Dr. Metablog

Dr. Metablog is the nom de blague of Vivian de St. Vrain, the pen name of a resident of the mountain west who writes about language, books, politics, or whatever else comes to mind. Under the name Otto Onions (Oh NIGH uns), Vivian de St. Vrain is the author of “The Big Book of False Etymologies” (Oxford, 1978) and, writing as Amber Feldhammer, is editor of the classic anthology of confessional poetry, “My Underwear” (Virago, 1997).

DR. METABLOG’S
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  • Wood Words

    I suspect that I know more about wood than most laymen, partly as a consequence of Uncle Al owning and operating the sawmill for all those years. And then there's my own independent enthusiasm for trees: planting and transplanting, gathering and saving seeds. Nevertheless, The Age of Wood by Roland Ennos presented amateur me with a truckload of brand new information. It's a book that re-tells the history of civilization through the use of wood and wood products. A very good book, well worth the perusal.

    Moreover, Ennos introduced me to a number of savory new words — words that no doubt I should have known and which are probably known to true woodophiles but that are novel to me.

    For example: the newfangled word anisotropy, which is defined as the property of a material that displays different traits along different axes, as for example lumber, which is much easier to split along its grain than across it. Because wood is anisotropic and so tough sideways, it has many uses that it wouldn't have had if merely isotropic.

    Anisotropy, as a collection of sounds, does not appeal to me as much as some of Ennos's gritty, oldfangled words. I am happy to make the acquaintance of the word bodger, which is a wood carver or turner, but specifically a person who makes chairs out of beechwood. What a wonderful word, though, I confess, difficult to work into the conversation. Also hard to insinuate into the daily exchange is futtock, which is a curved piece of timber forming the lower part of the frame of a wooden ship. Futtock should not be confused with its near-neighbor puttock, which is a kind of kite, and a word which Shakespeare uses as an insult. Both futtock and puttock sound vaguely naughty, perhaps because of their proximity to buttock. I also like strake, which is a continuous band of hull planking, and which sometimes sports a rove, which is "a groove along the lower inside edge of each strake." I admit that I had never heard of nacelles, which are the outer casing of an early wooden aircraft engine. I imagine that nacelles are as obsolete as wooden airplanes, as is monocque, a type of construction in which the outer skin carries a major part of the stresses. Who knew?  I was familiar with the word sheave but I didn't know that it also is the rotating wheel inside a pulley. A duogong is part of the network of wooden supports in traditional Chinese wood-frame buildings. 

    A trullo is a traditional Apulian drystone hut with a conical roof.

    I have actually seen such buildings with my own eyes, but I either never learned or had forgotten their name. A chalumeau is a single-reed wind instrument, a forerunner of the clarinet. Some disrespectful people call a chalumeau a mock-trumpet. A cruck is a piece of curved timber which supports the roof of a building. Steills are, believe it or not, "one of the deep pools or steills in the Tweed," though why the Tweed should have specific word for its pools is a mystery to me.  A tomol is a plank-built boat invented by the Chumash people of southern California. It was "the single most technologically complex watercraft built in North America and as such deserves to be better known." Sometimes "tomol" appears as "tomolo." Both spellings are strange and splendid.
  • From my birth in 1939 until I fled to Ithaca in 1956, I lived on East 9th Street, in a section of Brooklyn that had no other name than "Flatbush." But all is flux, as Heraclitus said in a very different context, and now the undistinguished neighborhood of my youth has been upgraded to pretentious "Kensington."  Moreover, the adjacent section of Flatbush through which I early morning shambled to fabled Erasmus Hall H. S., consisting of a large stock of handsome old Victorian homes, has also been re-christened. It's now "Ditmas Park."  

    Ditmas Park is where Emma Straub's novel, Modern Lovers (2016) situates itself. It is, she claims, "the only neighborhood in New York City that felt like the suburbs."  A sentence of praise or an instance of wicked irony, one might ask?

    Suburb or not, Modern Lovers does not take place in the Flatbush of my youth. Yes, streets retain their familiar names (Rugby, Argyle, Stratford, Newkirk, Ocean Avenue). In fact, one of the modern lovers, a fiftyish wife and mother, works out of a real estate office at the corner of Cortelyou Road and East 16th Street, exactly where old Mr. Hart used to repair the fragile gears of my three-speed. But all is yuppified. None of the children in this novel go to PS 217 or PS 139 or Erasmus (in fact, these anchors of my old neighborhood go unmentioned). Instead, the young 'uns attend expensive "Whitman," an elite private academy. The young lady who is at the center of the story has both a 'mum" and a "mom" — a circumstance that no doubt occurred 70 years ago, but no one would have talked about it, at least openly. It's Flatbush, all right, but where are the Italians and Irish and the Jews?  A decade ago I toured PS 217 and couldn't help being struck by the "diversity" of the student body — Turks, Syrians, Russians, central and south Americans, Asians both east and south, and of course Afro-Americans. These folks don't appear in Modern Lovers. Nor do the ubiquitous Hasids. No wonder Emma Straub likes the slice of Brooklyn that she describes as suburban.  Here's a Brooklyn novel that's more Updyke-y than Fuchs-y.

    Modern Lovers tells a warm, approachable, sound, humorous-to-slightly-satirical story. It's modern, in the sense that the lovers aren't young and aren't searching for mates; instead, they're middle-aged and trying to repair troubled marriages. I don't doubt that Modern Lovers hits some readers' bull's eyes –  even if it misses my tired old target. For me, it was a story of considerable sociological interest — an instance of how the decades have transmogrified my Flatbush into hip Ditmas Park.

