The Ricardo’s 60th Anniversary

This month marks the 60th anniversary of I Love Lucy.  As television’s first enduring hit, Lucy shaped conventions of televised programming, foreshadowed the rise of “reality tv,” changed American culture and, most important, has kept Americans laughing for six decades.

Television came into its own in the late 1940s.  By 1949, it was generating more revenue than radio, and in 1951 networks developed the technology to broadcast programs simultaneously across the country.   Television was ready for Lucy.

Lucille Ball had been in films for almost two decades, but her roles were largely restricted to second-class films; the “Queen of the Bs,” she was called.  On radio, however, she was more successful, starring in My Favorite Husband in the late 1940s.  As television gained momentum, producers asked her to star in a similar vehicle for television.

There were disagreements, however, about the premise of the show.  On her radio program, she was “married” to a Midwestern banker.  The producers had something similar in mind for the television program, a straight man for Lucy’s zany ways.

Ball, however, wanted her real husband, Desi Arnaz, on the show, a suggestion that did not go over well with executives.  Nervous about casting a Cuban with poor English on prime-time television, producers felt that no one would find the marriage credible.  “What do you mean no one will believe it?” Ball responded.  “We are married.”  Ball got her way, and she and Desi became Ricky and Lucy Ricardo.

This early version of pseudo-reality television was a hit.  In its first season, I Love Lucy was the third-rated show in television.  It hit the top in the 1952 season, and the next year, Lucy helped CBS Television turn a profit for the first time, anchoring the network’s strong Monday-night time slot.

Adding to the ratings—and the reality—was the decision to incorporate Ball’s real-life pregnancy into the show.  The nation tuned in as Lucy grew larger over the course of the season, and the episode in which Lucy gives birth, “Lucy Goes to the Hospital,” aired on the day that she gave birth to Desi Arnaz, Jr.  It remains the second highest-rated television program in history.

But there were limits to the reality.  The show’s writers, for example, could not use the word “pregnant” on air.  Lucy was simply described as “expecting,” a more polite description of Ball’s delicate condition.

Moreover, contemporary viewers might wonder how Lucy ever came to be expecting in the first place, given the fact that she and Ricky slept in separate twin beds, a curiosity of television’s early broadcast codes.  Even more curious, the twin-beds practice crept into real life.  By the middle 1950s, according to a New York Times article, approximately half of newly-weds were purchasing twin beds.

The influence of television and Lucy even reached the venerable department store Marshall Field’s.  As Lucy’s popularity grew Marshall Field’s noticed a drop in patronage for its Monday-night “Clearance Sale.”  Eventually, the company switched its sale to Thursday nights, notifying customers with a window sign reading, “We Love Lucy Too, So We’re Closing on Monday Nights.”

Lucy also broke down technological barriers.   The new television show was shot on film using three 35 mm cameras, a method of shooting that allowed for the script to be filmed in sequence and with little editing or retakes.  Moreover, the show was shot in front of a real audience, whose reactions provided a fresher feel than the familiar canned laugh track used today.

But Lucy’s true audience appeal stemmed from her own skills as a comedienne and from her ability to connect with broad audiences.  She was attractive, but not glamorous.  She was likeable, but sometimes (engagingly) goofy.

Originally, producers wanted the Lucy character to be a Hollywood star, but Ball balked, believing that families would have trouble identifying with a movie star.  She believed Lucy should be a regular housewife, one who dreamed of becoming a star—that, she argued, was a premise with which audiences could identify.  And she was right.

Each episode featured Lucy extricating herself from some self-induced trouble, whether it was trying to keep up with a conveyor belt, stomping grapes with an Italian peasant, or pitching an energy product—“Vitameatavegamin”—that contained alcohol.  Whatever the trouble, the audience and the laughter followed.

Lucy and Ethel Battling the Conveyor Belt

Although the show went off the air in 1957—bowing out as the top-rated show on television—audiences still laugh.  It is still syndicated in some markets, and its shadow hovers over contemporary sitcoms and today’s reality shows.

I Love Lucy was the most popular television show at a time when television was changing society, and if memories of the show don’t bring a smile, then you’ve got “a lot ‘splaining to do.”

Still a Classic, As Time Goes By

This year marks the 80^th anniversary of the most timeless of classics, Herman Hupfeld’s “As Time Goes By.”  Although almost forgotten after its initial release, its inclusion in the 1942 film Casablanca has made it one of the most enduring and recorded of all popular songs.

