America's Loss

Some people consider the residents of the Manor as Luddites despite the fact that we regularly use computers. The reasons for these accusations may be due to the fact that this writer prefers to use manual typewriters or pen and ink for his serious writing, that we do not have an automatic dish-washer, our (by contemporary standards) overuse of commas, semi-colons and dashes, or the fact that we have neither cable nor satellite television.
Your faithful correspondent suspects that the main ground of accusation lays with the television matter. The idea of receiving television signals over the air and not paying for the "privilege" seems, to some, as quaint as the idea of sitting in the front room (called by those with aspirations of appearing sophisticated the "living room" or by others, mostly long dead, "the front parlor") listening to a Philco or Dumont radio waiting for John McCormick to start singing Ave Maria.
But, believe it or not, we here at the Manor at one time received cable television back in the days when we, and MTV, were young. We saw the first Michael Jackson music videos. In fact, this writer's brother The Honorable Mister Daniel, worked with Mr. Jackson as a sound editor on several of Mr. Jackson's early music videos. And to tell the truth, during our days being connected to the cable teat and thereafter, we have never been particularly enamoured of Mr. Jackson. He was a good dancer, but no Fred Astaire, a decent singer of his type (meaning of the frenetic hard breathing style) and an entertainer who depended more on technology than real talent. In other words, he was a busker who made a lot of money and fooled a lot of people.
Mr. Jackson died this past week and the world seems to have gone into the type of mourning that is saved for the trivial. The same type of thing happened when Diana Spencer, John Belushi and James Dean et al died. The logic behind this mourning seems to be based on the idea that the dead were mis-understood., when, in fact, the deceased were really not much more than parasites.
To paraphrase Bryan Suits, entertainers and celebrities are remora and the public is the shark. Celebs feed off the public and really never give anything of value back to the public and the culture. Celebs, including Farrah Fawcett, Ed McMahon and David Carradine, as well as Mr. Jackson, Elvis, Buddy Holly, Richie Valens and others, were nothing more than officially sanctioned court jesters, actors or talkers. They made us laugh, tap our feet or were nice to look upon and they expected money in exchange. Meanwhile, the guy or gal you work with who tells good jokes or stories that make you think or laugh five days a week gets nothing but a pat on the back; and the guy you work with is working at a job of work making something.
There was a day when professional entertainers were suspect by the public. And the reason is because entertainers fed off the lower desires of the public. Music and story-telling were a part of daily life among one's peers and done to pass the time, not something done to make more money than the audience.
It is a sad thing that Mr. Jackson died at a relatively young age. But the man was a pederast and a man who, probably without knowing it, strove to lower the datum of civilized behavior during a time when the criterion should have been raised. Not to put a religious bent on the matter, but Mr. Jackson, Mr. Carradine and Mr. Belushi were evidence of de-evolution. They appealed to the basest part of the human experience. Ms. Fawcett, while pretty and a sex symbol for some, was, in reality, on the level with Nell Gynne and Lillie Langtry.
Billy Mays, America's greatest pitchman, died today. If you do not recognize the name Billy Mays perhaps you might look in your pantry and find a bucket of Oxy-Clean, a bottle of Orange-Glo or a tube of Mighty Putty. Mr. Mays, with his solid body and square bearded face and cry, "Billy Mays here!" was the cause of a lot of scrambling for the remote control by certain segment of society, but his death, was, in fact, a much greater loss to the Great Republic than was the death of Mr. Jackson. Billy Mays was an example of a man who had come from nothing and had risen to a level in his various pitches in county and state fairs, and television that he had made for his various employers something to the tune of a half billion dollars. When one sent money to a phone number that Billy Mays announced for a product one could be assured that one would soon get a tangible thing in one's hand within as week or two. Billy Mays, whether the products he pitched were good or bad, Mr. Mays carried on a long, long tradition of medicine men in America in a way that Mr. Jackson did not. Mr Jackson sold himself. Mr. Mays sold something you could use.
So when the funerals of Mr. Jackson and Ms. Fawcett (at the Taj Mahoney: this writer did not know that she was a Catholic) take place this week, please remember Billy Mays. He was better, in his life, for the nation, than the others.

Men in Hats

Summer time is here, unfortunately, and the weather has gotten hot. What is the man man of style to do to find relief from the oppression that unrelenting sunshine presents to one without wearing a pith helmet?
The answer is: The Boater. Among the uninitiated the hat is called a "straw hat" (too broad a term) or a "skimmer" (a slightly different hat -- skimmers are worn by students at Eton).
Unfortunately, the boater has taken a beating from popular culture. It has become a vaudeville staple for hoofers, an institution (in its foam plastic incarnation -- a truly blasphemous creation on the level with the plastic green derby worn by drunks on St. Patrick's Day) at political conventions and pizza parlors, and a joke when the crown is punched out by a comedian.
But the boater is a serious and useful item of headgear for the man. It's lightweight, offers shade, and looks good when worn properly. When worn level and square the hat says that is a serious man not to be taken lightly, as in the photo above of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. When worn with a sideways tilt the wearer comes across as a bit of a rake or a joker. When worn tilted back one appears either young or as a sailor (the boater was based on the canvas and tar hats that sailors wore in the 1800's).
The boater is one of the few men's hats that women can wear and not look ridiculous. But a woman wearing a boater can only look not silly if she is either wearing a middie blouse and long skirt or a striped pullover and sailor pants. Preferably the ribbon on the hat should be long and drape over the back of the hat. Hot pants, Levis and mini-skirts never look good with a boater.
So, if you are suffering from the oppression of summer weather, consider buying yourself a boater. It's a great hat and works well.