    At the end of the novel, the entrepreurial ladies start a new restaurant, Hot and Sweet, which bakes perfect apple turnovers and supersedes that old frayed  Cortelyou Jewish deli.

  • The rip-roaring conclusion to Dodge City (1939), is marvelously dumb. The bad guys, led by really nasty villain Jeff Surrett (Bruce Cabot) have jumped out of the burning railroad car and onto their horses. They are going to make a getaway, we assume. But for some reason, the six schmegeggees don't ride away from the railroad tracks. Instead, they continue exactly parallel to the tracks, allowing Wade Hatton (Errol Flynn) to get out his rifle and pick them off, one after another.

    All that the black hats needed to do was to hang a right and ride off into the brush, or just rein up, and let the train go by. The train is on a railroad track.  But no. Not these guys. They keep on riding alongside the train until they're all shot. End of movie, but not the end to my astonishment. I'm baffled that the director, Michael Curtiz of all people, allowed such a brainless ending. 

    Also: Errol Flynn, with his anachronistic 1930s mustache and condescending smile, was so goody-goody and upstanding that I felt a strong urge to piss on his leg.

     
    Vintage '40s Errol Flynn Dodge City Western Movie Photo | #43132146
  • Starokonstantinov

    Ukraine has been invaded and whole cities have been obliterated by the Putin dictatorship. It's tragic. Once again, I'm overwhelmingly grateful that my grandparents chose to pack up and leave the blighted Ukraine. It's a decision that has looked better and better with each passing year.  

    My father's family came from a Ukrainian "shtetl" called Starokonstantinov, or Alt Konstantin ("old Constantine"). As a youth, I overheard but did not understand conversations in Yiddish about a place that my grandparents called (phonetically) Xusantine-gebernia, where the X stands for a non-English deep guttural fricative. Seventy years ago I paid little attention to my eastern European ancestry. Now I'm fascinated.

    Where is Starokonstantinov?  What is a "shtetl?"

    I've just read Yohanan Petrovsky-Shtern's new (2014) and highly pertinent history, The Golden Age Shtetl (an oxymoronic title if there ever was one). Y P-S defines a shtetl as "an East European market town in private possession of a Polish magnate, inhabited mostly but not exclusively by Jews, and subject to Russian bureaucracy." Starokonstantinov, he claims, was a "quintessential shtetl." "My" ancestral shtetl lies in the western part of Ukraine, about 50 miles south of a line drawn between Lviv and Kyiv. Nowadays, it has a population of about 30,000 souls.

    I know that my grandfather's people lived in Starokonstantinov from the middle of the nineteenth century, but I have no idea when they first arrived — it might have been years or centuries before. The town itself is not an ancient foundation. It enters history only in the late 16th century when a Polish noble named Konstanty Ostrogski built himself a castle (which still survives) and took ownership of the surrounding area. Starokonstantinov was a "private town" — meaning that it was owned by the Ostrogski family for several hundred years. In its first years, Starokonstantinov was included in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. In 1569 it became part of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. In 1793, and for many years, even after my ancestors had struck out for the new world, it was a possession of the Russian Empire. Now it's in the independent Ukraine, and hoping to remain so.

    The history of Starokonstantinov is marked by a series of tragedies prior to the one now in progress. An early disaster was the Battle of Starokonstantinov in 1648, which was a key event in the Chmielnicki Massacres of 1648-49. Eastern rite Cossacks broke into the fortified town and killed all of its 130 Jewish families and as many Polish Roman Catholics as they could find. During the early part of the 18th century, the Haidamack massacre of Uman by Cossacks spilled over into other Ukrainian shtetls, including "mine." And then beginning in 1881 came the series of pogroms — anti-Jewish peasant riots provoked and tacitly supported by the Russian officialdom. In Starokonstantinov, there were 6611 Jews in 1847 and 9212 (61% of the total population) in 1897. (There would have been two more if my grandparents hadn't seen the light in 1895). During the Nazi occupation in 1942, virtually all the remaining Jewish population (6731 in 1939) was murdered. It's a troubled, tragic history.

    I'm not sure what it means to say that a town was wholly owned by Polish nobility. Did the Ostrogskis own all the land, or the land and some of the buildings? Did they administer the public works? The churches? Did they possess the surrounding farms?  Did they own, until they were freed in 1861, the serfs?  Most likely, each shtetl had its own particular form of ownership (the late medieval world was anything but standardized). Y P-S does not explain; perhaps he assumes it's common knowledge.

    Starokonstantinov occasionally makes an appearance in The Golden Age Shtetl.

    I had not realized how active my ancestors might have been in the vodka trade. "In Starokonstantinov, the possession of Countess Rzewuska, about fifty [Jewish-owned] inns and taverns yielded 67 percent of the town revenues." (Query: how and when did the shtetl pass from the Ostrogskis to the Rzewuskis, who were a very prominent and wealthy Polish family)? As far as I can tell, the "town revenues" went directly into the hands of the Polish overlords. In 1827, "Starokonstantinov Jews realized the that their efforts to prevent the draft of men for twenty to twenty five year terms in the Russian army [had failed], and the Jewish populace turned against their own kahal elders and attacked their houses." "Local police had to summon an additional army unit to suppress the outburst." (The "kahal" was a committee of prominent Jewish citizens who were the nominal governors [under Polish supervision] of the Jewish population.) In the first half of the nineteenth century, the divorce rate among Jewish couples in Starokonstantinov, was 16 percent. In larger cities, it was even higher (in Letichev it was 47 percent). Y P-S attributes the surprisingly high rate of failed marriages to the relative freedom of Jewish women and to the breakdown of traditional constraints as the Jewish population became increasingly urbanized. A major fire in Starokonstantinov in 1835 hastened the shtetl's decline. Russian travelers found Starokonstantinov and especially its roads deplorable. "A Russian army officer observed that Starokonstantinov is dirty beyond any measure: but 'if we bother ourselves to learn the reasons for this situation, we would perhaps find out that even the Jews, whom are usually blamed, have nothing to do with it…. To drive through the streets of the town is a real challenge, as there is no pavement. Stones once paving the road have long sunk into the soils. When it is raining, they do nothing but prevent movement.'" Mud season in Starokonstantinov must have been an annual challenge. Nevertheless, Starokonstantinovites were readers: a merchant estimated that in the shtetl there were "about 20,000 books, mostly prayer books, bible and bible commentaries, tractates on the Talmud and the Kabbalah." Y P-S thinks that this number must be a great exaggeration. But it's on the record that a merchant named Pinhas Yosef Bromberg from Starokonstantinov brought twenty Hebrew books with him while traveling on business to St Petersburg. 

