the door strain as he turned the last screw.
“Grab that!” he shouted, dodging as the sharp metal piece flew free. The panel shot to the ceiling and started back down. Louba threw herself up and under, getting both hands on it before it could slam back down.
“Got it!”
“Can you hold it?” Bott crawled forward to examine the triple row of bolts and screws at the base of the panel waiting a wrenchlength behind the first.
“’Til Blues learn which end ta pray outa, Cap’n.”
“Jes hold that pose.” Bassada came around to kick her.
“Be ready to grab this one, whatever it decides to do.”
What it did was what the first panel had done: shot to the ceiling and then started to plunge back down. Bassada scooted in to catch the descending sheet of metal.
“Minds me o’ me firs’ job,” she said, spreading her legs for support. “Holdin’ a big ol’ bucko lamp fer Empra Drandl whilst he trims his toenails.”
“Whatever became of Emperor Drendel?” asked Chlorida, stepping over Bott as he started on the third panel.
“Dummy choked on one o’ ‘em pearls he useta toss up an’ ketch in his mout’.” Bassada sighed. “We had such a nice plan ta kill him, too.”
The third panel worked like the first two, and gave as little additional space. None of the Klamathans could release their grip without danger of being bounced back into the original chamber. Bott had to work around ankles and shins of assorted colors as he worked on the fasteners at the bottom of the fourth. The gold legs seemed to be trembling. How heavy were these panels? As it happened, the fourth door worked exactly the same way, so he was able to find out.
“We could use a coupla copier o’ yer sweetie,” Louba noted. “Coupla akhain, mebbe.”
“This has to…be the…last one.” Emperors could count. There were no bolts and screws now, which was fortunate, as he lacked a way to turn them. There WAS a pink knob, not coincidentally as the level of Bott’s nose. For lack of anything else to do with his time he took hold of this with his teeth, and pulled.
“Good job, Cap’n,” said Louba, as the door fell away and fresh air rushed into the chamber.
“And now what?” asked Chlorda, shifting under the weight of her door.
“Lemme show yez. Grab ‘is for me, green and globe-shaped. I’ll grab Cap’n’s for him.”
“Well, put me pants in a pot an’ call ‘em supper! Blue brains works!”
A blue hand reached up under Bott’s panel. “Now git ta one side, Cap’n, whilst I jumps troo.”
Bott turned, backing into the flashing lights of the next room, but did not let go of the door. “What about the others?”
Bassada pushed her tongue up inside her left cheek and shrugged.
“Gangway, blue bottom!”
Louba let go of her door and lunged, catching both blue and gold as she came down. The doors came down as well, but she was quicker, and the four refugees rolled together, bounced like a remf ball off the fourth door.
“Yick,” noted Bassada, sitting up. “What I had in mind all along, o’course: a mout’ful o’ beauty mud.”
Bott rose to consider what else they’d fallen into. It was another box, with mirrored walls and a mud floor. Colored lights clashed and combined from lamps in the ceiling to provide light and confusion. A small black box was motionless on the ceiling among these flashing lights.
“Better move,” he said.
“Well, toss a feather over the fire!” Chlorda rose to consider herself in the mirror. “Is this my color, I ask you?”
“Anyting sloppy suits yez,” Bassada replied, reaching up to squeeze several pounds of terrain from her hair. She turned to a corner where she was nodded to by dozens of Bassadas.
“We….” Bott considered the ceiling again. The lights had been flashing randomly. Now, accidentally or on purpose, they were beginning to synchronize.
“Come on, crew,” he called. “The emperor…going to…stick to…what’s the….”
The lights were flashing in unison. When they were all off, there was no light in the room and, apparently, no sound.
“Good f…six years young….” Chlorda arched one leg as she studied her reflections and the reflections of those reflections.
The Klamathans were completely engrossed in the mirrors. Bott watched them appear and disappear as they assumed various poses, and did not realize he had been standing still watching them watch themselves until the head of an akhain joined the scene. The creature stepped…or did it? Dozens of multi-colored Klamathans and akhain stood frozen in assorted aspects as the lights flashed on and off. Were they moving, or were they not?
His money said they were moving. He reached into the satchel and fingers the three remaining grenades. Beneath these, his hands found the plate he’d shoved in there earlier.
“Keep m….” he tried to order. Then he turned and spun the plate toward the ceiling. Each flash showed heads turning to follow it as each flash saw it higher and higher in its arc.
It split the box in a spray of sparks. “Now move!” Bott bellowed. The box had been the timer: all the lights were on now. A hammer hit the mud at his left; Bott ducked under the axe. The akhain fought like the guerillas of Jermockh: one weapon to knock the enemy down, the second to knock him off.
The company of four refugees and six akhain all fought for the use of a tall hill in the mud, at the top of which was a srtaircase with a glowing door at its peak. Bott nodded: those hooves might have an advantage in the mud, but if he could get the mud off them, his feet should be better at stairs.
