November 22, 1928: Au Fou, Au Fou

Posted on by Richard Daybell

Russian dancer and actress Ida Rubenstein convinced her friend Maurice Ravel to write her a Spanish flavored ballet in 1928. The composer had long considered the idea of structuring an entire composition around a single theme. The theme came to him on a vacation a few month’s later. He sat at a piano playing a melody with one finger. As he played, he said to a friend: ‘Don’t you think that has an insistent quality? I’m going to try to repeat it a number of times without any development, gradually increasing the orchestra as best I can.”

Bolero was born. It was performed on November 22, 1928, at the Paris Opera. The 15-minute work was received with thunderous acclaim — cheering, shouting, foot stomping. One woman was heard screaming “Au fou, au fou!” (the madman, the madman). Ravel’s reaction, when told of it: “That lady, she understood.”

Rarely staged as a ballet in later years, Bolero became Ravel’s most popular work, although he considered it one of his least important. “Once the idea of using only one theme was discovered,” he said, “any conservatory student could have done as well.”

Time Flies Like an Arrow

Robin Hood has been celebrated through story, song and film as that charming rogue who, along with his merry men, robbed from the 1 percent and gave to the 99 percent, a nobleman cheated out of his birthright by the nasty Sheriff of Nottingham, a patriot in service to Richardrobin hood the Lionhearted, fighting the villainy of that usurper Prince John.

To the consternation of the authorities, Robin Hood and his merry gang carried out their trade for a number of years.  But as Robin Hood ushered in his 87th year, his arrows began to get a little wobbly and off-target. He increasingly felt the infirmities of his age, and was eventually convinced to seek medical attention at the local nunnery. The prioress evidently took an instant dislike to the merry old man, which she vented by opening up an artery and allowing him to bleed to death. The date of his demise is reckoned to be November 22, 1247.

But before he turned his toes completely up, Robin realized that he was the victim of treachery (flowing blood will do that), and he blew a blast on his bugle (kept handily at his bedside for just such a situation). This summoned his compatriot Little John who forced his way into the chamber in time to hear his chief’s last request. “Give me my bent bow in my hand,” he said. “And an arrow I’ll let free, and where that arrow is taken up, there let my grave digged be.” Rhyming right to the end. Which came just after he shot the arrow through an open window, selecting the spot where he should be buried. Which he was.

November 21, 1931: It’s Alive

Posted on by Richard Daybell

On the screen, a man steps from behind a curtain to tell us we are about to see “one of the strangest tales ever told. It deals with the two great mysteries of creation; life and death. I think it will thrill you. It may shock you. It might even horrify you. So, if any of you feel that you do not care to subject your nerves to such a strain, now’s your chance to uh, well,––we warned you!!”

It’s November 21, 1931, and the warning is all about Frankenstein, the gothic horror film based on the novel by Mary Shelley. There have been countless films over the years featuring the famed monster but this one is the daddy of them all. Audiences and critics all loved it, and it, along with Dracula released earlier in the year, saved Universal Pictures.

The story is well known. Young Henry Frankenstein has this notion. He wants to create a living being from dead spare parts, mostly stolen. Perhaps he played Mr. Potatohead too often as a child. Things move along swimmingly until the time comes to give the creation a brain. Frankenstein’s assistant, Fritz the Hunchback, botches the brain acquisition, dropping the good brain and substituting a bad brain for it. The assembled creature is brought to life amid an amazing display of electrical pyrotechnics and shouts of “It’s alive!”

Karloff (without the Boris) is both frightening and sympathetic as the monster.  He kills a lot of people. It’s not that he’s really bad, he’s just misunderstood. Nevertheless, the villagers form a mob and hunt him down, trapping him in a windmill and setting it ablaze.