Hupfeld might be considered an unlikely composer for this contribution to the Great American Songbook.  Other than “As Time Goes By,” he had relatively few hits, and those few came mostly from novelty titles such as “When Yuba Plays The Rhumba On The Tuba” and “A Hut in Hoboken.”

He spent almost his entire life in Montclair, New Jersey, and he lived his adult life with his mother on the same city block on which he was raised.  He served in the Navy Band during World War I, and his service did not require him to leave New Jersey.  So while he may have penned the lyrics “It’s still the same old story / a fight for love and glory,” there’s little evidence he experienced much in the way of fights, love, or glory.

Even “As Time Goes By” provided little immediate glory to Hupfeld.  It was written for the Broadway musical “Everybody’s Welcome” in 1931 and introduced on stage by Frances Williams.  Bing Crosby performed it on the radio, and Rudy Vallee had a hit with it in the summer of 1931.  A few other recordings followed, but when the Broadway show closed after 139 performances, the song languished in relative obscurity for a decade or so.

The quality of the song, however, warranted greater attention than 1930s’ audiences offered.  The song begins with a 12-bar verse that offers a lyrically impressive quadruple rhyme involving “apprehension,” “invention,” “dimension,” and “tension,” while contrasting the ephemeral troubles of the era (“cause for apprehension”) with the timelessness of romance (“simple facts of life are such / they cannot be removed.”).

The chorus, meanwhile, focuses almost exclusively on the “simple facts of life” for lovers.  It’s left to Hupfeld to remind us that “when two lovers woo / they still say I love you;” that “the fundamental things apply”—a kiss, after all, “is still a kiss / a sigh is still a sigh;” and that hearts are “full of passion / jealousy and hate. / Woman needs man / and man must have his mate.”

Bogie, with Dooley Wilson at Piano

These fundamental lessons of life were perfectly incorporated into a sea of contemporary troubles in Casablanca, the 1942 classic starring Humphrey Bogart, Ingrid Bergman, and, of course, Dooley Wilson.  It was Wilson who made the song famous, but not without some scripted prompting by Bergman: “Play it once Sam, for old time’s sake.  Play it Sam.  Play ‘As Time Goes By.’”  Never once does she say, “Play it again, Sam.”

The song almost didn’t make it into the movie.  Max Steiner, who was hired to score the film, reviewed an advanced draft of the film and decided to scrap “As Time Goes By” in favor of a new composition of his own making.  Thankfully, he abandoned his plan when he learned that Bergman would not be available for new scenes.  She had recently begun filming “For Whom The Bell Tolls,” and was sporting a short hair cut, one befitting a recently freed prisoner of war.  Reshoots were impossible.  The song was kept, and history was made.

Wilson may have made history with “As Time Goes By,” but the song failed to make him wealthy.  The problem was timing.  Casablanca was released at the beginning of a musicians’ strike.  With background musicians refusing to work, Wilson couldn’t record while the tune was hot.  Instead, Victor records simply re-released Vallee’s 1931 version, which hit the charts again.

After the musicians’ strike ended, big names began performing it.  Sinatra played it on the radio.  Billie Holiday recorded a classic version in 1944.  By the 1950s, Casablanca was appearing regularly on television, and the song took hold.  Sinatra gave it another spin; Peggy Lee sang it; Louis Armstrong lent his talents to it; Mandy Patinkin recorded a heartfelt and serviceable version; and a few years ago, an unknown Ella Fitzgerald take was discovered.  Even old Jimmy Durante turned out a snappy and romantic version, one that was later featured in the Tom  Hanks-Meg Ryan movie Sleepless in Seattle.

More recently, even ZZ Top, Kenny Rogers, Rod Stewart and Queen Latifah, and Jane Monheit have put their stamp on it, extending its cultural penetration.  Even today, children watch Bugs Bunny singing it on Saturday morning cartoons, moviegoers hear it on the opening credits of Warner Brother movies, and music lovers sigh when hearing their favorite version.

Eighty years later, the world still welcomes lovers, even as time goes by.

 

Listen to Louis Armstrong sing As Time Goes By.

 

Getting to the Bottom of Things in San Francisco

Things may have finally bottomed out in the Castro District of San Francisco where there is a move afoot to place limits on public nudity.

