Hats Off

The Goorin Bros. Hat Shop has created a one-minute multi-character silent black-and-white video about commuting to work while wearing a hat.
I own a lovely fedora purchased from the Goorin Bros. shop in Harvard Square. I feel a touch guilty about it, because Goorin’s a slick national chain and I’m generally loyal to my local New Haven haberdashery DelMonico’s. But when a hat calls out to you, you need to get it. Also, when visiting other cities (even ones I know as well as Cambridge, a few towns over from where I grew up), buying a new hat really makes me feel like a happy tourist. I guess happy commuters feel that way too.
I’ve been debating whether to buy one of Goorin’s many style of “cadet” cap, but wonder if they look too militaristic. I like the old-fashioned oversized ball-cap cartoonishness of the cadet style. But right now, heavy wool or felt is the mode of choice. I’ve got until spring—which weather-wise still seems months, not weeks, away—to figure out the cap thing.

Rock Gods #347: Adventures in Our Little Music Scene

It started with the Two Sheets—Tom and Chuck, pals since high school—hanging bedsheets on the wall behind the stage at gigs. Then one night a drunken lout called out (more than once; thought he was clever) “Why do you call yourselves two sheets when you only have one?”
“Because we don’t give two sheets!” was the bright reply. Yet at the very next show, the duo not only hung a bedsheet behind them but in front of them as well. To further the joke, the band played only covers. Get it? A lot of the audience didn’t. Two Sheets emerged from between the sheets to find that over half the crowd had vamoosed.
Now Two Sheets—playing Thursday at Hamilton’s, where covers are de rigeur—works in more controllable sheet puns: they bring in sheets of paper, or sheets of ice (from the recent snowstorm). They say “Touché!” so it sounds like “Two sheets!” Where will it end? “Well, we’re never going to wear sheets. I can promise you that,” Tom sez.
Tonight: The Ecstatic Thief and Grave of Arthur at the Bullfinch, with lyrics so florid the music is superfluous… neo-sacred acts All is Grist and Ubi Ecclesia at St. Constant’s Church on Main… The Turkey and the Turk, Irish drinking songs, at Hamilton’s… An Evening With Come to Think of It at D’ollaire’s…

Riverdale Book Review

More Archie Anagrams
(devised by me, Mabel and Sally)

Here, boy!
Overweight
Thoughtful
Dreamy
Outdoorsy
Good friend

Moose’s
Intriguing
Diminutive
Girlfriend
Except she likes Reggie too.

Mean
Overprotective
Ox-like
Sporty
Envious Boy

Dictionary-reading
Inventive
Lab-coated
Trustworthy
Overeducated
Nerd

Not Tonight, Dear

Last week I read back-to-back-to-back biographies: a memoir by Johnny Carson’s former business lawyer Henry “Bombastic” Bushkin about the nearly two decades he spent gallivanting with the King of Late Night Television; Peter Ackroyd’s brief life of Charlie Chaplin (300 pages may seem not incredibly brief, but this was a very full life), and Robert M. Dowling’s excellent new Eugene O’Neill: A Life in Four Acts.
All three subjects were at the top of their professions, dominating their chosen fields for much of the 20th century. Yet it’s clear, even from Henry Bushkin’s self-serving hagiography, who is the odd man out here. Johnny Carson’s rise to fame and fortune, compared to a Chaplin or an O’Neill, was more about commerce than art. He was a reasonably priced newcomer who was given a shot at a type of television (late-night talk show) that was willfully underbudgeted and underestimated: a cheap promotional opportunity for actors and authors in an out-of-the-way time slot with little real competition.

Chaplin was a perfectionist who filmed take after take until the desired moment seemed both natural and iconic. O’Neill took inspiration from the disorders and calamities which defined his dysfunctional family. Carson, by contrast chose to create for himself the not entirely credible role of Midwestern everyman. He did not challenge himself artistically. He resorted to cheap vaudeville gags and magic tricks that would be embarrasing if any of today’s late-night hosts tried them today. How hot was it?

