Those Sunday Blues...

The more people I talk to on Sundays, the more it's apparent that one heck of a lot of us share an almost weekly malady.

That would be The Sunday Blues.

The Sunday Blues is what I've long called them, although it's pretty clear others have different names, and more than a few likely don't call them/it anything at all. Named or not, it's still there, they're still there.

My experience with this oddity goes all the way back to high school, when I can honestly recall finding myself down in the dumps, down in the mouth, and just plain down, somewhere around mid-afternoon on each Sunday. It doesn't just sort of creep up on you either, nope. All of a sudden, it's just there.

You're reading the paper, watching TV, staring into the backyard, looking at the dog or cat and wondering what if anything goes through their minds, when zotto!. Like a bolt from that cloud over there, they're here, The Sunday Blues are again poking at you. From staring a the cat, you've now gone to staring at the wall, any wall will do. If there's not one nearby, you need to go and find one. Wall-staring can be an effective method of focusing. Wall-staring is crucial here.

Physical manifestations of this mental state may differ, while some may find no outward sign of the inner annoyance whatsoever. With me, and this has always been the case, it starts as a small knot in the gut, that place many of us refer to as the pit of the stomach, which really isn't your stomach at all, since your stomach is much higher up. Location aside, that knot may or may not grow as the hours pass.

Your demeanor may crumble, too, as those hours pass. You can go from feeling rather carefree and in love with life, to "What in hell have I done with my life, is it too late to fix things?"

Just what are we dealing with here?

Simply, it's all about going back to work on Monday morning. There is indeed one strong correlation between your attitude towards your present job and the intensity of The Sunday Blues, though even those who have a genuine love for their job seem to fall victim each week.

There's also the phenomena of residual effect. For example: If you hate your job, then get lucky and find a job you love, The Sunday Blues still come calling, or at least they do so for an extended period of time. Oh, sure, they may not be as strong, as pervasive, and sure, maybe you can chase them away with logic, reason, and a hearty, "Hey, I don't work in that nightmarish job anymore!" but they still come. The beginnings of The Sunday Blues, once within you, seem to stay, they never really completely go away.

You can be in the middle of two-week vacation, somewhere on the other side of the planet. You have a whole week ahead of you and your job, any job, is half a world away. Doesn't matter even a little. Come Sunday, here come The Sunday Blues.

Just like The Summertime Blues, there ain't no cure for The Sunday Blues either. Although I will confess that a good beer or two can take the edge off of things.

What's in the fridge right now? Well, let's take a look:

Sierra Nevada Pale Ale - Simply one great beer. If you've never had it, don't let the sediment on the bottle bottom worry you. It's supposed to be there.

Red Hook Long Hammer IPA - A little more bitter than the above and a bit more body, too. Nice though.

Murphy's Stout - Not Guinness but likely indistinguishable. If buying in four-packs, it can cost 40% less than Guinness.

Miller Lite - It it was it is. It's light and OK for a light.

Leffe Blonde Belgian Ale - This may be one of only two beers I've ever encountered that I personally find close to undrinkable. Unless I got some of a bum batch, the heavy and overwhelming clove - yes, clove - taste of this abbey brewed ale is one which I find hard to imagine anyone liking. Cloves don't belong in beer. Even clove gum or mouthwash isn't as "clovey" as this ale.

Manny...

It might be cozy, folksy, to say we lost another one, but we all get lost over time. It's all about time, its passage, and inevitability.

Manny Gordon has died.

By now, all who knew the name must be aware that he's gone. At the same time, those who didn't know the name now have some sense of what a neat guy he was, what a genuine treasure he was. Although he lived until ninety-seven years of age, his passing takes a gentle poke at us all with that subtle touch of sadness over a friend we'll not see again.

There was a time for me when a Manny sighting was a near daily thing. It's been some time since.

Remembering when Manny was fast becoming a household name and face isn't all that tough for me. That's probably because I was working in the business that made the man famous when it happened.

Manny was a media darling.

Undeniably, irrefutably, no questions, no hesitation in saying so, Manny Gordon was one big old media darling. Manny's face could light up a television screen.