Currently, there are few constraints on those who would like to roam nude in San Francisco, particularly in the City’s Castro District.  A person, for example, can wander around nude, lounge on a park bench without clothes, or even dine in a restaurant sans stitching.  This libertine atmosphere, however, may be coming to an end.

At least one member of the San Francisco Board of Supervisors is tired of turning the other cheek when it comes to public nudity and has proposed an ordinance mandating that nudists take sanitary measures when lounging au naturel in public.  This measure, proposed by San Francisco Supervisor Scott Weiner, does not attempt to criminalize nudity.  It would, however, require patrons of eating establishments to be clothed, and it would also mandate those in the buff to use a buffer—clothes, a towel, or even a newspaper—when making contact with public seating outside of eating establishments.

Weiner is quick to point out that he is not tackling the “broader issue of public nudity,” noting that this is simply a matter of hygiene and public health.  “When you have your orifices exposed in an eating establishment,” he added, “a lot of people don’t like it.”

Interestingly, the ordinance, if passed, could become known as the Weiner Measure.

Whatever the name, the ordinance is getting some support from business owners, who are concerned that excessive nudity might frighten away customers and affect their bottom line. Stephen Adams, President of the Merchants of Upper Market and Castro, put things in perspective when he told the Los Angeles Times, “You always see signs on the door, ‘Shoes and shirt required.’ You’d think [customers] would have to have pants too.”

But not everyone is on board with the proposed policy.  George Davis, who campaigned—in the nude—for Mayor of San Francisco in 2007, argues that a “simple cold” poses a greater health threat than sitting in a seat formerly occupied by a nudist.  Moreover, Davis takes philosophical umbrage with this move, telling the San Francisco Chronicle that “it isn’t fair” for people “to force their conservative views on me.”

Hanging Out Nude in San Francisco (Photo by Michael Macor, The Chronicle

Davis’s views reflect the deep-seated, anything-goes culture of San Francisco, where the state Supreme Court ruled in the early 1970s that “nude is not lewd.”  According to the California, ahem, Penal Code, nudity is not, by itself, a crime.  But being nude and aroused is a crime. Moreover, nudity, depending on the circumstances, may be considered a “public nuisance,” which is also a criminal offense.

This being San Francisco, however, breaking the law and going to jail are separate issues.  In the City by the Bay, arrests for being a “public nuisance” must be initiated by citizens who are then responsible for detaining the suspect or physically taking the person to the authorities. Such a reaction would not only subject the arresting citizen to legal liabilities, it would also pose civil rights issues—not to mention the potential confusion it might add to the term “man-handle.”

These difficulties, however, are largely bypassed in Weiner’s ordinance.  Officers who catch nudists without a buffer between their skin and public seating would be given a citation costing a first-time offender $100.  Additional offenses within a 12-month period could result in stiffer penalties.

Of course, the accused could always contest the ticket in court, in which case the whole matter might end in a headline that reads: “Hung Jury Likely in Nudity Case.”

FBI: DB still MIA

Almost four decades after the most infamous skyjacking in the nation’s history, the FBI is still chasing the elusive D. B. Cooper.

The chase began on November 24, 1971, when Cooper, flying to Seattle on Northwest Orient, passed a note to flight attendant Florence Schaffner.  Assuming the note was a come-on, Schaffner ignored it, prompting Cooper to lean over and whisper, “Miss, you’d better look at that note.  I have a bomb.”

The hijacker, according to most descriptions, was between 5’10” and 6’0” and wore a black tie with a black suit.  Or perhaps it was dark brown or even a russet color, accounts vary.  Composite sketches suggest he resembled, in the words of author Max Gunther, a “middle-aged Bing Crosby in a seizure of profound boredom.”

Composite Sketch of D. B. Cooper

He drank bourbon and Coke while negotiating for parachutes, $200,000 in cash, and a plane ride to Mexico.  Tellingly, he ordered the pilot to fly below an altitude of 10,000 feet, which would permit the cabin to remain unpressurized—the latter provision allowing the aftstairs to remain in the down position during the flight.

It was from these aftstairs that Cooper jumped, somewhere over the Pacific northwest.  The only traces of him were the murky descriptions of witnesses, the clip-on tie that he left behind, and a few cigarettes butts.

