Happy Trails ...

No, this post is not a tribute to the late cowboy star Roy Rogers, even though I did have a Roy Rogers and Dale Evans lunchbox back in the fifties.  I certainly wouldn't be using such a lunchbox today, however,  considering that Roy Rogers had the audacity and poor taste to have his  faithful horse Trigger stuffed and mounted and displayed in a museum.

At least Roy was considerate enough to wait until Trigger had passed on to Horse Heaven to undertake the mounting and stuffing.

No, this note is rather to acknowledge that I'll be on hiatus from Nouveau Old, Formerly Cute for a little while. It's not that the muse has left me, but she has asked to be traded. (Bada-Bing!)  When  I line up my new muse, I'm going to be shooting for Sharon Stone.  Here's hoping I don't wind up with Sly Stone. 

There's lots of people I'd like to thank for their support with the blog, but I'll save that for another time. There is one person specifically who gets a gold star. That's my friend Russell Gayer - a terrific humor writer in his own right - who has been consistently supportive of my writing and has commented on almost every post. Occasionally even positively. 

Thank you, sir!

I'll be back. In the meantime, if you want to write to me for any reason you can always reach me through Facebook or at perry.block1@gmail.com. And I'll still be posting on Facebook and Twitter.

See ya, dudes.

​  

And as Roy Rogers would say, Happy Trails ...​.

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The “Second” Second Amendment

 One Nation, Under Guns ....

“Didya take care of it yet?” asked Len Farbman,  my oft congenial but congenitally annoying friend from work.

“Not yet, Len,” I answered. “Maybe this week. Or ….. next week at the latest.”

“Perry,” he said firmly, “you only have until July 31! You’re procrastinating again!"

"Well, I believe in always going with what you’re good at!”

“Look, Per,” counseled Farbman, "Sheila and I weren’t exactly thrilled about having to purchase a couple of handguns either. But now that we both have ‘em, it’s so cool!

"How so?"

"The other day Sheila and I were in the bedroom,  and  I was standing in my bathrobe,  pistol in my calf-skin shoulder holster.   I turned quickly toward the mirror, pulled my gun,  and said  My name is Farbman …. Len Farbman.”

“Yeah, and what happened next? You guys made wild passionate love?”

“Nah, I hit the head and went downstairs to yell at the children.”

I said goodbye to Farbman, having promised him I’d go out that very day and purchase my requisite handgun.

I still couldn’t believe it. 

President Sarah Palin!  Swept into office via her rousing “Jesus loves Billionaires” campaign following hot on the heels of the exposure of the Obama/Nancy Pelosi/Shrek three-way love nest,  she’d been Chief Executive about a year and a half.

The new President had swiftly overseen passage of the Balanced Budget Amendment, which in its first year had mandated closure of all national parks and storage of Old Faithful in a bonded warehouse in New Jersey, the War on Terror reduced to a Hissy Fit Against Terror, and Medicare requiring all participants to seek most forms of treatment from the guy in North Philadelphia I used to get Quaaludes from in the 70’s.

Then there was the “Second” Second Amendment. The Administration had swiftly rewritten  its favorite Amendment to the Constitution, removing the awkward language about militias to produce a  far more smoothly worded principle of modern governance.

It now read:

“The right of the people to keep and bear arms is groovy.  Everybody gotta get themselves a gun no later than July 31, 2014!  KA-POW! Bang-Bang-Bang!  KA-BOOMIE!”

I flicked on the television. It was Good Morning America, and George Stephanopoulos was giving the daily “Murders, Mutilations, and Mayhem Report.”

"There were 2758 murders in the United States yesterday,” reported Stephanopoulos, “with another 1754 wounded and over 1300 incidents of snarling bad guys exhorting the well-meaning but submissive friend of the good guy to dance!  And in Kansas City MO, a Pillsbury Bake-Off ended badly when a dispute over sifting led to the to the execution style murder of Poppin' Fresh, the Pillsbury Dough Boy.”

Just then, Stephanopoulos said something about Elizabeth Vargas being shot and raced off camera.

To get with the President’s program, I headed out to the establishment Farbman had recommended, Friendly Freddie’s’ Fireworks ‘n Firearms.

“What the hell you been waiting for?!” exclaimed Friendly Freddie. “Not much left here now, except …. hey, interested in a bazooka?”

“No, no, no! ” I exclaimed. "Just your basic firearm, please!   I don’t know anything about guns; y' see, I'm Jewish! ”

“Oh, now I got ya," said Friendly Freddie. "Have any idea how your aim is?”

"Not good at all, Friendly Freddie. When I was a kid and I’d shoot off a cap pistol, the smoke would appear half a block away."

“Well,  don't worry, Mac," he said.  "I’ve had people in here buying assault rifles who shouldn’t be allowed to operate a slinky!  You’ll get used to it. You’ll like it.  Everyone does.”

Friendly Freddie fitted me with what he called a Glock 39.   I had to admit there was something fascinating about the shiny precision of the thing --- and  unlike on my old cap pistol,  there was no picture on the gun barrel of Roy Rogers and Dale Evans smiling and waving "Happy Trails to You!" 

Funny, I used to think all guns came with that!

As I left Friendly Freddie’s, I headed into nearby Woodmere Park.  Near the Park’s fountain, a bushy haired young man had pulled a gun on a middle-aged woman who grabbed her derringer and began blasting away.  A merry shoot out all 'round the fountain ensued! 

What fun! 

In a nearby cafe, a male patron was pistol whipping a waiter because his onion soup didn't have enough cheese and there weren't nearly enough crackers.   Yep, I'd frequently gotten poor service there myself!  Beats undertipping.