    My great-grandfather was a participant in the commerce of Starokonstantinov. According to my father, he was a "factor."  A "faktor" (Yiddish from German) was essentially a middleman. My ancestor had a horse and a wagon (perhaps, I allow myself to fantasize in a moment of self-aggrandizement, two horses and two wagons). According to tradition, he mostly dealt in grain, but factors such as he bought and sold whatever was available: wood, coal, ribbons, calico, mirrors, bolts and screws, vodka and wine. They did much of their business at fairs and Starokonstantinov was famous for its very prominent fair.

  • A Brooklyn Memoir

    I read Imagining Robert, My Brother, Madness, and Survival by Jay Neugeboren for neighborhood and neighborly reasons. Its author is a 1955 graduate of fabled Erasmus Hall High School (I was class of 1956). Much of the story takes place in the area of Brooklyn now called Lefferts Gardens. Walkable, or at least bicyclable, from East 9 Street.

    It's a sad tale. Younger brother Robert went seriously off the psychological rails in his late teen years. Older brother Jay relentlessly chronicles his brother's lifetime of struggles. It becomes clear that modern medicine does not offer any remedy or hope to people with Robert's illnesses. The system relies on  ineffective drugs and ineffective therapies and what amounts to involuntary imprisonment. It's a painful, discouraging history.

    And it's also a good and moving book. Very sincere and very emotional. I confess to dropping an occasional tear.

    And yet I don't know whether it's right to expose a loved one to such public scrutiny. I myself wouldn't have made that choice. But I empathize with Neugeboren's tale, inasmuch as I know from personal experience that therapies for some forms of mental decay are no better now than they were during the Darkest Ages.

  • I read James' Portrait of a Lady in 1963 but never again until last week, so there had been a gap of almost three score years. During the interim, glaciers have melted, continents have subducted and conventional notions about what constitutes a "lady" have shifted quite marvelously. 

    After such an interval, it's not disgraceful for me to confess that I remembered very little of the novel and that even major plot points came as a shock and surprise. Moreover, I re-read the novel with a bit of prejudice, because I had recently learned that Theodore Roosevelt once met James and dismissed him as "a miserable little snob." If I hadn't been alerted by Roosevelt's back-of-the-hand slap, I would have recognized that Portrait of a Lady generates enough snobbery to power a nineteenth-century locomotive from Rome to Florence even hauling the book's entire cast of frequent travelers. It's a class-ridden novel in which lesser sophisticates are out-snobbed by superior sophisticates. Despite this unfortunate failing, Portrait of a Lady is a rather wonderful piece of writing.

    Let me further confess that I brought a second and more deeply-rooted prejudice to my re-reading. In the early 1960s, when I was a graduate student of "English and American Language and Literature" at a New England university, Henry James was at the apex of his critical reputation. He was "the Master." In fact, an appreciation (or devotion) to James became a sort of ticket of admission to the coterie of the literary elite. A touchstone. If you (that is, me) were able to appreciate and adore James's extraordinarily subtle judgements and discriminations and his sustained and intricate analyses of the velleities of social interactions, why then, you were one of the elect. But if you were baffled by his niceties and sometimes could not divine what the heck he was going on and on about, why then you weren't what James calls in Portrait "a person of sensibility." And if you weren't a person of sensibility, why in the living heck were you studying literary history at a university that had been home to establishment sophisticates since 1636?

    Not a James devotee, I managed to slip through the system without the disgraceful lacunae in my preparation coming to anyone's attention. And until this past week, I managed to keep my distance from Mr. Henry James. 

    But I may have made a mistake to have done so. I'd still say that Portrait of a Lady isn't up there in the stratosphere with Bleak House and Middlemarch, but it's still a darn good novel. It's not conventionally exciting; in fact, it's talky and static in the extreme. Nothing much happens. Isabel Archer talks with Henrietta and HJ analyses the conversation. Then someone goes to Gardencourt and has a long conversation with Lord Warburton. Then Lord W meets Countess C in Rome and they talk. Then Madame Merle, who, we are told, was born in Brooklyn and therefore ought to have known better, has a long conversation with Isabel Archer. Then someone meets someone else in a museum or a train station or a restaurant and they have a long conversation — once again dissected by HJ. Then they ride the rails to Florence and talk. Meanwhile Ralph Touchett is slowly dying and will continue die (and talk) for another five hundred pages. These various conversations are often oblique, with the most important points omitted or merely implied (to be grasped by persons of subtlety and sensibility). It's all so slow that I sometimes felt myself yearning for a good solid knife fight or at least a lengthy car chase. When Isabel finally tells enigmatic villainess Madame Merle that she doesn't want to see her ever again, I longed for her to spit it out with a a good round "fuck off" — but no such luck.