One of the most famous and controversial scenes was cut from the original and not restored until the 1980s:

 

Humor He Wrote

American humorist Robert Benchley died on November 21, 1945, (born 1889) after a writing career that took him from the Harvard Lampoon to Vanity Fair and The New Yorker. Although he described himself as not quite a writer and not quite an actor, he enjoyed success as both. His topical and absurdist essays, particularly at The New Yorker gained him both recognition and influence. He was also one of the members of the group that made up the fabled Algonquin Round Table.  As a character actor, he appeared in such films as You’ll Never Get Rich, Bedtime Story, the Crosby/Hope Road to Utopia, and Alfred Hitchcock’s Foreign Correspondent.

 

benchley

It took me fifteen years to discover that I had no talent for writing, but I couldn’t give it up because by that time I was too famous.

Anyone can do any amount of work provided it isn’t the work he is supposed to be doing at the moment.

A dog teaches a boy fidelity, perseverance, and to turn around three times before lying down.

I have tried to know absolutely nothing about a great many things, and I have succeeded fairly well.

New York – The city where the people from Oshkosh look at the people from Dubuque in the next theater seats and say “These New Yorkers don’t dress any better than we do.”

November 20, 1952: Hi, I’m a Stranger in These Parts

Posted on by Richard Daybell

George Adamski had his first close encounter of the weird kind in November 1952 when he and a few friends were out in California’s Colorado Desert. There they saw what appeared to be a large submarine hovering in the sky. Adamski for some reason believed the ship was looking for him (or maybe for an ocean) and, leaving his friends, went off to greet it.

A bit later, Adamski returned to report that the ship had landed, and its pilot had disembarked and greeted him. The visitor was an outgoing alien who introduced himself as a Venusian named Orthon. He did not ask to be taken to Adamski’s leader. Orthon was a humanoid of medium height with long blond hair and sported a great tan for the time of year. He wore reddish-brown Thom McAns and rather unfashionable trousers.

Adamski said Orthon chatted using telepathy and hand signals while talking very loudly, each assuming the other was deaf. Then the engaging Orthon took Adamski on a quick sightseeing trip of the Solar System, including his home planet Venus, where the late Mrs. Adamski just happened to have been reincarnated. Ever the tourist, Adamski tried to take pictures, but Orthon turned all camera shy and refused to allow himself to be photographed. But he agreed to take a blank photographic plate and promised to return with an autographed picture.

 

True to his word, Orthon returned the plate a few weeks later, but it only contained a bunch of strange symbols. Piqued, Adamski surreptitiously took a picture of Orthon’s space ship, a photo that afterward became famous in ufology circles.

Although Adamski’s tale seemed a bit much for some naysayers, Adamski had a letter he received in 1957 from the Cultural Exchange Committee of the U.S. State Department corroborating that Adamski had spoken to extraterrestrials in a California desert in 1952. Adamski frequently waved this letter around to support his claims.

Unfortunately, in 2002 some spoil-sport ufologist revealed that the letter was a hoax, that it had probably been written by those Communists who were everywhere in the State Department during the 50s.

 

November 19, 2001: Thomas Crapper Would Be Proud

Posted on by Richard Daybell

This is true stuff; the Almanac does not make this stuff up.  November 19 is World Toilet Day. The day was chosen because it is the anniversary of the founding of the World Toilet Organization (WTO), a global non-profit organization committed plunging-toiletto improving toilets worldwide. Founded in 2001 with just 15 visionary members, WTO now boasts 151 member organizations in 53 countries working to eliminate the suppression of toilet talk in polite circles and to bring the toilet out of the shadows of sinks and bathtubs, giving it its own well-deserved recognition.

 

Sad but true: more money is spent throughout the world on toiletries than is spent on toilets. (Toiletries are not off-trail facilities for hikers.)

 

In 2005, WTO created the World Toilet College (WTC), the only institution of higher education devoted to toilet design, maintenance, sanitation and use. The WTC is the first and only institution that addresses the needs of both urban and rural toilets (outhouses, presumably) in a holistic manner. The college also seeks to foster a positive image of toilets everywhere, eschewing the use of such mealy-mouthed euphemisms as lavatory, latrine, water closet, rest room, comfort station, powder room and little boys’ and girls’ rooms.

Annual WTO conventions are surely a laugh a minute.

