There she was; up in flames

Since the music industry shut down OLGA (On Line Guitar Archives) with threats of legal action, free tab and song lyrics are a little harder to find. I’ve found a couple of sources who appear to have reached some sort of compromise with the blood sucking legal beagles of the record companies and the music publishers. Not that I’m taking sides, you understand. The money grubbing bastards have a perfectly legal right to squeeze poor, old guitar pickers like myself for every last dime. Morally, of course, it’s another issue.

One of the better sites still active, is Roughstock.com; check them out if you’re looking for country tabs or lyrics. Recently, I was on this site looking for the words to an old Bobby Bare tune. I spotted a song called “The Little Brown Building”, recorded by Bare in the early sixties .

The little brown building he sang about was, of course, an outhouse. An outhouse? You know, the little house out behind the big house where you went to relieve yourself. What do you mean, ”Relieve yourself of what?” Where you went to take a shit, dammit. Yes, that too. But, you could do that behind any bush in the yard as long as the neighbours couldn’t see you. Anyway, the first verse of the song goes;
They passed an ordinance in the town
They said we’d have to tear it down
That little old shack, out back
So dear to me
Though the Health Department said
It’s day was over and dead
It will live forever in my memory

It was intended, I recall, as a novelty song. But I also recall thinking at the time “What’s so funny about an outhouse?” You see, at the time the song debuted on radio, we still had ours. No, not the radio, the outhouse. Well, yes, we still had the old Marconi, but we’d stopped using it in favour of getting bleary-eyed watching Cheyenne and Sugarfoot on the big, new radio with the pictures on it. Anyway, another line from the song goes:
It wasn’t fancy built at all,
It had newspapers on the wall
It was air-conditioned in the winter time

Except for the newspaper on the wall bit, that line pretty much describes our outhouse. (We used our old newspapers to start the fire in the coal stove.) Our humble hut was made of barn board; the sizable cracks between boards letting those cold winter winds come whistling through.

Do not laugh. It was not funny. Have you ever had to deal with frost-bite on the ass?

Anyway, as I sat there humming the tune to myself, it brought back memories (as any good country song should) of a time long ago and far away. I think I was in grade eight, which would make it some time around 1957 or 1958.

It happened in the wee hours of the morning, while we were all snug in our beds. The coal stove in the kitchen was banked, the new oil-fired floor furnace turned up just enough to keep the ice off your ass and I was having sweet dreams about my buddy’s older sister Dorothy. That’s when the racket started.

Visions of Dorothy vanished as quickly as if someone had pressed the delete button on some extraterrestrial computer keyboard.

As I blinked my eyes open, wondering why the bedroom light was flickering, I could hear an engine revving up just outside the bedroom wall. It sounded like someone was getting ready to drive a big Sherman tank through the side of the house. It wasn’t a tank, of course, but rather the pumper truck from the local fire hall.

That’s when I noticed the bedroom light wasn’t on, and the light illuminating the room had an eerie red glow. It’s also when I heard my younger brother, Tom, exclaim from the lower bunk: “Holy shit! The shitter’s on fire.”

Even back then, he had a way with words.

I jumped off the top bunk, retrieved my chinos and ran towards the window. (Not much running to do in a small, 9 x 9 room.) I was busy watching the local volunteer fire department put out the raging inferno that was our outhouse when I realized I’d forgotten to check the floor for bodies. No. No. Not dead bodies. My siblings.

Although that may sound silly, when there’s two parents and five kids in a two bedroom house with no basement, you never know where you’ll find one. And a couple of them were very small bodies which created a trip hazard.

Anyway, they put the fire out and we all got back to bed. Unfortunately, I was unable to revive my dream of Dorothy. In the morning, we woke with the dawn to the smoldering remains of our beloved outhouse. Alas. This story has no happy ending.

We’ll ignore the snickers of the other kids at school when the details of the Todd’s terrible tragedy started making the rounds. “Oh, my God. They still have one of them?” Some were more sympathetic. “That’s a sin. They’ll have to walk all the way to town and use the one in the co-op.”

To appreciate the full gravity of the situation, run this scenario in your mind. Your toilet won’t flush. The plumber can’t make it until next spring. You’ve got a spouse and five kids. What are you going to do? No. No. Besides tear your hair out.

Exactly. Run to the neighbours.

Several years ago, I tried to put the incident to music, thinking it might make a good country song. It didn’t work out. I had a title and a verse, but I realized I’d need several verses just to explain to the uninitiated what an outhouse was and how it was used.

Think about it. What is an outhouse, after all? It’s a little hut that sits over a big hole in the ground. And the seat inside has a small hole in it that you sit on after dropping your drawers. There’s usually flies a buzzing and you can find the thing in the dark by following your nose.

Anyway, I’ll tell the tale of the torching of Todd’s outhouse, in verse, in my next post.