    And yet as mysteries are revealed in the last third of the novel, Portrait becomes undeniably exciting. Much is familiar; it seems as though James recapitulates the marriage of Dorothea Brooke and Eddie Casaubon in the misalliance of Isabel Archer and the "sterile dilettante" Gilbert Osmond. And also borrows the Pansy plot from the story of Honoria Dedlock. But I came to these insights, if they are insights, only in retrospect; while reading the novel, I was surprised and intrigued.

    I strongly object to the ending of the novel, which seemed to violate the trajectory of the plot. Surely Isabel has earned her freedom. To me, her continued bondage to propriety it seems cruel to both the character and to hopeful (but deceived) readers. Cruel, in fact, to the point of sadism. No doubt the conclusion tests a reader's sophistication, and no doubt if I read the voluminous commentary that the novel has engendered, the apparent cruelty of the conclusion would be be explained and justified. But I won't read about the commentary. I'm obviously not a "person of sensibility" and I prefer to remain unimproved, unenlightened, and pissed.

  • Friends and relations have been clamoring to know what I wore to the Oscar ceremony this year.  So here goes:

    My ensemble: plaid wool shirt by Woolrich; trousers by Lee ("Extreme Comfort" cut — smoky quartz color); white cotton "Gold Toe" socks by Costco; shoes by Hoka (orthopedic inserts by Dr. Scholl); leather belt by SlideBelts; foundational undergarments by Fruit of the Loom and Carhartt. Denim jacket by American Apparel. Accessories: eyeglasses by Kirkland Signature; hearing aids by Phonak. Traditional baseball cap by Otto ("one size fits most.")
     
    Hair by SuperCuts.
     
    Once again, I'd like to thank all the little people — my fashion consultants, suppliers, and supporters — for their imagination and hard work. I couldn't have done it without the entire team.
     
    Note.  Full disclosure: in fact, I didn't attend the actual awards ceremony. This ensemble is what I wore to watch the Oscars on TV. Well, that's not entirely true either. I forgot to watch the Oscars. But I did wear the outfit.
  • Senior Romance

    Young 'uns, I don't know that you entirely grasp the glamor and mystery of maturity (which in some jaded circles is called "old age.")  Let me tell you, the
    golden years are just chockablock full of sensual romance of a kind that you might not now appreciate. 

    Just the other day, for example, we were both instructed to make another visit to the phlebotomist (it seems hardly a month goes by that some specialist or other doesn't need to inspect a sample of our personal sanguineous fluids). 

    Being economical people, we scheduled our appointments for the same time, same place.

    Her blood draw was in anticipation of a knee replacement; mine for routine monitoring of my half-a-dozen annoying senior conditions.

    So there we were, side by side, in adjacent cubicles, stripping our sleeves for the venipuncture.

    I ask you, is there anything on earth more romantic than a senior couple experiencing simultaneous blood draws. Rapture, rapture! Joy and jollity!

    In a merrier world, the instant of venipuncture would have been accompanied with an orchestra of swelling music, perhaps Brahms. And there would have been candles; next time this happens, we'll surround ourselves with a whole Liberace of candelabras. Dozens of long stem red roses. Beakers of Veuve Cliquot '42.  An applauding audience of family and friends. 

    It would have been even more thrilling if my technician hadn't taken three tries to hit the mark. "Your vein rolled," she said accusingly, compromising ever so slightly the transcendent moment.

  • Of the many Brooklyn novels that I've read this last while, Big Man, by Jay Neugeboren, comes closest to home. Neugeboren was newborn in 1938, just a year before me, and he attended fabled Erasmus Hall High School, most likely graduating with the class of 1955 (I was '56). It's a mark of my ignorance of modern American letters that I had no idea that my near-classmate was the author of 24 books, most of them novels. Big Man was Neugeboren's first novel. 

    Close to home? Here are couple of sentences that will shiver the nostalgia timbers of wistful ex-Erasmians. 

    I walk down Church Avenue, past the Kenmore Theater. Across the street the old church, used to cut classes and sit in the graveyard….  In front of Garfields's Cafeteria all the guys hanging out with their broads and their puffed hair…. Guys with Erasmus jackets on. I keep walking. Past the firehouse and the Holy Cross schoolyard.

    Wow, it's a guided tour of the old neighborhood as it was in the 1950s. Who from Erasmus hasn't sprawled on the steps of the Dutch Reformed Church?

    The novel revolves around the 1951 basketball scandals, which were world-shaking news at the time. A number of New York City college players (CCNY, St. Johns, Fordham, LIU) fell into the clutches of shady gamblers and were paid to shave points.  A few were indicted and convicted. I wrote a few melancholy and disillusioned paragraphs about the scandals some years ago — here.

    In Big Man, Neugeboren tells the story through the eyes and mouth of a character named Mack Davis, who had been an upcoming star but is now, because he missed a couple of baskets, stuck in a dead-end job at an automated carwash. It's an ambitious conceit and a promising plot. Big Man, I regret to say, is not a very artistic piece of work, but what the heck! Neugeboren was only 25 or 26 when he wrote it and had had only a few years to recover from uninspiring Erasmus Hall English classes. 

    I confess that I was uncomfortable that Neugeboren wrote the novel in a black voice. I don't object in theory, because there's no earthly reason why a white novelist can't impersonate a black person, any more than male novelist can't speak as a female (or vice versa), or a young writer speak in the voice of an old. So wny was I troubled? I think it was because the voice that the novelist invented didn't seem genuine. It seemed "literary" — as though the Davis character had been heisted out of a  blaxploitation film. Occasional inadvertent lapses in the dialect were particularly painful to my ever-sensitive ears.