Not Your Dad's ....

This writer is an occasional reader of blogs and websites containing reviews of beer and pipe tobacco.

The interesting thing about the reviews is the constant refrain of, "This isn't your Dad's beer". or "This isn't your Dad's pipe tobacco."

The unstated implication is that you Dad had no taste at all in matters of beer or tobacco because he drank Miller High Life instead of Hog's Head Summer Special Ale, and smoked Carter Hall in his pipe instead of Frog Morton or Three Noggins. In other words, your Dad was a dope and a philistine and a tool of corporate America and the blanding of beer and tobacco.

Well, guess what? You're wrong. Your Dad was a man. A real man. Your Dad was a Stoic in a way that you, the reviewer, aren't. Your Dad took what was there and made the best of it. He wanted beer and he chose Schlitz over Hamm's. He wanted pipe tobacco and chose Velvet over Prince Albert. His beer and pipe tobacco needs were satisfied by easily available products and he didn't pretend to be a connoisseur. Your Dad knew what beer and tobacco were for; relaxation and fellowship. He did regard beer and tobacco the same way that a Frenchman regards wine and cheese. Your Dad had no time for such nonsense. He was a working man and a family man, and any time he had left over was spent doing manly things like fishing, hunting or working on the car.

Your Dad didn't bother to spend the extra money to buy a six pack of St. Pauli Girl unless he was a German, or buy a can of Balkan Sobranine unless he was an Englishman. Your Dad drank American lager or pilsner, or smoked American Cavendish or Virginia blends. He didn't bother with the foreign stuff cost too much and the experience only lasted five minutes after the last quaff or puff. And he figured that the extra cost was not worth the experience.

Your Dad was a guy who helped build the nation. He wasn't a dilettante. He worked to make the highways or airplanes or buildings that you use to buy your fancy beers or tobacco. And he probably never has had the chance to engage in you little hobbies. You Dad drank Rolling Rock or Pabst and, smoked Sir Walter Raleigh or Prince Albert, and he was satisfied. He didn't bitch about the beer being "thin" or the tobacco having a bite.

Your Dad, probably without knowing it, was a student of the Roman philosopher Epictetus, while you seem often to be a student of Epicurus. Ask yourself which philosopher's teaching will result in a strong nation.

Next Sunday is Fathers' Day. If your Dad is still living call or visit him and tell him how much you appreciate what he has done for you and that you pray that you will be the man for your children that he was for you. And if your Dad has passed on take the time to remember him and thank the memory that you have of him. Crack a Bud and fill your pipe with Barking Dog and try to live up to what your Dad was.

And if your Dad was a jerk, an idiot and a rounder, make it a point to be a better man. Fancy beer and fancy tobacco will not make you a better man than your Dad. It'll just make you a snob.

Be Careful of "Students of History."

Have you ever run across someone who claims to be a "student of history" who makes stupid claims? The example of Dan Brown in his novels comes to mind. Not only are his contentions ridiculous, his history is awful. The most cursory study of the Knights Templar will show that the Templars were real Christian knights and not adherents of Gnostic "wisdom" or that the Italian sculptor Bernini could not have been a member of the Illuminati because he was long dead by the time Adam Weisphat concocted his scam.
Our Dear Leader (the One, the Anointed, the O), has several times in the past claimed to be a "student of history". One example that comes to mind is his claim that the automobile was invented in the United States. As any car head can accurately state, the automobile, as we know it, was invented in Germany by a man named Daimler (he also invented the motorcycle). The O also spoke, in a praising manner, about the Model T Ford as if the solution to America's energy and pollution problems lies with the Model T. Truth to tell, the Model T was, for its engine size, a gas hog, gross polluter and so unsafe in its construction and features as to be considered more a dangerous toy than a mode of transportation.
The One, in his bum kissing Cairo speech, spoke again as a student of history. And he either lied or showed his ignorance of history:
Pajamas Media » Obama Flunks History at Cairo U
And add to the false claims of the Muslim world the fact that chess was not invented in Iran or the Arab world. It was invented in India.

The Difference Between Then and Now

There was a time when actors, singers and such behaved with a modicum of class and politeness. Now it seems that now the sign of affection to the public by a professional performer is to give it the finger. Instead of the public giving the finger back by not buying the product by the performer it seems to crave a big "F--- you" from their favorite star.
What the heck happened? The actor, the singer, the performer, is coming to the public with a begging bowl held out. In a logical world the performer would be performing on a street corner or in a park and would pass the hat to get the reward for their labor. Instead, the performer feels owed and the public is insulted. The world has truly been turned upside down.
Consider this article about times past and times now:
Big Hollywood » Blog Archive » Hollywood, Music, and the Death of Class