If in your car, his signature "...enjoy, ENJOY," which really came out as, "...an-JOY, ANNNN-joy," jumped right out of your radio and into your lap.

It was as genuine as the Declaration of Independence, as real as the earth beneath your feet, because Manny Gordon was the real deal. He lived the dream, he loved the dream. He was a delightful man, one whose company in which I found myself many times over the years. It was my pleasure each and every time. Bumping into Manny made your day, if your day needed making, and whose doesn't at times?

As with too many others who've died recently, what in the name of all that is good and holy can I say about Manny that hasn't already been said, will be said, then likely said again?

Well, here you go.

Surely what I'll say will fly smack into the eye of prevailing thought. A few toes might feel stepped upon, while a few others might feel the relief of small recognition long overdue.

See, while most attribute Manny's great "celebrity" to WNEP, I'm here to tell you that it was someone and something else that made Manny a star, or at the very least first spotted the star that WNEP fueled until it exploded and screamed across the sky of one full corner of Pennsylvania for likely thirty years.

Manny, and I honestly believe this, owed his incredible and surely deserved notoriety to that guy over there. That's a young - very young - Harry West. Harry looks like a junior at his hometown alma mater, Reading High.

The pipe is a prop. Harry never smoked, mostly because of his father's heavy smoking, a story for neither here nor now. The pipe almost looks Photo-Shopped, except for there being no Photo Shop at the time, no computers then, no such thing as digital photography, it wasn't even a wild dream at the time. The wheel, however, had been in regular use for some time.

Before Manny was "household" in Lock Haven, Athens, Minersville, before he'd found a place in the hearts of those in Bloomsburg, Centre Hall, Bastress, and Girardville, one Manny Gordon, District Forester, was already pretty darned well-known throughout that make-believe place where so many of us once lived, a place called WARMland.

The facts are these; Harry West and WARM had for years been involved in a beauty pageant of sorts, the winner of which became Miss Flaming Foliage, subsequent to which some lovely young local woman, along with her runners-up, would find her picture in the "brown section" of the old Scrantonian and become herself a minor local celebrity. That's where Manny first came to the attention of the media, print then broadcast, the connection between Fall's foliage and Pennsylvania District Forester being obvious. (My wife is a former Miss Flaming Foliage, affording me personal and inside knowledge of this once celebrated event.)

While "...an-JOY, ANNNN-joy" didn't exactly fire up the printed page, it was an immediate hit when heard delivered by the man himself, Manny Gordon. And it was Harry West who heard it, shared it, and launched what became a long, long run of being loved, idolized, and respected (the most important benefit of all), by several generations of people who do or did call northeastern and north central Pennsylvania home.

Once heard, our natural nosiness was to see the man behind these two words that had captivated the imagination of WARM's audience which, as we all full well know, was beyond sizable at the time. WNEP was right there, astute enough to know that we wanted see this guy. WARM and Harry let us hear Manny, WNEP showed us Manny.

And so it is that I say credit where credit is due, even if it is long overdue. Thanks, Harry. Thank you for so many things, one of which would be letting us all in on what a gem Manny Gordon was. Thanks.

WNEP gets abundant credit for ownership of the wonderful phenomena that was Manny Gordon, full credit for bringing us into the tent so we could see and fully experience Manny, but it was Harry and WARM that brought Manny to the dance, and what a long and memorable dance it was.

There shall be no other like it.

A Black and White of My Own...

I mentioned an old TV set in the previous post, one that was my very own by the time I was roughly thirteen, maybe more like twelve and a half.

It was the early 60s. Most kids didn't have their own televisions then. While you might have had some sort of record player to annoy your parents with by that age, a TV would literally be a luxury, since most families had one set and one set only.

And that one set sure as heck wasn't going in the bedroom of a kid, my firstborn status notwithstanding. How'd I land my own set? You'll see how simple it was a little further down.

So, I had me a set. (Did we ever get an answer to why it's called a "set?")