In 2009, a new website was launched dedicated to the celebration of World Toilet Day. Its 2012 slogan was “I give a shit, do you?

November 18, 1307: Fun with Apples

Posted on by Richard Daybell

It is the dawn of the 14th century and the hundredth anniversary of Austrian rule over Switzerland. Every little Heidi up in Heidiville and william tellevery one of her goats are under the cruel dominion of the Habsburgs. It is November 18, 1307, and a legend is about to be born.

It’s a day of grand celebration for the Austrians (the Swiss, not so much). Soldiers sing of the glories of the Emperor and his appointed local despot Gesler. The evil Gesler has had his hat placed on top of a pole, forcing the Swiss to bow and scrape and generally pay homage to the hat – one of those silly felt things with a feather in it. Gesler also commands that there should be dancing and singing to mark the century during which the Austrian empire has dominated the 98-pound weaklings of Switzerland. Gioachino Rossini and his Italian Racals are on hand to provide appropriate music.

Among the Swiss that day is one William Tell, known among his compatriots as a strong man, a mountain climber, and a whiz with the crossbow. Well, doesn’t Tell pass right by that hat, refusing to bow to it. And doesn’t his son (like father. . .) do just the same. Gesler is really put out and has the pair arrested.  Aware of Tell’s amazing marksmanship, Gesler devises an ingenious punishment: Tell must shoot an apple off the head of his son. If he refuses, they both will be immediately executed. At this point, you can cut the tension with a Swiss Army knife. Rossini strikes up the band.  As every schoolboy knows (if you don’t know, go find a schoolboy), Tell splits the apple with a single bolt (that’s an arrow) from his crossbow. Rossini’s Rascals break into a rollicking version of the William Tell Overture. (In the Lone Ranger, this same music was used to introduce the scene where Tonto shoots an apple from kemo sabe’s head.)

Ah, but sharp-eyed Gesler notices that Tell has taken not one but two crossbow bolts from his quiver. Gesler quizzes Tell, who answers that if he had killed his son, he would have used the second bolt on Gesler himself. Well, Gesler is now pretty pissed and has Tell carted off to prison.

Crossing Lake Lucerne, prison-bound, the soldiers, afraid their boat will founder, release strongman Tell to steer. Tell escapes, tracks down Gesler, places an apple on his head, and misses it by just that much. He shouts out, “Hi yo Switzerland,” Heidis and goats frolic on hillsides, Swiss watches begin keeping perfect time, and the Swiss Confederation is born.

 

November 17, 1968: A Girl, a Goat and a Football

Posted on by Richard Daybell

The New York Jets were leading the home team Oakland Raiders by a skinny three points, 32-29, on the afternoon of November 17, 1968. NBC was airing the game for sports fans throughout the country.heidi1 It was a game between two formidable adversaries, and a hard fought one. The intensity of the play had led to injuries, penalties, extra timeouts and lots of scoring, with the lead changing eight times. As a result, the game ran longer than usual, longer than the three hours NBC had allotted for it. That meant that on the East Coast the game ran right into the 7 p.m. time slot when the evening’s prime time schedule was set to begin.

With just minutes left in the game, eastern viewers were switched to Switzerland for the television movie Heidi, the heartwarming story of a sweet little girl and her kindly grandfather, filled with Alps and yodeling and stuff, but no football. Worse, still, as Heidi cavorted with her goats, the Raiders scored two touchdowns in nine seconds to win the game. Football fans were not pleased.

As it turns out, NBC executives had decided to postpone the start of the film, but they couldn’t get through to the studio because the switchboard was jammed with irate football fans.

The Heidi Game, as it came to be called, led to a change in the television broadcasting of football; the NFL inserted a clause into its TV contracts that guaranteed all games would be broadcast completely. Television networks had separate telephone exchanges installed (known lovingly as Heidiphones) to prevent such incidents from happening in the future.

In 1997, the Heidi Game was voted the most memorable regular season game in U.S. professional football history. Heidi remains the most memorable film about little girls and mountain goats.