    Big Man reminds me how central basketball was to my adolescent life. I think if I had spent as much time and effort on my schoolwork as I did practicing my foul shots I might have been somebody. But I think I learned as much about life from basketball and its scandals as I did from any other 1950s phenomenon (such as the antics of "Tailgunner Joe" McCarthy). I'm grateful to Jay Neugeboren for preserving an important piece of my history and especially for bringing the old neighborhood right to the forefront.

  • It should be remembered and recorded that in October of 1960, Eleanor Roosevelt herself visited the home of my parents –my childhood home (539 East 9 Street in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn).

    I myself missed the occasion, alas. I was then living in Massachusetts, undergoing the first disorienting days of graduate school. But I know the story. 

    During the 1960 presidential campaign (John F. Kennedy versus "Tricky Dick" Nixon), JFK's Catholicism emerged as a divisive issue. It's hard to believe what a fuss was made about his religion, especially nowadays, when no one bothers themselves that Joseph Biden is not only a Roman Catholic, but a serious one at that (JFK's personal commitment to his religion was, let's say, nominal).

    Among Jewish voters, some of whom had grown up in Brownsville or Williamsburg or the Lower East side where Jewish-Irish conflict was a fact of life, there was a great deal of resistance to voting for JFK. And other Jewish voters, harking back to the old country, remembered Catholics as their antagonists and were hard put to vote for a candidate of that persuasion.

    It fell to the task of Mrs. Roosevelt to persuade these reluctant voters that they could and should cast a ballot for Kennedy. At the time, there was no one in America who had more credibility with Jewish populations than she. It was well known that Mrs. Roosevelt had lobbied her hesitant husband for more lenient policies toward "displaced" Jews

    I don't know how it came about that our living room was chosen as a site for Mrs. Roosevelt to meet with voters. I suspect that it was through my mother's extensive contacts with members of the League of Women Voters, an organization of which she was a stalwart volunteer. I know that my mother assembled 50 or so voters, almost all Jewish women, and seated or stood them in our very crowded second floor living room. Mrs. Roosevelt arrived, and as my father said to me later, she "dragged her ass" up two flights of stairs, spoke for 20 minutes, presumably in that upper-class nasal twang for which she was famous, answered a couple of respectful questions, and then limped back down to her car. And went on to the next venue. And the next. (She was 76 at the time, and not in great health.) Apparently she followed this same arduous routine for months.

    That's how elections are won.

    Eleanor Roosevelt died two years later, in 1962. 

    Eleanor Roosevelt: Icon and … advice columnist?
     
    I'm proud that our home hosted Mrs. Roosevelt. It's too bad that 539 East 9 was demolished in 1988. It deserved a better fate, especially since there was a day when it was graced by one of the previous century's finest human beings.
     
    For more on 539, click here.
  • Screen Shot 2022-03-10 at 7.59.57 PM
    Of course everyone knew that Sid Luckman was from Brooklyn and that he had attended Erasmus Hall High School and Columbia University before becoming one of the first superstars of the National Football League. To football fans, he was as renowned a home-town boy as Sandy Koufax was to followers of baseball. But until I read R.D. Rosen's new biography of Sid, called Tough Luck, I didn't know that football's first T-formation quarterback was a neighborhood guy, and that his modest childhood home was just four blocks off the route that Stephen Lewin and I took every morning for four years to EHHS. And that his house was just around the corner from the Sears department store where I spent the summer of 1957 pulling down $1.25 large an hour.  

    The above is a modern picture, drawn from googlemaps. I suspect that the house is not much changed from the way it appeared in the 1930s but that the bars on the windows and front door are later additions. According to Zillow, the House of Sid is 1664 sq. ft. and is now priced at c. $750,000. I'd bet $2500 was the number in the 1930s, when the Luckman family was in residence.

    Shouldn't there be a bronze plaque on the property?

    It's a measure of the chanciness of the old neighborhood that Sid's father was convicted and imprisoned for a gangland murder and that he died in Sing Sing.

  • Girl in Translation is the story of a young, impoverished immigrant from Hong Kong. I may be wrong, but it reads as if it were less a novel than a barely fictionalized autobiography (Jean Kwok, the author, made her way from an unheated tenement to Harvard; Kimberley Chang, the central figure, escaped to Yale.) Mutatis mutandis, and all that. It's a familiar kind of work: a bildungsroman, of course, but also an immigrant novel, a coming-of-age adventure, and thanks to an inartistic tacked-on ending, an H. Alger rags-to-riches saga. Sometimes I felt that I was reading a century-later re-imagining of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, things Irish replaced with things Chinese — except that there is not a single tree in this novel's bleak landscape, not even a symbolic one. Plus ca change, plus de meme chose.

    While it's not original or innovative, nor written with any particular flair, Girl in Translation is nevertheless valuable for the world it opens up to us. Plus it's on the whole uplifting, even if there are some unfortunate moments in which "triumphant" shades over into "triumphalist." 

    There's not much to admire about the Brooklyn of this novel; it's an unpleasant place. Manhattan's Chinatown, where much of the action takes place, is no better.

  • On the Mall

    On our prosperous Boulder Mall, where all the men are handsome, all the women are good-looking, and all the mendicants take Venmo, there are 44 separate signs that declare, No Pets. Such signs do not inhibit our infatuated dog owners, who can't bring themselves to believe that the injunction applies to their particular o so lovable canine. They cannot fathom that not every mall-walker is in love with their Bowser. As a result, the No Pets law is widely and defiantly flouted.

    There's a second mall rule: no amplified music. Acoustic guitars, string quartets, bluegrass bands, accordionists, and singers are all allowed and encouraged. But every once in a while, some itinerant assembles an appallingly large apparatus on our otherwise peaceful Mall and produces sounds that can be heard for half a mile. Rude, ear-shattering noises.