The closest image I could find to match that set of mine is the one you see here. As I recall, it was a Crosley, not exactly a widely beloved brand, not one you'd find in most homes in Anytown, USA. We also had a Crosley refrigerator, meaning that my folks found at least one Crosley dealer in NE PA. There's this vague memory of that dealer being in Taylor along Main Street. Or was that the back of a truck in an alley in Duryea? Nah, not my parents, never.

Looking at the set above, you can see that the tube itself was surrounded by a rectangular glass frame placed within the cabinetry, which was then a very important component of the American TV set. In fact, I grew up across the street from a mill which made, among other things, television cabinets. Today, the television cabinet has gone the way of the space-hogging console hi-fi, the eight-track, the casette, VHS and/or Beta, and analog anything.

Now, about that rectangular frame. It was illuminated, it lit up, surrounding that fuzzy b&w image with soft white light. It was, you'd have to imagine, no more than a gimmick to sell more Crosleys. Between the lighted frame, the wonderful image one got from rabbit ears, and the shortcomings of the Crosley itself, I wasn't exactly getting that quality viewing experience.

And so it was that the lack of a respectable image resulted in being handed my very own TV. It was a clunker, a junker, my parents didn't want it. It was Goodwill, Salvation Army, or me. Charity begins at home.

Snugged into bed earlier than usual, I'd lay there and watch the fuzzy images bounce around on that big cathode-ray tube and think myself pretty hot stuff.

What did I watch? Shows like...

• Dennis The Menace - The story of a pain in the ass kid who wore some sort of bib overalls that no kid I ever knew saw. Robert Hall didn't carry them. With a slingshot forever dangling from his backside pocket, this punk looked ready to bedevil someone on a second's notice. Dennis spends his time driving his retired neighbor nuts day and night. The neighbor, George Wilson, never figures out he can simply tell Dennis to beat it. Defiant trespass? Some charge certainly would have applied. Dennis also spent time making sure that signature cowlick of his was sticking up and out for best effect.
  

• Bonanza - The Cartwright men have managed to gain control of what appears to be several million acres of land across Nevada somewhere near Lake Tahoe, shortly before the days when Sinatra and Sammy played there. The three brothers are the sons of three different mothers, making Papa Ben Cartwright thrice-widowed. It also makes the boys half-brothers, a theme I never seem to recall them exploring. Drama, comedy, and romance ensue as the men righteously make sure no strangers, especially bad guys, touch their land or any of their other belongings. The Cartwrights were also pretty good at sticking their noses into the business of others, because of course, they were always right about everything.
  

• The Danny Thomas Show - Subtitled Make Room for Daddy, this show starred the very likable Danny Thomas as the TV Daddy who always called his TV wife "Irish." She was played by Marjorie Lord (mother of Ann Archer, for trivia buffs). Daddy Danny and Mommy Irish spent all their time suffering three kids and their dumb kid problems, magnified entirely out of any logical belief for the TV audience. Son Rusty, whose smart mouth was tough even for me to take, and I was kid roughly the same age with a smart mouth, needed some sort of stern guidance, which never seemed to come his way despite his really asking for it each week. Daddy Danny was an entertainer and went off to work in some generic night club during each episode before and after which he dealt with his charming family and their weekly crisis. Lots of my friends' fathers worked in night clubs, as did most other Americans. The irrelevance of TV in the 60s was stunning.
  

• Hazel - A show centered around a bumbling but bighearted live-in maid, something all of us in my blue collar neighborhood could so relate to with each and every passing episode. Employed by a couple of rich snobs, the Baxters (even the name was snobby), Hazel dresses just like a servant and cleans up, picks up, and puts up with these boors, although Mr. Baxter - Hazel always called him Mr. B. - was a kinder gentler, less country club sort than the rather contemptuous Mrs. Baxter, who has her nose shoved up in the air most of the time, to better look down on the help, one might presume. (Yet more trivia; Mrs. Baxter was played by Whitney Blake, mother of Meredith Baxter Birney.)
  

• Wagon Train - Most memorable was Ward Bond playing wagon-master/confessor/wiseman/hero/lovable big lug bachelor to what might have been hundreds of travelers who spend eight years trying to get from Saint Louis to somewhere in California. When the show's run was done in 1965, I guess that they just settled wherever they happened to be at the time and were happy with that.