And a Memorable Dog

A noted canine was born on this day in 1933. Terry, a female cairn terrier, appeared in 16 motion pictures during her career. If you don’t recognize her name, it’s probably because fame went to her head after a star turn in the 1939 blockbuster The Wizard of Oz, and she changed her name to Toto.

November 16, 1620: Kansas in August

Posted on by Richard Daybell

After having lived for months on board ship in cramped, dirty, smelly quarters, the Pilgrims finally sailed into Provincetown Harbor in November of 1620. On November 16, a group of 16, led by Myles Standish (also known as Captain Shrimp behind his back, being a tad short of stature) set off to explore the nearby environs.

They found fresh water at a place called Pilgrim Springs. (It wasn’t called that at the time they arrived.) Then at the top of a hill, hidden in a teepee, they found a cache of a funny sort of food — long ears with tidy little rows of yellow kernels. They called it corn and promptly stole it. The hill itself they called Hill Where We Stole the Corn from the Natives. That being quite a mouthful, it quickly got shortened to Corn Hill.

From this point the long historical march began to “I’m as corny as Kansas in August” and high fructose corn syrup.

What, you’re shouting — they just up and called it corn?

Yes kids, they did, but it’s really not that a-maize-ing (sorry). The word corn to Europeans at the time simply referred to grain, any grain. In England, wheat was “corn,” in Ireland oats were “corn” and in Indonesia rice was “corn.”

Today, Americans, Canadians and Australians are the only ones that call the yellow ears corn, To most people, it’s maize as in “I’m as maizy as Kansas in August.”

November 15, 1492: According to the Surgeon General

Posted on by Richard Daybell

Rodrigo de Jerez secured his place in history as a trailblazer way back in 1492. He and a companion, Luis de Torres were crewmen who sailed to the Americas aboard the Santa Maria as part of Christopher Columbus’ first voyage.

While in Cuba, which members of the voyage assumed to be China (Columbus knew the world was round but thought it rather tiny), Rodrigo and Luis, hoping to meet the great Khan of Cathay, ran into some native Cubans. Perhaps they had never actually seen a native of China or perhaps, to Spaniards, everyone else in the world looked alike. Nevertheless, they were columbus_tobaccobefriended by the Cubans, never realizing they might just as easily have been eaten.

The Cubans were taking a smoke break, and they invited Rodrigo and Luis to join them. According to Rodrigo, they had wrapped some dried leaves in something that looked sort of like a paper musket. To the Spaniards’ surprise, they lit one end with a flame and pushed the thing into their mouths, “drinking the smoke” from the other end. Luis wanted nothing to do with it, finding it a filthy habit, most likely addictive, and socially repugnant. But Rodrigo being, as previously mentioned, a trailblazer, jumped right in, thereby becoming, right there on November 15, 1492, the first European to ever smoke tobacco.

The natives believed that tabacos, as they called it, was a gift from the Creator and that the exhaled tobacco smoke was capable of carrying one’s thoughts and prayers to heaven. Rodrigo just thought smoking was sophisticated and cool.  Almost immediately, he became a confirmed two-pack-a-day man.

Rodrigo brought the habit back to his hometown (despite signs posted all over the Santa Maria saying Thank you for not smoking), but the cloud of smoke billowing from his mouth and nose gave his neighbors such a fright that the holy inquisitors imprisoned him for seven years. By the time he left prison, smoking was de rigueur.

November 14, 2006: Wings on a Pig

Posted on by Richard Daybell

When the first Pig Stand opened, it was a restaurant like no other that had gone before. The year was 1921, the onset of the Roaring Twenties. Americans were in love with their pigstandautomobiles. More than eight million Fords and Oldsmobiles and Pierce Arrows roamed newly created highways.

Located on a Texas highway between Dallas and Fort Worth, the Pig Stand catered to those automobile folks – the first drive-in restaurant in the United States. The restaurant’s owner, Dallas entrepreneur Jessie Kirby, reckoned that all those drivers would flock to a roadside barbecue where they could drive up, fill their faces with good Texas vittles, and drive off, without ever stepping out of their automobile. “People with cars are so lazy,” said Kirby, “they don’t want to get out of them.”