Fine art and the forger

Just for the fun of it, I think I’ll talk about painting to-day. No, not house painting; the paintings of the old masters. Have you ever wondered how much precious art is selling for these days? Well, you should have asked. I‘d have written this piece earlier. I have this thing about people who pay ridiculous, inflated prices for items of questionable value. And, nowhere is this more obvious than in the world of fine art.

For example, last year a painting by Jackson Pollack called “No 5, 1948” sold for 142.7 million dollars in a private sale. It’s true. I swear. It was in the news. And, the man who paid that outrageous price is walking around without a straight-jacket.

Yes. I agree. Jackson Pollack was a fine artist. But to suggest his work, either individually or collectively, is worth 142.7 million dollars is delusional. The same holds true for any other artist, from Picasso to Van Gogh. Fortunately, the truth is out there; so let’s look at the cold, hard facts.

Many years ago a fellow named Elmyr de Hory sold a forgery of a Matisse to the prestigious Fogg Art Museum at Harvard University. Hory was a skilled forger whose eye for detail allowed him to create forgeries that fooled even the most knowledgeable connoisseurs of fine art. And, Elmyr de Hory was not, is not, alone. There are many examples of forgeries that required forensic examination to distinguish them from the real thing. Little scraps of paint or canvas examined under a microscope to see if the paint or the canvas material was of the same composition as that most likely used by the original artist.

If a forgery is of such quality, won’t it be just as beautiful to look at as the original? If it requires forensic evidence to disprove its authenticity, won’t it be just as valuable to the student of art to demonstrate the finer points of the original artists’ technique, whether it be his use of colour, light and shade, perspective, etc.

And, if it’s true that an artist can replicate the work of another to such a degree, then why would one painting be worth 142.7 million dollars and the other worth only a “Go to jail” card from the Community Chest”? It makes no sense.

In a time long ago and far away, painting replicas of other peoples work was, in fact, an honoured tradition. It was done without malice, to preserve for posterity the works of the renowned artists of the day, and as a learning tool; to understand and appreciate the techniques that made some paintings works of art and others just pretty pictures.

It was not until the wealthy and powerful, including the church and the state, began trading art as a commodity that these replicas became “forgeries”. To be sure, if someone passed his work off as the work of another, more renowned artist, in an effort to increase the value of his own, he was doing a disservice to all concerned. But, if none but the most knowledgeable can tell the difference and, even then, not without the help of modern forensics, how can anyone say the originals are one of a kind or “priceless”.

If a so-called “priceless” work of art were destroyed and a good forgery hung in its stead, would the many visitors who pass through the Louvre on a daily basis be able to tell the difference? Would they not still gaze in awe and admiration at the forgery as they do now at the original?

And, if you agree that the awe, admiration and inspiration would likely continue then you’ll understand that paying 142.7 million dollars for paint on canvas is obscene.

A real life soap opera (Part 2)

This is the second of a two part post, so if you’re new here maybe you should read part one first.

We’ve been following the story of Anna Nicole Smith, exotic dancer, Playboy playmate of the year and poster girl for breast augmentation surgery.

So far, Anna Nicole has climbed her way up the ladder from exotic dancer to Playboy centerfold to wet dream girl of post pubescent boys of all ages. She has sued a New York magazine for damaging her reputation and been sued by some nut bar who claimed she sexually harassed him; and won. Why in hell was he complaining?

Then she divorced her first husband and married an 89 year old billionaire who lasted over a year before buying the biscuit. It is not recorded whether or not he went out with a smile on his face.

Hell, we’ve already got enough for a good book. Now, here’s the sequel.

Anna Nicole had a daughter she named Dannielynn Hope Marshall Stern. The poor child bears the name of Anna Nicole’s deceased husband, J.Howard Marshall and her lover, Howard K. Stern, who claims to be the father. But we’re not through yet. Somebody called Larry Birkhead, Anna Nicole’s former lover, is also claiming to be the father.

Not wanting to be left out, the husband of Zsa Zsa Gabor, Prince Frederic von Anhalt, also joined the paternity battle. He claims he had a ten-year affair with Anna Nicole. He also said up to 30 men could be Dannielynn's father. The gallant Prince Frederic says, "Anna liked to have fun. She liked to have fun with men. She was a very sexy woman." Uh-huh.

Folks, I’m no expert, and as the father of three children I know doctors can’t always pinpoint the exact time of conception, but even allowing for an error of a month or more, that means that Anna Nicole had fun with a different man every night for a month. She wasn’t just sexy; she was horny as hell.

Determining the father of Dannilynn could be very important since whoever is ruled to be the father will take control of Anna Nicole's estate and the roughly half a billion dollars she could inherit from Marshall's estate, if the courts ever figure it out. They’ve had over twelve years. My but the wheels of justice do turn slowly.

Oh, but there’s more.