• Sing Along With Mitch - An entire hour each week of a theretofore largely unknown musician with a goatee who never stopped smiling. It was a community sing-a-long, only it was on television, and in your living room, and occasionally in my bedroom, until I could get up and change the channel to something, anything, else. Miller conducted The Gang (yes, they were Mitch Miller and The Gang) with a rather odd style while the likewise ever-smiling male and female chorale members, always scrubbed fresh and looking like they had never so much as considered passing gas, sang some of those old sentimental favorites. Favorites if you'd been born prior to mass production of Ford's Model A. Oh, and there was a bouncing ball, that way all at home could, well, follow the bouncing ball and just Sing Along With Mitch. The words corny and smarmy come right to mind.
  

• My Three Sons - Another father with three boys and no mother in sight. They must have fallen off the turnip truck. Maybe mom ran off with Bub, then Bub changed his mind and came back under the weight of sheer guilt. The whole story of him being their grandfather was a cover. Papa and no mama was a familiar theme in 60s TV, what with The Andy Griffith Show, The Rifleman, Bonanza, The Courtship of Eddie's Father, and to some extent, Family Affair. What precisely was network television trying to tell us? Steve Douglas had a big job in the aerospace industry, making enough money to keep a nice house for the boys and their housekeeper and surrogate mother, who was initially their gramps, then their uncle came home from the merchant marine and helped the fellas grow the hell up. I don't remember a lot of zany or madcap mayhem with this show, it was just a good show, especially the early black&white episodes.

Such was television and the sets on which we watched television in those good old days. Good memories. In many cases, bad TV. But I had my Crosley.

America's Anchor of Record...

It's been said of certain individuals that, if they didn't exist, we'd have to invent them.

To me, that's about the highest praise there is. It means they were or are THAT important to our way of life.

If Walter Cronkite doesn't fit the "...we'd have to invent them" paradigm, no one ever has. The man was the model which countless have followed. For those who didn't walk the trail of the Cronkite paradigm, they simply do not make the grade, nor will they ever. Too many likely do not know much more than the name Cronkite and precious little else about the man most of America welcomed into their homes nightly for generations.

I was a dorky kid.

I was also as nosy and newsy as I am today. Do you think it's why my life went where it went?

Ours was a CBS house, therefore ours was first a Douglas Edwards house then a Walter Cronkite house. If it wasn't Cronkite, it wasn't news, it didn't matter all that much, it wasn't THAT important to our way of life. If it wasn't Cronkite, we never saw it.

Growing up, the neighbors we were closest with were a Huntley/Brinkley family. Why? I have no idea whatsoever. What I do know is that on those few times when I happened to be in their house during evening news, Huntley and Brinkley looked so foreign to me that I was fascinated by who these "other guys" were. Over at my house, I tend to doubt Chet or David ever so much as flashed across our Philco screen for a second. Let's put it this way, I was deprived.

Frankly, and this is a minor whine left over from childhood, I felt a bit left out. Once I was old enough to watch what I wanted to watch and my very own television(an old B&W clunker with rabbit ears), and one was mine at about twelve or thirteen, I defaulted without much thought to Walter Cronkite.

I never got to see and hear their signature and, let's face it, rather famous "Good night, Chet - "Good night, David." It's my understanding that the order of the exchange did alternate from night to night, but I honestly don't remember.

The very first time I heard or read the word avuncular was as applied to Cronkite. I ran for a dictionary and learned what it meant, and of course, have never forgotten what it means. We always had dictionaries nearby growing up, mom and dad always encouraged to grab one when we came across a new word. It works. If you look it up, you'll never forget it.

Other people of greatness have died within the last month. I wrote nothing, for the very simple reason that, what could I possibly add that others haven't already.

It's the same with Walter Cronkite, except the loss, while surely anticipated, is worthy of everyone stopping, thinking, and noting it.

He was literally a giant. And there really was just one Walter Cronkite.

A Day Off...

Monday, a day off. A rather unremarkable day off. Still, a day off.