Kirby was a showman who knew how to attract customers. The Pig Stand had a red-tiled pagoda-like roof set on a rectangular building framed of wood and covered in stucco. As a customer was pulling in, teenage boys in spiffy white shirts and black bow ties would dash over to the car, hop onto the running board, and take an order – before the driver even came to a stop. For this derring-do, the servers were given the nickname carhops. Food historians credit the Pig Stand with the introduction of deep-fried onion rings, chicken-fried steak sandwiches, Texas Toast and high cholesterol.

The Pig Stand was a big hit with hungry drivers, and it soon became a chain, through one of the first franchising arrangements in restaurant history. Pig Stands popped up everywhere. By 1934, there were more than 130 of them in nine states, sporting the slogan “America’s Motor Lunch.” And dinner – Pig Stands boasted that more than 5,000 people enjoyed pig sandwich dinners every evening in Dallas alone. Pig Stand drive-ins soon replaced male carhops with attractive young women on roller skates, but maintained the formula that had got them this far: good-looking young carhops, tasty food, and speedy service – all in the comfort of your automobile.

Wartime gasoline and food rationing took its toll on the Pig Stand chain. And then came McDonald’s.  And Burger King.  And Wendy’s. By the end of the 1950s, all of the Pig Stand franchises outside of Texas had closed. And by 2005, only six remained in the state. Then on November 14, 2006, state officials closed the last two Pig Stands restaurants for unpaid sales taxes. And an icon oinked off into the Texas sunset.

 

November 13, 1953: When Red, Red Robin Comes Bobbin’ Along

Posted on by Richard Daybell

In the early 50s, folks worked themselves up into a real dither searching for Bolsheviks here, there, wherever they may be hiding. There was a commie round every corner; any person you met might be a secret pinko, hoping to lead you down the slippery slope to socialism and the dreaded one world.

We remember Joseph McCarthy and the infamy of his search for traitors in the State Department, Hollywood and the PTA. But there were many McCarthy wannabes – good folk just itching to unveil a neighbor or loved one’s clandestine proclivities and nefarious schemes to indoctrinate the unaware.

Mrs. Thomas J. White of the Indiana Textbook Commission, was a bit of a zealot when it came to finding Communist propaganda in the seemingly innocent written word. On November 13, 1953, she announced an amazing discovery in textbooks used by the state’s schools. She called for the banning of the book Robin Hood and any references to it.

There was, she said, “a Communist directive in education now to stress the story of Robin Hood because he robbed the rich and gave it to the poor. That’s the Communist line. It’s just a smearing of law and order and anything that disrupts law and order is their meat.” On somewhat of a roll, she went on to attack Quakers because they “don’t believe in fighting wars.” This philosophy, she argued, played into communist hands.

Not everyone in Indiana jumped on her bandwagon. Reacting to criticism, White claimed that she never argued for the actual removal of offensive texts, but reiterated her position that the “take from the rich and give to the poor” theme was the Communist’s favorite policy. “Because I’m trying to get Communist writers out of textbooks, my name is mud. Evidently I’m drawing blood or they wouldn’t make such an issue out of it.” The response to Mrs. White’s charges was mixed.

Indiana’s governor defended the Quakers, but sidestepped the textbook issue. The superintendent of education, having it both ways, said that the book should not be banned, but agreed that Communists had twisted the meaning of the Robin Hood legend. Commentators throughout the world were thoroughly amused. The “enrollment of Robin Hood in the Communist Party can only make sensible people laugh,” said the Russians. Even the current sheriff of Nottingham chimed in: “Robin Hood was no Communist.”

Robin Hood was spared, free to rob from the rich another day. Other books during the Red Scare were not so fortunate: The Grapes of Wrath, Civil Disobedience, 1984, Johnny Got His Gun to name a few. Hollywood also felt the pressure to produce pro-American stories. And then there was that other obviously Communist-inspired phenomenon, rock and roll.  We won’t even mention those merry men.