Carson suppressed his real personality on the air, unless the issues were so well-known (his many marital failures) that he had to turn them into self-deprecating comedy routines. Carson’s ability to jumpstart careers should not be underrated (though Bushkin underrates it himself, making repeated references to a select few comedians whose careers were made after a Carson appearance, limiting that list to a select few such as Bill Cosby and Joan Rivers and ignoring the legions of others who benefited from a Carson assist). Anyhow, that power came by dint of a national platform the likes of which has seldom existed, and which Carson simply inherited from Jack Paar and Steve Allen, who knew how to use it just as well as Carson did.
Carson became one of the highest paid entertainers of his time, but the remuneration was based more on a business model (The Tonight Show was insanely profitable for its network) than on a talent model.

Best thing about Bushkin’s Johnny Carson is hearing it on audiobook, where narrator Dick Hill basically delivers a six-hour vocal impersonation of Carson. He’s not pretending to be him, but the rhythms and cadences and pitches and twangs are there. It’s actually a better job than Carson himself could have done reading a book aloud. The host was notoriously impatient, ever in-the-moment. A sustained mood was not his style.

Rock Gods #346: Adventures in Our Little Music Scene

Who Wears Stripey Scarfs [sic] does their cosmic jam “Revolution Number 4,” while the band Number Six performs “Big White Ball in the Sea” twice in their half-hour set.
The occasion? Geek Day at the college on the hill. Townie musicians became willing pick-up bands for some quasi-academic exercises in overexcitable fanboyishness—and, to a lesser degree, fangirlhood and transformativeness.
It’s a neat arrangement that began by chance when the Geekfest was first granted School Activity Fee funding a couple of years ago. One of the event’s founders found himself at a gaming table inside Stinky’s Comics on Academy Avenue, beating the pants (or, rather, the superhero tights) off of Booly Boo of the BoolyBoolys. (In Stinky’s, Booly is known by his given name, William Bowley.) The geek organizer, a bespectacled gent known as The Lordseer, found common ground with his multiversified opponent, discussing the outre genre of sci-fi hi-fi—songs based on TV science fiction programs—between rolls of the multi-sided mottled dice.
The buddies formed a bond the next week, learning half a dozen sfhf hits for a one-off set at the fest. The performance went over like a sky-skimming vessel of blissful peace-bursts. The crowd was initially stunned, but then could not stop smiling.
The Lordseer graduated after two fests, but Booley Boo has kept the flame burning, connecting with Geek organizers months in advance of the annual gig, and enlisitng scenesters beyond the BooleyBoos to pitch in with pitch-perfect extraterrestrial musical musings.
This year’s event was the first time there was more than one band on board this particular spaceship. It made Booley believe for the first time that he might be able to move this show off-campus. He arranged a sponsorship form (where else?) Stinky’s and booked a night at (again, where else?) The Bullfinch, one week prior to GeekFest VIII.
And lo, all the outsiders in the area were inside. A whole new crowd, of true crowd proportions, with true crowd wisdom.
Riffs were sung, hummed and whistled by the audience as soon as the melodies had wafted from the stage. The Voice-over narrations from the shows’ intro were dutifully intoned by just about everyone in the room. Lyrics were deciphered and debated. Alien cantina dances were attempted.
We won’t see the likes of the Bullfinch Beamdown again, at least until it slips another timestream a year from now. You may see some of those awestruck faces in the crowd at the club again for the goofier indie shows, but it’s more likely that they’ll just head back to the tables at Stinky’s, their “club” of choice. More’s the pity. The music needs an infusion of the sf scenes, and vice-multiverse-versa. These gaggles share passions.
Tonight: Simplicity & Tolstoy at the Bullfinch… The Flying Inn and Fancies Versus Fads at Hamilton’s; Europe Nite… An Evening With Handful of Authors (only one original member, of course) remaindered at D’ollaire’s…

Riverdale Book Review

Things Hiram Lodge Collects
Pep candy dispensers
Beany Brainys beanbag dolls (including Mentor Mouse, Fly IQ, Whiz-Kid-the-Goat and Einstein Owl)
Priceless vases
Antique automobiles
Stamps
Coins
Fine art
His daughter’s attempts at art
Money