Broward County, Florida, medical examiner Joshua Perper concluded that Anna Nicole died of "combined drug intoxication" after taking a concoction of the sleeping medication chloral hydrate and at least eight other prescription drugs, including methadone and Valium. She died aged just 39, after being found unconscious in a Florida hotel room on February 8, 2007.

Her death came just five months after her 20-year-old son Daniel, offspring of her first marriage when she was still in her teens, suddenly died under suspicious circumstances in the Bahamas.

Her death sparked the controversy over the paternity of Dannielynn and who should be given custody.

Her live in lover, Howard K. Stern wanted Anna Nicole buried in the Bahamas where he shared a house with Anna Nicole and where her son Daniel was buried. Her mother wanted her buried in Texas. So they went to court in Florida to settle the matter, while Anna Nicole’s embalmed body decomposed in a Florida morgue.

The battle over the body came complete with weird accusations like the claim by Anna Nicole’s mother that her lover wanted her body so he could sell the rights to her funeral to Entertainment Tonight for a cool million. (Did she really have a pink funeral?) There was also an incident where Stern's lawyer Krista Barth accused Birkhead's attorney Debra Opri of claiming her client had killed Anna Nicole.

There’s more; much more; enough to turn this tale into a trilogy. But you’ll have to dig it up for yourself. This stuff is a little too bizarre for my tastes.

A Real Life Soap Opera (Part 1)

I’ve been hearing a lot about this woman, Anna Nicole Smith; in the news and on television. I knew she was a celebrity of some kind, but I didn’t really understand a whole lot about what was going on. I don’t usually pay much attention to this kind of stuff. Hell, I thought Jessica Simpson was one of Homer’s kids.

Apparently, Anna Nicole Smith had died and the body lay decomposing while her lover and her mother argued, in court, over where the body would be buried. Thinking this rather strange, I decided to peruse the web and find out a little about the case. Folks, this story is destined to become a “Movie of the Week”, maybe even a mini-series. And, it will have to be sold as a true story, because no one would buy it as fiction.

Anna Nicole was a high school dropout who got married at seventeen, had a kid and worked at a few odd jobs, at Wal-Mart, then as a waitress at Red Lobster, before buying herself a set of boobs and taking up exotic dancing. While she was dancing exotically, she was spotted by someone from Playboy who had her take off her clothes in the March 1992 issue of Playboy magazine. She was eventually named Playmate of the Year and started a whole new career as; you guessed it, a sex symbol.

One article I read claims Anna Nicole was responsible for the big bust trend. That is clearly untrue. Dorothy White started the big bust trend back in 1957. I still remember the day she caught me peeking down the front of her dress. She didn’t say anything. She was too busy trying to stifle her oncoming giggling fit. I was thirteen, she was twenty.

Now, where was I? Oh, yeah, the other girl with the big boobs.

Anna Nicole divorced her first husband in 1993, and in June of 1994 she married oil billionaire, J. Howard Marshall. Some say she married him for his money. Anna Nicole claims it was true love. She was 26; he was 89. Make up your own mind.

Also, in 1994, Anna Nicole sued New York magazine for five million dollars in damages to her reputation. The magazine had used her picture in an article titled, “White Trash Nation”. She claims she was told she was being photographed to “embody the all-American woman look.” Uh-huh. I wonder what Hefner told her?

Marshall died in August of 1995. He must have been one tough old bugger to last a whole year with that girl. Just looking at her in the flesh would cause cardiac arrest in more than a few men.

On his death, one of his sons tried to cut Anna Nicole out of the will. The son is now dead and Anna Nicole is dead, but Marshall’s estate, valued at 1.6 billion dollars has yet to be decided by the courts. A Texas probate Court decided Anna Nicole was entitled to nothing.

In 1996, Smith filed for bankruptcy in California as a result of a $850,000 judgment against her for sexual harassment of an employee. Uh-huh. Like this woman really had to resort to sexual harassment to get a man.

A Los Angeles bankruptcy judge awarded her roughly 450 million dollars from her late husband’s estate. But, in July 2001, a Houston judge affirmed the jury findings in the probate case, which ruled that she was entitled to nothing. In addition, he ordered Smith to pay over $1 million in fees and expenses to her stepson’s legal team. The conflict between the Texas probate court and the California bankruptcy court judgments forced the matter into federal court.

In March 2002, a federal judge issued a new ruling reducing her share of the estate to $88 million. In December 2004, a three-judge panel of the U.S. 9th Circuit Court of Appeals reversed the March 2002 decision, once again leaving her with nothing.

The Bush administration subsequently directed the Solicitor General to intercede on Smith's behalf out of an interest to expand federal court jurisdiction over state probate disputes. In the Supreme Court's decision, handed down on May 1, 2006, the justices unanimously decided in favor of Smith. Although the decision did not give Smith a share of her husband's estate, it affirmed her right to pursue a share of it in federal court.

(To be continued)