Shortly after the hijacking, Clyde Jarbin, a reporter for UPI, heard reports of the crime over police scanners.  Although the suspect was named “Dan Cooper,” Jarbin misheard the name, and identified the suspect as “D. B. Cooper” across the wires.  The legend of D. B. Cooper took flight.

The manhunt centered on a two-county area in southwest Washington, with local law enforcement, the feds, and, later, the Army conducting the search.  When asked by a reporter what they were looking for, Clark County Deputy Sheriff Tom McDowell responded, “Either a parachute or a hole in the ground.”

They found neither.  In 40 years of searching, only a few thousand dollars of Cooper’s ransom was found, and that was discovered by a family on a picnic in 1980.

Despite such scant evidence, the number of suspects has proliferated.  There’s Duane Weber, who offered a deathbed confession to his wife in 1995, but no direct evidence has tied him to Cooper.  There’s also Richard McCoy, who staged a similar hijacking a few months after Cooper’s but who, at 29, was a decade-and-a-half younger than the “real McCoy.”

But 15 years is nothing compared to the discrepancies in the Barbara Dayton case.  Born “Bobby Dayton,” she underwent a sex-change operation in 1969, and then, according to claims she made to friends, disguised herself as “Cooper” in the 1971 hijacking.  To add to the confusion, she later recanted this story, perhaps after learning that she could still be charged with the crime.

Geoffrey Gray, author of the recently-released Skyjack: The Hunt for D. B. Cooper, found Kenneth Christiansen a compelling suspect for a while and, as recently as this month, Marla Cooper stirred the alphabet soup when she notified the FBI that she believed D. B. Cooper to be her uncle, L. D. Cooper.  When DNA evidence came back negative, the FBI released a rather awkward statement, saying, in effect, “D.B. Cooper is still missing.”

In all, the FBI has investigated more than 1,000 suspects in the case.  As Ralph Himmselbach, one of the lead FBI agents on the case noted, “We don’t know who he was, but we know a whole of people who he wasn’t.”

Whoever he was, he has become something of an anti-hero.  According to Gray, Cooper was asked by a flight attendant whether he had a grudge against the airline. “I don’t have a grudge against your airline,” he responded.  “I just have a grudge.”

In an age leery of authority, Cooper’s hijacking spoke for others with grudges.  His crime prompted a series of copy-cat hijackings.  It also prompted the town of Ariel, Washington to initiate an annual celebration for the hijacker, with parachute décor, D. B. Cooper stew, and an emphasis on celebration.  And it spurred a number of songwriters to pen odes to Cooper.  Perhaps the best is by Todd Snider, whose lyrics dwell on the possibility of escape: “some people say that he died up there somewhere in the rain and the wind / Other people say that he got away but his girlfriend did him in / The law men say if he is out there someday they’re gonna bring him in / As for me, I hope they never see / D.B. Cooper again.”

According to newspaper editor Bob Reed, Cooper “symbolized…the idea of an ordinary guy breaking out.  Just a plain, lone, middle-class guy like you and me—that’s how he struck people.  He broke loose from the system and got away with it.”

More than four decades after the hijacking, Cooper remains as elusive and as intriguing as ever.  He symbolizes the “everyman” who beat the system, and that symbol still animates those with anti-establishment leanings, and perhaps those who would simply like to get away.

Lefties: Living in a Right-Handed World

 

Feeling left out?  Well, you’re not alone.  This past Saturday, left-handed activists gathered to celebrate the 35^th anniversary of International Left-Handers Day.  Their objective was to encourage the awareness of the “inconveniences facing lefties” in a world where 90 percent of its inhabitants are right handed.

Studies show that lefties are an anxious lot, but this may be for good reason.  Certainly the American lexicon has been unkind to lefties.  The word “right,” for example, means “correct,” while the word “left” often carries a negative connotation, as in “leftover” or “left behind.”  The Latin sinistra means left, but the word has evolved in English as “sinister,” meaning evil.  Conversely, the Latin for right is “dexter,” from which we get the English “dexterous,” or skillful.  The French word for “left” is gauche which, in English, means “crude” or “lacking grace.”  The English language, it seems, isn’t particularly evenhanded.

The left side doesn’t fare much better in superstitions.  The Romans believed that getting out of bed left-foot first was an act of foolishness, one sure to bring about ill fortune.  People who are destined for ill fortune, of course, are often unhappy, which is why grumpy people are still asked, “Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed today?”  We also throw a pinch of spilled salt over our left shoulders because evil spirits are believed to lurk on our left side, and the pinch of salt, it is hoped, will ward such spirits off.