Nothing planned. No big things to do. No important places to be. No pressing issues to address. No significant people to impress. No questions to answer.

Phewww, time out.

I did need a breather, both from work and from three nights at the 63rd Back Mountain Library Auction. A great event. However, between commitments there, and commitments at work, I needed some hours to myself to do nothing.

So, what did I do? Nothing, really. For whatever numbingly boring reason, I felt like looking at the day in writing.

10:30AM - Out of bed after more than loving a long night's sleep during which I had some tremendous dreams. I love to sleep, always have. The wife and I often refer to this mutually appreciated type of sleeping as "recreational sleeping," meaning that we find sleep to be inherently enjoyable, whether or not you physically and/or mentally need the sleep. I know many others who feel the same. Unless something, anything, has changed in the last ten or so years, science/medicine/physics, whatever, really can't explain sleep. The odd fact is, we don't know what sleep is, or what our body does to make it move between the state of awareness to that of non-awareness. I am not a scientist. I was not a meteorologist. I am a good sleeper.

10:35 - 11:40AM - Sat on my butt and drank coffee, read the papers, checked email and Facebook, caught some of The View, which isn't typically on my daily planner. Carol makes great coffee. We grind our own beans. You really can't beat fresh ground beans, regardless of what beans you use. Frankly, buy cheap, it's the fresh grinding that makes the difference. Grind your own, I say, make it drip method, I say, and you'll have yourself some really good coffee. If you go cheap beans, you may have to up the suggested amount of coffee per cup. Just remember, you have to grind the beans, meaning you'll need a grinder. They're cheap.

11:40AM - 1:15PM - Took a shower, threw on some shorts and a tee, got in the truck, then drove over to the chiropractor. Following deep muscle therapy, my chiro "adjusted" me, which is a monthly routine. I happen to have faith in chiropractic. It works for me. I have no back problems where I once had many. My right hip is nagging me. He did a couple things directed at that hip. It feels better. This likely won't surprise you; there are chiropractors who treat animals, and do so with verifiable success. There are also acupuncturists who treat animals. They, too, have their triumphs.

1:30 - 2:00PM - Home now, I decide to dork around with a piece of camera equipment that's been collecting dust for probably close to ten years. It's a circular polarizer - a CPL - a filter that threads onto the end of a lens. If used and adjusted properly, this thing eliminates glare completely. Why, you can take pictures right through glass windows. Or photograph water and actually see clearly what's beneath the surface, should that spit-shine your loafers. What I love about a CPL is that it punches up blue skies and clouds. Does this matter to you? I doubt it. Like I said, it was a day off to do nothing, this was a big part of my nothing day. Mary Tyler could have made it suddenly all worthwhile. But does she know how to use a CPL?

2:00PM - Had a "light" salami sandwich on "light" bread. I am forever on a diet, born on one I do believe. My victories over weight have been few the last seven or eight years. Not a bad sandwich. It would have been 1000% better on some sort of real bread, especially a nice rye or sourdough. Even two slices of good old fashioned American white bread of the cheapest quality would have improved the experience. Oh, washed it down with a diet soda - better living through chemistry.

2:30PM or so - Decided to flop down on a couch and read a book. Two of our three dogs were on me in a heartbeat. The third dog is not all that fond of a nap between my legs, or next to me, or right on top of me. Two out three ain't bad, right? With two dogs out cold with me on the couch, I managed to fly through about a hundred pages of a book I've been working at on and off for months.

4:30PM or thereabouts - Put said book over my eyes to block out light, thereby facilitating attempt at aforementioned recreational sleeping. Attempt successful. Dozed off nicely, very nicely. Dogs went right with me. They sleep better then we do.

5:00PM - Awoke in time to say so long to the wife, she was off to the auction to help open on its final night. Sunday is normally final night, Saturday they rained out, moving Saturday night's schedule to Monday night. I mumbled myself back to snooze status, finally moving my rump off of the couch around 6:30.