And I had to laugh when I saw all the alte cockers sittting on the park pavilion with the old-fashioned tommy guns straight out of 1920's Chicago! 

I wrapped my fingers around my Glock 39 and tingled as I felt its raw power.  Don't usually get to tingle all that much. 

Remember, I'm Jewish.

As I strode out into the Park, I understood at last what good old Farbman had been talking about. 

KA-POW! Bang-Bang-Bang!  KA-BOOMIE!

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Farewell to the Fifties

The Evolution of Annette

I owe it all, I’m afraid, to Jack Benny.

It was in discussion with a 30-something  that I learned that the 1950’s had officially died.

We were talking about comedy, and I mentioned my hero, the great skinflint, the perennial 39 year old, the “Oh, fella?” ~ “Yes-s-s-s-s-s” American institution and legend, Mr. Jack Benny. I expected smiles and nods and gushes of recognition, if not a personal homage in the form of her crossing arms, turning her head slowly aside, and exclaiming “W-e-e-l-l-l-!-!-!”

But what I got was “Yeah, I know who he is! That British comedian who was always doing those goofy chases!”

“Umm, Cheryl,” I choked, “that was …. Benny Hill. Comparing Benny Hill to Jack Benny is sort of like comparing Paris Hilton to Paris France!”

Though Jack Benny was active in show business for much of the 20th Century, on TV his heyday was the 1950’s. In that moment, I learned that Benny’s heyday had become a nayday. As a child of the 50’s, references and allusions from that period have tripped off my tongue “faster than a speeding bullet” and “like a fiery horse at the speed of light.”

But no more. As a source of reference, comparison, or commentary, I come to bury the 50’s…. and to praise them:

Taking leave, Leave it to Beaver! Growing up 50’s, Beaver, I measured my life against yours and consistently found it wanting. You got in and out of trouble in 30 minutes, learned well your parental lessons, and made life within the confines of a picket fence look copacetic and cool. But as I leave, Beav, please do me one favor: tell Ward and June to stop dressing for dinner,  for Pete's sake,  as if they’re headed out for a job interview with Halliburton!

Au revoir, Annette! As the Mickey Mousketeer with the prematurely developing bust line, Annette Funicello, you morphed into the most seismic force for male sexual awakening since the invention of masturbation. Though a millennial hearing your name would most likely presume you an Italian desert, I’ll always think of you as the main course to a fantasy that had me glued to a show which was supposed to be about a mouse.

Hasta la vista, Howdy! Though your creators should have learned the meaning of the term “no strings attached,” Howdy Doody, you introduced us to an endearing ensemble that foreshadowed the generations-later Sesame Street. Buffalo Bob, Mayor Bluster, the Flub-a-Dub, Princess Winterfall Summerspring, Clarabell, Chief Thunderthud, Heidi Doody, and more …. Hey, thank you, guys! The Peanut Gallery is closed.

Happy Trails, Roy! Happy trails to you, Roy Rogers, until we meet again.  Happy Trails to you, which will be never, my friend!

Our paths diverge, Davy! You may have been King of the Wild Frontier, Davy Crockett, but on the Web Frontier, you’re not even a pawn. With coonskin cap aloft and “Born on a Mountaintop” playing in the breeze, it’s time for you to once again go down swinging --- this time not by the hands of Santa Anna’s men but by the Santa Anna winds of time.

Adios, Adlai! You, Adlai Stevenson, were my first political memory. Going with my father to vote for you for President in 1956, we knew you had as much chance to win as to set off a national craze of male babies named “Adlai.” You were beloved by liberals and everyone we knew, but the country liked Ike. Would I get a quick resonating response to your name in 2010? Sadly, think I’d have to wait until hell freezes over. 

Gotta roam, Lone Ranger! With a "hearty hi-ho, Silver!" and Tonto by your side, you, Lone Ranger, were the oddest of heroes. You started off with a handicap of your own making. You had no secret identity, you needed no mask, and everywhere you went the greeting was the same: "Look, it's an outlaw, kill him!" Your mask was on the side of the law, but it didn't need to be on your face at all!

Ciao, Raleigh Coupons! In the 1950’s Cigarette commercials on the air were as prevalent as cigarette smoke in the office. But amongst them all, Raleigh Cigarettes, you puffed supreme. Why? Because of the golf clubs, toasters, and manifold marvels one could obtain “Free for Raleigh Coupons!” The trick, of course, was to stay alive long enough to collect the coupons to get any of them.

Cheerio, Cherrios Kid! Along with Annette, my Cheerios Kid, you fueled a childhood fantasy. When you’d eat those “O’s,” you'd acquire a bulging bicep, powered by a colossal Cheerio! I ate your wares diligently, eagerly awaiting the muscle and the mighty “O.” Finally one night in a dream, there emblazoned upon my still spindly arm was a Cheerio indeed --- actual size and soggy from milk.

Sayonara, Superman! Many others have played the role, George Reeves, but nobody else ever inhabited it as fully as every 50’s kid once inhabited your cape. The stories were stupid, the production values atrocious, but when you flew, we did too. Greasy hair notwithstanding, you were the Man of Steel. If only Kryptonite had been all that could harm you ….

So fare thee well, Fifties!  You shall live on in memory and history, if not in my metaphor and simile.

Now, I’m off to drop in on the Sixties.

There's a 32 year old I know who thinks The Monkees --- OMG! --- are in the Philadelphia Zoo ....

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I'm a bit nostalgic yet; it's the plight of the Boomer, I think.  So for one more time, here's  A Further Farewell to the Fifties.