Great Exudations

It’s a rare sighting these days. The pay phone. Even more so the large scale phone booth. And is it strange that my first thought went to hygiene? We used to handle that plastic receiver without a care back in the day, but now? Full HAZMAT. Hand gel. Wipes. Mask and gloves. Blame COVID, I guess. The 50 cent charge doesn’t seem so bad, considering inflation, but who carries coinage? And doesn’t the change return slot seems too small? Maybe they were being used as a drug drop-site. Was that in “The Wire”?? You have to stay one step ahead to keep from falling ten behind in that battle. But is anyone nostalgic for these relics? Cellphones are a vast improvement, to be sure. The only real loss is a cinematic one. So many movie plots hinged on the pay phone scene. “Three Days of the Condor,” “Dirty Harry,” “All the President’s Men,” and of course “Phone Booth” (a death knell). The list would be the size of the phone book…. which used to be attached! Ripping out a page was a terrific film trope. But I guess when they make movies in-retro, ever so in vogue, they still need these props. Unfortunately, they sometimes screw up the sound of the coin mechanism catching. There must be a pay phone/booth warehouse somewhere in Burbank, CA…

“What’s Playing”

Sometimes you must scratch that itch

Skip a class or call in sick

Tweak the dials, flip the switch

Chase high art or candy-kitsch

As if all these things were equal,

The post-modern and Medieval,

That through you run prismatic

Only risking the ecstatic

So step right up and get your fix

A silent film or foreign flick

Of any stripe, yours to pick

Big and broad or minor niche

Be it second run or sequel,

Tragedy or treacle,

From crystal clear to enigmatic

Only risking the ecstatic

“Three shall be the number thou shalt count, and the number of the counting shall be three…” (from “Monty Python and the Holy Grail“). Plus I can’t keep four thoughts in my head at the same time.

#1) Not many people know this but Donald Trump hails/heils from German (father’s side) and Scottish (mother’s) heritage. One of his German uncles, Claus von Trumpf, was a notoriously corrupt art merchant who often peddled stolen and forged works, almost exclusively in the classical representative style. In the 1920’s, when the avant-garde art movements were taking hold on the Continent, von Trumpf was violently opposed. He worked hard to undermine the Bauhaus school in Germany and the De Stijl movement in the Netherlands, as well as the vestiges of Dadaism and its offshoots. His feverish efforts reached their delirious fastigium with a massive negative ad campaign in pamphlet, poster, editorial and stump speeches called “STOP DE STIJL!”

#2) Natalie Imbruglia‘s 1997 hit cover song “Torn” (original by Ednaswap) is a perfectly acceptable pop confection that I would welcome hearing in any mall or Fuddruckers in America. But my memory of her will always be affectionately wed to a novel phrase that I conjured up and rather enjoyed repeating, back in the day. And I challenge you now to say it aloud, ideally in an affected high-born British accent, without making you smile. Here it is:

“Natalie Imbruglia is embroiled in a bitter imbroglio.”

Was I right or was I right??

#3) As you surely have gleaned, I am fond of a good pun. Even more so of a bad. So try this one on for size. Like me, you might enjoy the style of the French torch-song singer Edith Piaf (1915-1963). Songs like “La Vie en rose” (translating to “life in pink” or “life in happy hues”) are so evocative of the WWII and early postwar-era, and they crackle with raw emotion. If you want a fulminant retro-romantic vibe, put her disc on the old gramophone. But here’s the rub. For a little innocent but mischievous fun, refer to her in company as Edith PILAF — purposely confusing her surname with the seasoned rice dish. This triggers an eye-roll from my wife every time, which is exactly the point! People will either think they misheard you or will consider you a rube, which is even better. Better still if they correct you. Bon appetit!

Bricolage (noun): A French loan-word that reflects improvisation in the construction or creation of a work from a diverse range of available materials; DIY. The term has been applied in many disciples ranging from art and architecture to anthropology and cultural studies to philosophy, education and computer science. This blog is a bricolage. A blog-o-lage, if you’ll allow.

Brick-o-lage (faux noun): My own groan-word that reflects any kind of shit laying atop any kind of bricks.

This is a family heirloom passed down through my late Uncle Jack that regards a relative with the surname of Ford, the same as my middle name. It was found in a metal lockbox and my sister miracuously found the key amidst a hoarder’s paradise of numerous books and scattered effects. We hope to learn more about this branch of the family tree and maybe even uncover a photograph or two down the road. 