6:30 to 11:15PM - Drank some beer, watched some TV, had something to eat in there, too. The beer was Victory Prima Pils and some Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. What did I watch on the TV? I don't remember. What did we eat? Delmonicos, they were on sale. A Delmonico, a baked sweet potato, and a salad. OK, I had a glass of wine with dinner.


11:15PM - Back to bed. Good night...

And there it is, my day off.

Just In Case You Missed It...

WILKES-BARRE - A Wilkes-Barre man was arrested Saturday after attempting to steal a pack of ribs from a supermarket by stuffing them down his pants, according to city police.

On A Holiday Weekend Just Past ...

The 5th of July always waves the green flag for what's left of summer to rip, to fly, to evaporate.

Next stop - Labor Day.

Depressed? There's still some space under that bus.

OK, we all know, and I mean really know, that there's at least another seven weeks of "summer" left, even if you're a grump and a cynic and a whiner, bummer, bum, or wet blanket who allows the 4th mark the midway point.

Did I say, "Next stop - Labor Day?"

How about, "Next Stop - The Twilight Zone."

One of the more enjoyable things the 4th brings these days is SciFi's Twilight Zone Marathon. Perhaps its biggest draw is it being an alternative to all the nothingness on the other several hundred channels available at the tip of my index finger.

Saturday night, though, we took a little time out from Rod Serling to watch The Boston Pops on CBS. Can someone explain this show to me?

Not all that many years back, maybe not even ten, The 4th of July Pops Show was about the best out there, including the "have-to-hear-on-the-4th" 1812 Overture. (A piece which has zero to do with the USA. It's Russian in origin, and Russian in basis and foundation. We've made it our own. Also no, I really don't know why. It has far more to do with the French than us.)

So, what do we have now with the Boston Pops?

We hit CBS at the very opening of the show, just in time to catch Craig Ferguson introducing Neil Diamond singing Sweet Caroline. Right. Sweet Caroline. We glanced at one another and said in near unison, "What the hell does this have to do with the 4th of July?"

And the rest of the show was as equally perplexing. After one, maybe two Sousa marches and a patriotic sing-a-long, the fireworks finale was allowed to air uninterrupted accompanied by...no, not the Boston Pops, but rather by a mix of recorded contemporary music, much of it country.

What was once a terrific 4th of July production has come to be the ultimate in "I don't get it..." And for the show's producers not to use the Boston Pops for the finale has to be a snub unlike any other to Keith Lockhart and the fine orchestra he conducts.

Oh, and there was no 1812 Overture to be had. Just a guess - they perform their signature number BEFORE network coverage begins. Brilliant.

I will say one thing: Craig Ferguson manages to show considerable restraint when he emcees this show, Saturday's was his third. Did you ever get the sense that Ferguson, funny and likable as he is, is about one small step away from coming completely unglued, taking off his clothes, and running off cackling into the night?

A few hours earlier, we caught about five minutes of another 4th of July television show on PBS. A live show on which we were treated to Barry Manilow lip-syncing Copacabana. That was kind of a warm up, a tease, for the ultimate "I don't get it..." Sorry to ask the obvious - neither Copacabana nor lip-syncing have anything to do with the holiday, right?

Are public fireworks displays in decline?

Seems to me that also not that long ago the list of fireworks displays was long, very long. Looked like it was a whole lot shorter this year, maybe because it was scattered across three, even four nights. I can easily recall a time when these things were few, maybe a couple in both the Scranton and Wilkes-Barre area.

Since most neighborhoods in NE PA sound like Antietam come Independence Day, I got to wondering what, if anything, had changed with the legality of fireworks since I was a kid. Surprisingly, I'd say nothing has changed. I have an easy and simple rule of thumb when it comes to fireworks in this state.

Just think of Gleason's "Bang, zoom!" If it explodes or flies - goes bang or it zooms - it's illegal. Pretty simple. Not so simple, compliance with existing law.

If you're curious about a state by state list of laws, here you go.

What is the 4th of July all about?