Clawing his way up through the mud, he found his hand on something white and solid. Not a stair, it was another rack of bones. At the end of the arm was a hand with a gun. “Keep moving!” he shouted, raising the gun toward the akhain. He could handle any weapon when he was sober. He hoped.
The gun had four barrels, three gauges, two buttons, and a trigger. Raising this at the advancing horde, he found three of the barrels pointed at him. He turned it around. Three barrels were still pointing his way.
“Take this!” he roared, and threw it into the face of the foremost akhain, stooping toward a mired Chlorda. Louba grabbed the aristocrat out of the way, and noted “Gack!”
With four loud bangs, the gun broke into eight pieces, spraying out shrapnel that smelled worse than the pits of rotting lumpucks he’d crawled through to escape Gederah. The akhain found this irresistible, clustering around the weapon’s bits.
Turning, Bott found himself shindeep in the mud. The point of this room was obviously to stay in motion. One of the akhain was already down to his haunches as he studied the smoking gun.
“C’mon, Bottsy Cap’n!” Bassada got her hands under his arms and hauled him free of the mud, tossing him onto one shoulder and dealing him what was no doubt meant to be an encouraging pat on the fanny, though the echo bounced around the room. Cheering, all three Klamathas reached the top of the stairs with their captain, and plunged through the door.
“Good…job,” Bott called.
“Are you all right, Captain?” Chlorda inquired, as Bassada deposited him on the floor.
Hs stomach had not been prepared for landing hard on a solid blue shoulder. “Been better,” he said.
“I hope there were no drugs in the food.”
“No, I….”
“Stan’ back, stan’ back.” Louba pushed the aristocrat back. “Took pre-med but they woon’t let a green inta medical exams. I’ll check out our Cap’n. Jus’ bend over an’ I’ll take yer tempercher.”
Bott squinted at her. “Where’s your thermometer?” “Thermometer?”
“Good afternoon, Madame. What can I do for you today?”
“I’m not sure. I found these things in a ditch but when I took them home, I noticed that this, particularly, seemed to attract small birds.”
“Ah yes. I recognize the decoration style. What you very likely have there, Madame, are some of the things Cinderella took to the ball the night she danced with Prince Charming for the first time.”
“Oh, um.”
“Yes, Madame?”
“Well, I had a little trouble with a pair of ruby slippers I found on the beach once. But I guess if I don’t have the glass slippers….”
“No, Madame. They preserved those at the palace for generations until one generation decided they looked too old-fashioned.”
“So these things would…. Wait. You mean this is….”
“Yes. Cinderella’s, er, upper underwear.”
“This changes my whole….”
“Everything you have no doubt has a few magical properties. That garment, for example, has the disadvantage that it will completely disappear every midnight.”
“Possibly an advantage. So this tiara will also vanish every midnight?”
“Like the other garments, it disappeared and fell away from its wearer, and was lost because she was running. She could have gone back and found everything in the morning.”
“It looks nice. If I sold it, the person would need to know whose it was and why it wouldn’t stay in the jewelry box.”
“Correct, Madame. But the non-clothing artifacts will have other magic properties, as the Fairy Godmother felt appropriate. That tiara has the enchantment that while you’re wearing it, your nearest and dearest will not recognize you.”
“I understand what that did for Cinderella, but what’s the advantage to anyone else?”
“It would depend on circumstances, Madame. I can make you a nice offer on it, as I may eventually have a customer who needs just that service. Was there anything else?”
“Well. There’s this charming drawstring bag, but I haven’t been able to get it untied so far.”
“Ah! I believe you must have Cinderella’s indispensable.”
“Her, er, ah….”
“Her reticule, or handbag, Madame.”
“Ah! There’s something inside it, obviously. Is there a trick to getting it open? Or do I just say ‘abracadabra’ or ‘bibbidi…. Oh!”
“You know more about this than I expected, Madame. Do be careful. Everything in there no doubt came from the hand of the Fairy Godmother, and will have its own powers.”
“This has to be a coin purse. Looks like pennies.”
“Allow me…yes, very old pennies. I would almost guess that this was the Fairy Godmother’s own reticule; these are all from her territory. Perhaps she thought of the reticule at the last moment and just slipped it into her goddaughter’s skirt pocket, knowing she could….”
“Is this for smelling salts?”
“A lady would never have gone out without her vinaigrette. Don’t sniff it, Madame, until we….”
“I know better than THAT, I hope. What would happen if I opened this fan?”
“It depends on the power given to it, Madame. It might summon up a breeze, a rain shower, a flock of songbirds, or a spell to make someone eager to know what the user is hiding behind it.”
“VERY useful to young ladies at a ball. And a ring! With initials inside it. Why would Cinderella have been carrying an engagement ring to the ball?”
“Another reason to believe it belonged to the Fary Godmother hersel…no, wait, Madame!”
“It fits!”
“Madame? If you are invisible, Madame, say ‘Hello’ or ‘Help’. If you can hear me but not speak, Madame, take the ring off. No? I will pay you for these things, Madame, if you return. I believe I know someone who would like the tiara, and for some reason I always have buyers for disappearing lingerie.”
Blogsy Babbles 