    Canines and amplifiers are everyday commonplace violations. But yesterday, walking on the mall, we observed a remarkable and unprecedented novelty. Along comes a nondescript scruffy guy walking an oversized nondescript dog, and lo and behold, onto the beast is strapped a boombox. Honest to Pete, I'm not making this up! The attached mechanism is a powerful one and it generates an extremely loud noise. Unidentifiable sounds, possibly though not certainly some sort of music.

    A woofer with a woofer, so to speak.

    The man and his faithful friend proceed shamelessly along the mall, bass notes vibrating the shop windows and oscillating my pancreas.

    I was floored, frankly. One dog, one amplifier; two concurrent violations. 

    And then I watched in amazement as the big ol' dog dropped a big ol' deuce. A double deuce, actually. Two long brown glistening, smoking turds. Lurking right there on the bricks, preparing to ambush the pretty white shoes of the next three-year-old princess-in-a-pink-tutu to come tripping by.

    In our town, it's the inviolable custom that every dog owner carries a plastic bag and politely disposes of his pet's droppings. Not this guy. He just kept on walking, pretending that he didn't know what was going on at the end of his leash — which was, as a I have said, 1) a pooch, 2) an attached amplifier, and 3) pooch poop. A jackpot — a perfect trifecta.

    Do I have a theory to account for such contemptible misbehavior?  Well, I've been thinking and mulling and contemplating, and I'm aware of the talk of the breakdown of civil society, but all I can come up with is this: some people are royal jerks.

  • I liked Paul Auster's, The Brooklyn Follies (2006) so much that I read it twice. It was even better the second time. Even though it begins scary ("I was looking for a quiet place to die. Someone recommended Brooklyn…."), it's a cheerful and warm-hearted novel. Auster's gift is to make barely credible events seem commonplace and normal. So Follies packs in a mute nine-year-old girl who journeys many miles to find her uncle, and then a forger of paintings, a noir-y blackmail scheme, a wacky pseudo-Christian religious cult, a Jamaican transvestite who mouths "Can't Help Loving that Man" at a sad funeral, and so on.

    The Brooklyn Follies is a comedy not because it labors at one-liners but because everyone who should get married or at least find a mate, manages to do so by the last page. Plus it's rich in Park Slope locations and lore.

    I also enjoyed Colm Toibin's Brooklyn (2009), which is another version of the immigration novel. It's set back in the 1950s but the 50s might as well be the '20s as far as oppressive social customs are concerned. Although the central figure, Eilis, travels to Brooklyn, she never quite frees herself from provincial Ireland or the interventions of transatlantic priest Father Flood. Young, inexperienced, she falls hard for a boy of Italian extraction — and her doing so turns out to be more of a problem that it needs to be. Eilis must make some important, life-determining decisions, but whether she makes the right choices is left to the reader to decide (I myself think she loses her bearings). It's a lovely, understated, carefully wrought and admirable novel. 

  • This curiously named novel, The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P. (no relation, thank goodness), concerns a 30-year-old Baltimorean become Brooklynite who drifts from bed to bed but is incapable of lasting love.

    Adelle Waldman takes a scalpel to Nathaniel P[iven] and also to his various lady friends. Her analyses are sharp, incisive and sometimes painfully close to the bone. She is not above devoting paragraphs, even pages, to dissecting a minor event or brief conversation. Sometimes the intricacy of her observations resembles those of Henry James, though I can't remember The Master ever discussing either the scrotum or the anus of any of his characters. Waldman put me in mind of a sentence with which Horatio admonishes Hamlet: '"'twere to consider too curiously to consider so."

    Reading this novel, I was relieved that I am not a 30-year-old on the hunt — and that I never was. There's lots of sex, some of it precipitous, but not much discussion or examples of genuine intimacy. Waldman's landscape is unfamiliar to me — a foreign culture or, rather, an alien civilization. 

    Set in Brooklyn, almost all the action takes place in Williamsburg or environs, certainly within sight of the Manhattan skyline — although I remember that once or twice characters may have ventured into the Brooklyn hinterland for a pizza.

    The author is amusingly aware of the way the new Brooklyn has superseded the old: 

    the two groups (i.e. older residents and newcomers) might have existed on different layers of the earth's atmosphere that only from a distance appear to be on the same plane.  A store called National Wines & Liquors, Inc, where both liquor and cashier were enclosed behind bulletproof glass, was not actually a competitor to the much newer Tangled Vine, which specialized in organic and local wines and exhibited the work of area artists at its Thursday-evening tastings.

    Which reminds me that I started to read but failed to comprehend a novel called Class (2014) by Francesco Pacifico in which Williamsburg was regularly referred to as "Willy." Again, I ask, what would Daniel Fuchs think?

    The more of these novels I read, the more Brooklyn seems like a multiply layered palimpsest — one culture imposed upon another, generation after generation.  My own Flatbush neighborhood, now upgraded to "Kensington," was farmland right through to the end of the 19th century, then a suburb for prosperous old Protestant families, next a haven for Irish, Italian and Jewish immigrants and now an ethnic stew of Hasids, Turks, Arabs, Russians, and South and Central Americans of all kinds but also with an strong admixture of Tangled Vine dinks, yuppies and midWestern computer geeks. It's a complex piece of urban Americana — one facet of which is well-illustrated by the story of unhappy Nathaniel P.