Speaking of evil, Satan is often depicted as a “southpaw,” especially in Tarot cards.  Accordingly, the left hand is featured prominently in sorcery, witchcraft, and Satanic rituals.  By contrast, in Christianity, the right hand of God is an exalted position.

If being confused for a sorcerer, a witch, or Satan isn’t bad enough, then lefties also have to try to get by in a world largely configured for right handers.  Take, for example, a pair of scissors.  Regular scissors simply won’t cut when employed with the left hand.  Circular saw blades, however, will—much to the chagrin of lefties that have had the misfortune of a self-administered and inadvertent amputation while reaching across a dangerous machine intended for right-handed people.

Studies also show that left-handed people are more likely to suffer from dyslexia, immune system disorders, Crohn’s disease, and colitis.  They also die earlier than righties, a fact that has to be pretty depressing—which may explain why lefties suffer more from mental disorders such as schizophrenia, alcoholism, depression, bed wetting, and criminal behavior.

The sum total of these findings prompted the magazine Psychology Today to publish an article titled “So Long, Southpaw,” a curiously cold response, perhaps, from a magazine specializing in psychology.  Fed up with such slights, one left-handed reader sent a threatening (and anonymous) note to a leading “handedness” researcher with words to this effect: “Right handers won’t live longer than us criminal lefties if we kill you first.”

On a happier note, many studies show that lefties are also disproportionately successful.  As it turns out, lefties and righties enjoy more or less the same success in terms of a statistical average, but left handers have greater variance in their success—that is, they are more concentrated in the lower and upper echelons of society.

In the latter category are capitalists such as Henry Ford and Bill Gates, men who cranked out paradigm-shifting products with their left hands, while heavy-duty thinkers such as Benjamin Franklin and Sir Isaac Newton were also southpaws.

Successful athletes are disproportionately left handed.  You have, for example, tennis stars (e.g., Jimmy Connors, Rafael Nadal), basketball stars (e.g., Larry Bird, David Robinson, Jalen Rose), and a plethora of baseball stars (e.g., Randy Johnson, Barry Bonds, Babe Ruth).

Football seems to deserve its own category, inasmuch as Sebastian Janikowski, Michael Vick, and O.J. Simpson have not only demonstrated their ability on the gridiron, but also while moonlighting as left-handed criminals.

The creative arts appear particularly attractive to lefties.  There are famous actors (e.g., Julia Roberts, Morgan Freeman), artists (e.g., Raphael, M. C. Escher, Michelangelo), and musicians (e.g., Paul McCartney, Wynton Marslis, Eminem).

Left handers are most dominant, however, in the world of politics, and that’s no left-handed compliment.  Appropriately, socialist leaders such as Fidel Castro and Hugo Chavez are lefties.  In the capitalistic United States both left-wingers and right-wingers are often anatomical lefties.  Supreme Court Justices Ruth Bader Ginsburg and Anthony Kennedy are lefties.  Senator John McCain is a lefty, as is, by necessity, former Senate Majority Leader Bob Dole.  President Truman signed bills with his left hand and President Ford, who was sometimes said to have “two left feet,” was also left handed.  In fact, four of the past five presidents have been left handed—Reagan, G. H. W. Bush, Clinton, and Obama.

So the next time someone is berating lefties, it’s perhaps worth remembering that it is a left hand that is in control of nuclear weapons.  That’s not someone you want getting up on the wrong side of the bed.

Left handers, it seems, are blessed with creativity, leadership skills, and independence.  On the other hand…lefties tend to be afflicted with greater anxiety, more neuroses, and physical health issues.  It is an intriguing assemblage of characteristics, a mixed bag, but taken together, it’s all right.

 

 

 

Vote on Huntsville’s Best Reuben

The Reuben: The All-American Sandwich

Most recipes are the product of a type of culinary evolution, the outcome of generational trial and error.  The Reuben, on the other hand, is a recently invented sandwich, with a defined origin and creator.

That does not mean, however, that culinary historians agree on the timing of the sandwich’s creation or the identity of its inventor.