There are many things to love about this note:

1. The calligraphy-style penmanship. Even though this note is rendered less formal by the scratchings out, the flowing cursive is a wonder to behold. The clerk uses three variations on the “F” — in escalating size and ornament — with Ford, Family and Funeral. There are many things we’d do well to rediscover. In the modern era, teachers lament the loss of handwriting skills and with good reason. My own is barely discernible, even to myself. LOL.
2. The thriftiness. Times being what they were, are, and ever will be, the stationary of the prior decade (189_) gets continued into 1901 and likely beyond. Maybe it’s still in use today! I also like the single dot between the minutes and the hour. Time saved, so to speak. The abbreviation of March to Mch is curious, however. IMO.
3. The terms “wagonette” and “private carriage” are wonderfully redolent of that bygone era. This could be “Deadwood” or “The Gilded Age.” Bring your own snuff! But someday people may find quaint the terms “cell phone” and “cable TV.” FWIW.
4. The mystery. Whose funeral?? IDK.
5. The fantabulous name that is General Ruggles (see below). I don’t know why some names sound funny, but I’m so glad that they do. I have a mind to start penning letters again and to close them with the salutation “By order of General Ruggles”… keep an eye on the mail. YW.
6. The flourish under the signature of M. Curtis, Clerk. His name being the largest on the page. John Hancock, eat your heart out! YOLO.

(Per Wikipedia) As it turns out, there were two contemporaries who went by the title of General Ruggles (Generals Ruggles?). The one referenced in the message above was General George D. Ruggles (1833-1904). Born in Newburgh, New York, he attended West Point and fought on the Union side during the Civil War. He saw action at the Second Battle of Bull Run and the Battle of Chantilly and then became chief of staff to General John Pope. After the war, he served as Adjutant General from 1865-1888 in several military districts including Department of the Platte and Department of the Dakota before retiring in 1897. In 1898, he was appointed governor of the Soldiers’ Home in Washington, DC where he remained until Jan 1903. He was buried at Arlington National Cemetery.

The other is General Daniel Ruggles (1810-1897). He was also a West Point graduate, but, although he was born in Barre, Massachusetts, he fought for the Confederacy. He had married a woman from Virginia, which might help explain his choice. He was a division commander at the Battle of Shiloh. He acted quickly in helping to assemble a long row of cannon with 53 big-guns called “Ruggles’ Battery” that pounded the “Hornet’s Nest” during the furious back-and-forth melee. He later served in Louisiana under General John C. Breckenridge, who had also been the Vice President under Lincoln’s predecessor James Buchanan. This General Ruggles was buried at the Confederate Cemetery in Fredericksburg, VA.

It seems apropos to close here with the opening verse/refrain of Bob Dylan‘s song “Gotta Serve Somebody” from the album Slow Train Coming (1979). These two men named Ruggles, both from abolitionist strongholds in the North, took very different roads during a critical point in our country’s history. And yet, as will all, they both ended up buried in the ground somewhere. One wonders what their respective families should think about them today. They might be venerated or held in contempt; possibly both, at once, by different branches of the same family. Complex are we and all our interwoven histories. Maybe we should ask ourselves, whom or what is it that we serve…

You may be an ambassador to England or France
You may like to gamble, you might like to dance
You may be the heavyweight champion of the world
You might be a socialite with a long string of pearls

But you’re gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed,
You’re gonna have to serve somebody
Well, it may be the Devil or it may be the Lord
But you’re gonna have to serve somebody

“The Thunderclown”

The Thunderclown’s face

Lies frozen in frown

His faux d’orange skin’s

Not naturally found

With a bilious heart

He’d send the ship down

And this just because

We’ve denied him the crown

Our gunwales awash

A gash in the bow

Sails all torn up

And twisted around

He’d leave us to founder

Then laugh as we drown

First Scylla, Charybdis

And now Thunderclown.

Yet all is not lost

There’ll be no retreat

We’ll ride a cracked mast

Past the ruinous reef

Heave off the barrels

And unleash the grape

Seize the clown’s banner

To flaunt as a cape

Let’s long and at last

Leave his heresies burned

The time is well nigh for

A lesson hard learned

With wine and in song

’tis our sands to roam

And toast our best hopes

Over yesterday’s bones.