  • Through the continuing miracle of TCM, we watched Divorcee, a 1930 "pre-Code" drama of marriage and adultery. It's a film that was shocking in its own time and still carries a bit of an edge. Jerry Martin (Norma Shearer) and Ted Martin (Chester Morris) attempt to create a marriage of perfect equals, but Ted strays. There's a great understated scene in which Jerry, the betrayed wife, cold-bloodedly tells her unfaithful husband, that "I've balanced our accounts." Ted, though he has proclaimed a commitment to equality, does not, let us say, handle the revelation of his wife's adultery with grace. The marriage comes to a disastrous end. But alas after an hour or so of travail and weeping, Jerry loses her nerve, succumbs to propriety, pursues her erring husband to Paris, and promises to be true. The assertion of equity turns out to be just so much blather. The double standard has been tested but has held firm. The film flirts with radicalism but reverts to a Hollywood ending in which love conquers all and an adventurous woman accepts her subordinate place.

    I was sufficiently intrigued by the film to investigate its background. The source is a novel called Ex-Wife (1928) by Ursula Parrott, which sold 100,000 copies and was a sensation in its day. I confess that although I'm supposed to know something about literature, I had never heard of this scandalous piece of fiction. Ex-Wife sunk like a stone and has been out of print for many years, but our interlibrary loan department managed to locate a 80s reprint in Fort Lewis, Colorado. (Thanks, Interlibrary Loan!).

    Ex-Wife is an inartistic piece of writing — hectic, repetitive, padded, but one that obviously struck a nerve. In this novel, a young divorced woman does not just pine for her wandering husband. Instead, she enjoys her independence, and "sleeps with more men than [I] can count." She then she falls deeply in love with the wrong man, and finally opportunistically marries a third fellow whom she doesn't love but to whom she promises to be faithful (we are skeptical). The novel is marinated in speakeasy bootleg liquor and easy morality. Much wilder than the rather tame film version, it is also more challenging and revolutionary.

    In the course of the novel, our heroine has a baby (who conveniently dies) and also an abortion. The babies are important to the larger backstory. In 1922, the then Katherine Ursula Towle, a recent Radcliffe graduate, married Lindesay Marc Parrott, a young reporter for The New York Times. 

    They had a son named Lindesay Marc Parrott Jr. two years later. However, his existence was kept a secret from Ursula's husband, as he never wanted to have a son. So, Ursula left the child in the custody of her father and sister and returned to Lindesay, still not speaking a word about the son. It was not until 1926 that Lindesay found out that he was a father. As a result, he immediately divorced Ursula, rejected the existence of his son, and never once went to see him.

    It's an astonishing revelation that certainly does not speak well for Lindesay Parrott, but adds some autobiographical interest to the plot of Ursula Parrott's Ex-Wife. Suddenly, the deceased child and the abortion make a certain kind of sense.

    I should add that Lindesay Parrott was a name well known to me in the days of my youth. I was then a diligent reader of The New York Times and Lindesay Parrott covered the Korean War, so I encountered his name every single day from 1949 to 1955. And then in the 70s, I learned that Lindesay Parrott had retired from the Times and had purchased a small farm on Kidder Road in Bradford, Vermont, a bit more than a mile, as the crow flies, from where we lived on Hackett Hill Road. I gave thought to knocking on his door, but I heard through the local gossip chain that Parrott was a recluse and a terrible alcoholic. Whether true or not I don't know. Of course I had no idea that Lindesay Parrott had once been married to a notorious novelist.

    As for Ursula, after her divorce from Lindesay Parrott, she married three more times, and was also rumored to have had affairs with F. Scott Fitzgerald and Sinclair Lewis. She died in 1957 "in the charity ward of a New York City hospital."

    Here's Ursula Parrott's Radcliffe graduation picture: 

    Ursula Parrott - Wikipedia
     
    Here's a lurid paperback book cover:
     
    Ex-wife by Ursula Parrott
     
    And here she is in maturity:
     
    Ursula Parrott – Movies, Bio and Lists on MUBI
     
    [September 24, 2023]  I've just read a remarkable biography of Ursula Parrott, called Becoming the Ex-Wife, by Marsha Gordon, a professor of film studies.  It's a deeply researched piece of writing, and a revelation. Ursula Parrott's life was both more tied to convention and more lurid than it was represented in the Wik article from which I drew my information. The story about Lindesay Parrott not knowing about his son's birth nowhere appears on the biography. It's a myth, though it is true that Parrott was not much interested in his offspring (but in a indifferent-father rather than an ignorant-father way). Can't always trust Wikipedia.
     
    How Ursula Parrott managed to burn through the huge sums that she garnered from her writing is mysterious to me, but it is unquestionable that she was a tragic homeless pauper at the end. Although Professor Gordon seems to have read everything Parrott wrote (and she composed acres of novels and stories), she did not entice me to read further in Parrott's work — even if I could locate these long-out-of-print performances.
     
    Gordon does not interest herself in the later career of Ursula's first husband so my anecdote about Lindesay Parrott's last years might yet be accurate.  
  • Just when I was beginning to think that the Hollywood memory-loss well had run dry, along comes Whirlpool and another variant of the world's most flexible mental affliction. This time: loss of memory by hypnosis.  

    It could have been a good film: Ben Hecht, Otto Preminger, Gene Tierney, Jose Ferrer. But it's gimmicky and the psychology is vulgar pseudo-Freudianism. 

    Malignant David Korvo (Ferrer) hypnotizes poor Ann Sutton (Tierney) into imagining that she's committed a murder. Will she recover her memory in time for the true murderer (Korvo himself) to be discovered? Yes, she will. The film turns into something like a police procedural but might better be called a psychoanalytical procedural. Richard Conte plays the Tierney's husband, and he's the psychoanalyst, but frankly he's so surprisingly dense that he's an embarrassment to his entire profession. The audience is led through a series of melodramatic twists and turns, many requiring wholesale suspension of disbelief, before all turns out well, or pretty well, because poor Ann Sutton (Tierney) is reunited to her doltish husband.  