One version holds that the Reuben was the creation of Arnold Reuben, a New York restaurateur in the early 20^th century.  According to family lore, a young actress, Annette Seelos—a leading lady of Charlie Chaplin, so the story goes—visited Reuben’s restaurant late one evening.  So hungry she “could eat a brick,” Seelos asked for a “combination.”  In an impromptu act of brilliance, the restaurateur relied on at-hand ingredients to create the “Reuben’s Special.”  The Reuben was born.

Well, maybe.  Historians have had trouble identifying an actress by the name of Annette Seelos, and Reuben’s descendants offer somewhat conflicting versions of their father’s alleged creation.

A competing group of Reubenites argue that the sandwich was the work of a grocer, Reuben Kulakofsky, in Omaha, Nebraska.  According to this version, the sandwich was created in 1925, during a late-night poker game held in Omaha’s old Blackstone Hotel.  As the game dragged into the night, the hotel owner, Charles Schimmel, asked Kulakofsky to scare up a sandwich.  Using accessible ingredients, Kulakofsky created a sandwich so delectable that Schimmel put it on his menu under the name “Reuben.”

This version is somewhat corroborated by the existence of 1930s-era menus from the Blackstone listing the Reuben.  Similarly supportive is the fact that Fern Snider, who once worked as a waitress at the Blackstone, entered the Reuben in the first-ever National Sandwich Contest in 1956.  The Reuben won, and the sandwich became nationally known.

Despite the differences in these origin stories, they agree in certain respects.  In both versions, the Reuben was invented in the early part of the 20^th century and originated in the United States.

Indeed, this melted-cheese sandwich is the culinary version of America’s melting pot.    It was created by a Jewish immigrant, and made with rye bread (European), cheese (Swiss), dressing (Russian), and sauerkraut (German).  It is assembled from ingredients originating all over the world, yet with its strong, diverse and sometimes competing flavors, it remains uniquely and indisputably American.

Despite being featured in only a few of the 60-plus restaurants in Huntsville, the Reuben is also a local favorite.  At Five Loaves Deli, for example, the sandwich has been a hit for more than 10 years, with what co-owner Judy Owens refers to as a coterie of “die-hard” followers coming in weekly “to get their Reuben ‘fix.’”

That “fix” involves Reuben mainstays such as “thinly sliced top-grade corned beef, crisp and tart sauerkraut, [and] melted Swiss cheese” embraced between “two slices of buttered rye bread.” The Five-Loaves Reuben, however, foregoes the Russian Dressing in favor of a “tangy special dressing.”

Such variations are commonplace across the United States.   The “Rachel,” for example, substitutes pastrami for corned beef and cole slaw for sauerkraut.  The “Blue Reuben” dresses the sandwich in Blue Cheese, the “Grouper Reuben” uses fish instead of corned beef, and the “Virgin Reuben” preserves its chastity by eschewing meat altogether.  Curiously, the “Georgian Reuben” is eaten in, well, Michigan, and includes turkey rather than the traditional corned beef.

And, of course, the more adventurous can try the Reuben Egg Rolls, the Reuben Soup, the Reuben Spam, and the questionable Reuben Pizza—topped with sauerkraut, Thousand Island dressing, and pickles!

Whatever the variant and whatever the origin, it is, according to Owens, a “dance party in the mouth,” grooving to a “symphony of flavors.”  It is an American original.

The Politics of Perjury

As Roger Clemens’ legal battles continue to generate front-page headlines, his alleged use of performance-enhancing drugs has come to overshadow his lengthy and record-setting playing career. He has become the symbol of baseball’s steroid age, another scandal in a scandal-laden era.

What’s head-scratching about the Clemens case is not that he may have taken steroids.  Over the past three decades lots of athletes padded their pocket books and the record books by taking steroids.  What’s so confounding about the Clemens case is that he seemed to have invited perjury charges by voluntarily going before Congress and denying the steroid charges under oath—despite substantial evidence that he, in fact, did use performance-enhancing drugs.

While such circumstances invite comparison to the sports’ other fallen stars—Shoeless Joe Jackson comes to mind—the closest historical parallels of the Clemens saga come not from the world of baseball, but from the world of politics and entertainment.

In the world of politics, few scandals have intrigued the public more than the Hiss-Chambers case.  In the early 1930s, Alger Hiss held a series of key posts in New Deal agencies and, as a member of the Communist Party, he was well positioned to deal confidential documents to the Russian government. With the help of Whitaker Chambers, a fellow Communist, Hiss did just that.