The 4th of July commemorates the adoption of The Declaration of Independence by the Second Continental Congress, a holiday to be celebrated by and for all Americans. Without going on about specifics, let me just say that I heard some pretty odd things about the origins of Independence Day over the weekend. Despite not being a teacher, or a parent, or a school director, I still think that civics, local history, and Pennsylvania history should be a mandatory course in each grade's curriculum beginning with first grade and running through twelfth. While I'm making a speech, and in keeping with a patriotic theme, what you hear about George Washington not being born in the United States is undeniably correct. What those spreading this nonsense either don't understand, or would rather you not understand, is that when Washington was born in Popes Creek, Virginia Colony, the United States didn't exist.

Finally, what might be my favorite all-time 4th of July story, and a very true one.

Somewhere in my teens, I spent a 4th with a friend and family at a lake in Wyoming County. The focus of the day was to be an enormous and "private" fireworks show launched from the cottage owner's dock right after nightfall. Off-limits for much of the day was about half the dock, the half at the end of which was the lake. That's because the box of fireworks, and it was one honking big box, sat at the edge of the dock not to be disturbed by anyone until showtime when bombs would be bursting in air.

Things went wrong. Before dark, things went very wrong.

A discarded cigarette had landed in the fireworks box. I know, I know, this all sounds like a goof, right? It's not, not at all.

The grown-up men had all been guzzling beer most of the day, meaning that the men in charge of pre-detonation safety were getting a little sloppy. One of them, and it was said unknown to him, tossed a butt from the lawn near the lake. Speculation was that the wind had blown the burning butt into the box.

Here's where things get murky. See, there's this legend, this alternate account of what happened.

In the years following this incident, the story emerged that "the boys" - the youngest was probably 45 - were bouncing cigarette butts off the box and having a few laughs to go along with those few beers. One of the boy's aim was skewed by the brew and his lit butt landed in the box.

Oooooops.

By the time they found the nerve to peer into the box and fish out that butt, the hissing had already begun, some fuse had been lit.

Sobering up in one big hurry, the boys scrambled for cover, yelling to everyone within earshot to run for their lives. We all did.

It took but five minutes or so for the entire box of fireworks to fizz, whiz, bang, pop, thunder and ka-pow, all the while propelling flaming debris at every compass point. No injuries were reported.

The only casualty was that dock.

About a third of the dock had been weakened such by the unscheduled display that it creaked, leaned, and splashed into the lake. What was left behind smoldered, shortly thereafter breaking into visible flames and burning down to water level.

Now, on to Labor Day!

Mama, Don't Take My Kodachrome Away...

Paul Simon's lyrics can be puzzling, perhaps even meaningless. Though you have to give them one thing, they often rhyme, and that's why many call him "Rhymin' Paul Simon."

The entire notion that Kodachrome had left us rendered the comparisons and connections to Simon's 1973 song trite and old in a hurry, and it only took about 48 hours for it to happen.

I stopped shooting Kodachrome eons ago, almost back in another life. One big reason was that it was slow, really slow. Meaning you needed bright light and/or long exposures to get those brilliant colors for which Kodachrome was famous. Famous enough to be fabled in song, which I still think is weird.

Was it a great product? Absolutely.

The photo at left from the West End of London taken in 1949 is proof of what a marvelous film Kodachrome was in the technical sense. Exposed properly, it captured everything; contrast, brightness, shadows, highlights, mid-tones, and above all else, color.

Even at that, Kodachrome had been nudged out of favored film status some years ago by Fuji's Velvia. Still in production, I wouldn't bet serious money on the future of any photographic film, including the near-iconic Velvia.

Sad to say, if you weren't or aren't at the very minimum a serious amateur photographer, the wonders of Kodachrome mattered little. A song about color slide film? How about a song bringing the world the joyous news of vacuum cleaner bags? I never did get what moved Paul Simon to write the song, but it sure can stick in your head. I'd last heard it about three days before Kodak announced that its signature color reversal film, slide film, was to be no more.

Sadly, I don't think the photographic world let out one big collective "OUCH" when the news broke. There may have been a widely scattered groan and a sigh. I'm thinking more whimper than bang here.

This post is mostly about and for all those who've argued (at times, in a highly agitated state) that digital photography would never overtake film, that it couldn't possible replace film.

It did and it has. You really need to get over it.