    Here's a picture of Iago-like hypnotist Jose Ferrer staring into the deer-in-the-headlights eyes of luminous Gene Tierney.

    Whirlpool (1950) - IMDb

     

  • At lunch yesterday, a friend of long standing mentioned that the conglomerate that now publishes his American politics textbook has hired a new employee, a vice-president for diversity and inclusion. It's a well-intended decision, I am sure, but it carries a potential downside. The new v-p has instructed my friend to make some changes to his prose. For example, he will no longer be allowed to report that Lyndon Johnson got his way by "arm-twisting" recalcitrant legislators. The metaphor, though commonly used back in the LBJ era, and still picturesque, is disrespectful to people who suffer from broken or withered arms and is especially discourteous to those who are missing one or both upper limbs. No more arm-twisting, therefore. My friend was also told that it is no longer permissible to say that in the U. S., "the poor tend to vote at lower levels of participation than the general population." The new v-p insists that the phrase, "the poor" denigrates various people by reducing them to a mere category. "The poor" should therefore be updated and altered to "'people experiencing poverty."  

    In our peaceful and prosperous midWestern town, we've had a continuing and difficult debate about homelessness. Some while ago, our extremely correct local newspaper ceased to denominate those without regular domiciliary appointments as "the homeless" and began to call them "people experiencing homelessness."

    Such a circumlocution, I believe, though well-intended, misses the mark. The word "homeless" has a poignancy and immediacy that the bloodless bureaucratic euphemism "people experiencing homelessness" lacks. Rather than making homelessness more palatable; it makes it more painful.

    Let us thank all the gods in the pantheon that Emma Lazarus did not write, "Give me your people experiencing lassitude, give me your people experiencing poverty." 

    I wonder what the v-p for inclusion would say about Jesus, who famously advised that "when thou makest a dinner or a supper, invite not thy friends, nor thy brethren, neither thy kinsmen, nor thy rich neighbors; lest they also bid thee again, and a recompence be made thee. But when thou makest a feast, invite the poor, the maimed, the lame, the blind." Such a forceful series of evocative nouns! But would "the maimed," "the lame," "the blind," overleap the diversity and inclusion barrier and enter a 21st century textbook? I think not.

    Although Jesus may have had some good ideas, he was definitely not "woke."

  • Another long troubled night, another astonishing dream. This time, I found myself lurking in a primitive cabin inhabited, it seemed, by a big happy family. There were a bunch of kids and a cheerful be-aproned matriarch cooking on an old wood stove what looked to me like a cauldron of soup. Immediately, the scene shifted to a hall or a church basement. There were eight or ten long tables at which a couple of dozen unfamiliar but clearly delineated folks were seated, waiting for their dinner. But first, some singing. An unidentifiable patriotic song, and then, a hymn. I recognized it as a hymn because it included the line, "He died in vain." Still in the midst of the dream, I said to myself, I have to remember this verse, so I took out pen and paper, and wrote down these words: "he died in vain." As I did so, a large, bearded, slightly threatening man accused me of "making fun" of the proceedings. He demanded to inspect what I had written. I showed him my writing and explained to him that I thought "he died in vain" was theologically wrong, because according to the usual Christian interpretation, Jesus did not die "in vain."

    End of dream.

    In the morning, awake, I did some research to see if "he died in vain" appears in any familiar or remote hymn. Just as I anticipate, no soap. However, I discovered that the most frequently cited use of the phrase comes not from a hymn or from the Bible but from the Gettysburg Address: that "we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain." Why should my dreamatorium think to quote Abraham Lincoln? But why not, especially since there's been a lot of Lincoln talk in our household this last while what with Lynn reading a biography and also Team of Rivals. Then I wondered, could the cabin in the first part of the dream be a reference to Kentucky log cabin in which Lincoln was reputedly born. A long shot, but not impossible. Anyway, it's my dream; I can interpret it as I want.

    There mysterious dreams inspire in me an idea for a stunning new technology. I think it would be very helpful if someone would devise a recording device for dreams — so that they could be saved and then played back on the TV screen. It would be fascinating, I think, to see not only the fragments that one remembers but the whole multi-hour experience laid out there in full color and stereophonic sound. What a boon to mankind! What a convenience for psychoanalysts!

    I imagine something like an applewatch with an app for recording a month or so of all-nighters. I know I'd buy one. 

    Impossible, you say?  Well, did they not laugh at the Wright brothers?

    I think I need to present this idea to Elon Musk or Jeff Bezos. Bill Gates. Someone with imagination and a history of achievement. Someone who would know how to monetize so brilliant a conception. I myself am willing to invest my entire income tax refund, however large it turns out to be.

  • Amnesia is perfunctory in this "pre-Code" melodrama. Comes and goes without much stress.

    Rich snotbucket monocle-wearing attorney Charlie "Beauty" Steele is beaten, thrown into a river and presumed dead. He is rescued and wakes up without a glimmer of memory but is otherwise entirely functional. In his new, raccoon-skin-hat personality he falls in love with shopkeeper Rosalie Eventural (played by 18-year-old Loretta Young). Eventually it comes to light that he has left a wife behind. His memory returns in flash and in a flashback, and things go from bad to worse. Bigamy and all that.

    The Right of Way has not aged well. It's a silent film with words. Conrad Nagel, acting in a superseded tradition, is all exaggerated gestures, eye rolls, and heavy lipstick. Loretta Young is so young that she hasn't even started to look like Loretta Young.

    Astonishing to think that the film is now pushing a hundred years old and that amnesia was there right from the start. Before the start, actually, because there were two silent Right of Ways (or Rights of Way) before this all-talkie version.

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