By the late 1940s, Hiss’ stature grew through promotions and connections.  He attended the Yalta Conference with President Roosevelt; he helped found the United Nations; later, he was named Executive Director of the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace.

Hiss’ growing reputation was endangered, however, when Chambers testified before Congress in 1948.  Chambers confessed to being a former member of the Communist Party and proceeded to name others who served the party—Hiss among them.

At this point in the proceedings, Hiss was in no legal danger.  Chambers hadn’t divulged the espionage in which the two had engaged and, besides, the statute of limitations had expired.  Nevertheless, Hiss inexplicably sued Chambers for libel.

This action forced Chambers’ hand.  Facing a potential judgment for civil damages which, in turn, could spur charges of perjury before Congress, Chambers turned over extensive documentary evidence of the espionage in which he and Hiss had engaged.

Alger Hiss 1948

Hiss lost his libel case, lost his job, and spent two years in prison for perjury.

Much the same drama unfolded in the entertainment industry less than a decade later, as quiz shows dominated television programming.  By 1956, the top five rated shows were quiz shows and the genre consumed almost half of the networks’ programmable prime-time hours.

The networks, however, soon found that the shows could not sustain high levels of viewer interest on their own.  Some contestants weren’t as knowledgeable as they appeared to be; others were dullards or obnoxious; few understood the dramatic needs of television.

Accordingly, a few of the quiz shows opted to manufacture drama, relying on orchestration rather than the wheel of fortune.  This practice was particularly egregious on Twenty-One, where contestants were taught to dab their brow during tense moments, to stutter uncertainly, and to pause before providing winning responses.

But even these precautions didn’t satisfy the public, leading producers to hand select the winners of the show, favoring contestants that could provide drama and draw an audience.

One such contestant was Charles Van Doren, a young instructor at Columbia University.  He came from a family of academic royalty, was handsome, and had a winning way on television.  For Van Doren to win, however, someone had to lose.  That someone, Herbert Stempel, didn’t want to lose.

Charles Van Doren on the Cover of Time

Stempel resented his choreographed loss as much as he had enjoyed his choreographed wins.  His loss festered, especially as Van Doren’s success grew.  Time magazine featured Van Doren on its cover, calling him “America’s Wonder Boy.  He was soon moonlighting as a television host—for $50,000 a year.  But as Van Doren turned celebrity, Stempel turned informer.

An investigation was launched.  As others confessed to the rigged nature of the show, attention focused on Van Doren, who denied being part of a fix.  He denied it in private meetings to investigators; he denied it publicly; and, inexplicably, he subjected himself to perjury charges when he denied it to the grand jury selected to investigate the matter.

Only when the matter came before a congressional committee did Van Doren tell the truth.  His last-minute prudence spared him perjury charges, but came too late to save his job at Columbia or with the network.

Despite occurring in different eras and divergent professional fields, these sagas unfolded in much the same manner.  In all three cases, poor decisions led celebrity icons to trouble, which they exacerbated by lying to official investigative bodies.  In all three cases the icons did less to establish their own innocence than they did to attack their accusers.  In all three cases, the celebrities became symbols of scandal.  And while the Clemens’ drama is not yet complete, the former pitcher should note that things did not end well for either Hiss or Van Doren.

While the Clemens case may be similar to the cases of Hiss and Van Doren, the country seems to have changed.  The Hiss case rocked the country, sending it reeling into the McCarthyism of the 1950s.  The Quiz Show scandals marked the end of the nation’s post-war ebullience and the beginning of a long decline in public trust.  Perhaps because of these scandals, and countless others since then, there is little left for the public to lose confidence in.

In 1919, when charges of the Black Sox scandal were made public, a young boy is purported to have approached Shoeless Joe Jackson, plaintively asking the player to “Say it ain’t so, Joe.”  In the Clemens’ case, the public knows it’s so, and no one much seems to care.

Dimaggio’s Record Streak: 70 Years & Counting

This year marks the 70^th anniversary of Joe DiMaggio’s 56-game hitting streak.  Unlike many of baseball’s historic accomplishments, DiMaggio’s feat has survived the ages—and the steroid era—standing as the last major sports achievement of the pre-war era.

Unlike other, lesser sports, baseball places a great emphasis on numerical milestones, which cast long shadows across the nation’s pastime.  Many other players throughout baseball’s long history have compiled greater numbers overall, but no one has approached Joltin’ Joe’s record for hitting safely in 56 consecutive games.  It is, according to sportswriter Kostya Kennedy, the “last magic number in sports.”

Intriguingly, DiMaggio had worked this magic previously.  In 1933, at the age of 19, DiMaggio hit safely in 61 consecutive games.  In his 62^nd game, he hit a sacrifice fly in the 9^th.  It wasn’t a hit, but it won the game.  The streak set the minor league record, making Joe DiMaggio a local hero.

Becoming a national hero, however, proved more difficult.  Playing for the Yankees meant playing in the shadow of Ruth and Gehrig. It also wasn’t easy being an Italian-American in the pre-war years.  Consider this excerpt from Life magazine in 1939: “Although he learned Italian first, Joe, now 24, speaks English without an accent, and is otherwise well adapted to most U.S. mores. Instead of olive oil or smelly bear grease he keeps his hair slick with water.  He never reeks of garlic and prefers chicken chow mein to spaghetti.”  Sportswriters openly referred to him as the “Walloping Wop.”

But he was also the Yankee Clipper, an athletic centerfielder who conducted himself on and off the field with a silent grace, one that would serve him well throughout “the streak.”

It began inauspiciously on May 15, 1941, with a single in a 13-1 loss.  It was also overshadowed by national events.  President Roosevelt had recently declared an “unlimited national emergency.”  This emergency, warned Roosevelt, required “the strengthening of our defense to the extreme limit of our national power and authority.”  After two years of resisting entry to war, FDR was preparing Americans for the inevitable.

By June 2, DiMaggio extended his streak against the great Bob Feller, going two for four.  The news of the day, however, was the death of Yankee legend Lou Gehrig, and DiMaggio’s streak was relegated to a single sentence in The New York Times: “DiMaggio, incidentally, has hit safely in nineteen straight games.”

In the middle of June, DiMaggio broke the Yankee record of 29 games held by Roger Peckinpaugh and Earle Combs. At the end of June, DiMaggio passed George Sisler’s modern-day record of 41 games.

Wee Willie Keeler, the all-time record holder, was next.  He had hit in 44 consecutive games in 1897, back when foul balls weren’t even considered strikes.  If 19^th century statistics are to be accepted, Keeler stood at 5’4” and weighed 140 pounds, hence the sobriquet “Wee Willie.”  When he hit, he choked up on the bat and, as he once remarked, “I hit ‘em where they ain’t.”

Joe DiMaggio After Tying Keeler's Record

So did Joe.  He passed Keeler, eventually extending the streak to 56 games.  In those 56 games, he hit 15 home runs, striking out only five times.  After the 57^th game, in which he went hitless, DiMaggio was characteristically stoic: “It had to end sometime.”

The streak died, but the DiMaggio legend was born.  He was named MVP that year, and the Yankees won the World Series in five games.  A month later, the United States was at war, and the public turned its eyes to more pressing concerns—but not before DiMaggio had solidified his status as an American icon.

As his career—and the century—rolled on, he became a folk hero in the unfolding American drama. Les Brown and His Band of Renown told his story in song, with lyrics that proved prophetic:  “He’ll live in baseball’s Hall of Fame / He got there blow by blow / Our kids will tell their kids his name / Joltin’ Joe DiMaggio.”  Ernest Hemingway incorporated “The Great DiMaggio” as a symbol of courage and masculine heroism in the novel “The Old Man and the Sea.”  Simon & Garfunkle wistfully referred to him in “Mrs. Robinson,” asking, “Where have you gone Joe DiMaggio / a nation turns its lonely eyes to you.”  In the 1980s and 1990s he was referenced in John Fogerty’s “Centerfield,” Billy Joel’s “We Didn’t Start the Fire,” and Madonna’s name-dropping “Vogue.”

The evolutionary biologist Stephen Jay Gould noted that “A man may labor for a professional lifetime, especially in sport or in battle, but posterity needs a single transcendent event to fix him in permanent memory.”  The streak, as Gould notes, was DiMaggio’s “single transcendent event,” and the image of the young DiMaggio remains green, fixed in the nation’s collective memory—and in baseball’s Hall of Fame.

 

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Fads: The Naked Truth

Here’s a look at the history of fads through the 20th century.

http://itemonline.com/opinion/x2041457565/Mike-Yawn-The-naked-truth-about-fads

Note: This column was published in the Huntsville Item on Thursday, June 9, 2011.