We’ve Stringbeans and Onions, Cabbages and Scallions, and All Kinds of Fruits and Say —

I’ve been lax, letting the 100th anniversary of “Yes, We Have No Bananas,” go unmentioned until now. The song was published on March 23, 1923. The only popular song about Greek grocers that I know, except maybe for “I’ve Got The Yes! We Have No Bananas Blues.”

I found an article that promises the story behind the song, and offers some detail about the fruit trade in New York, past and present.

“The story of New York produce goes far back beyond Hunts Point,” says an article on the web site of a company specializing in credit rating and market information for the produce industry, referring to the Hunts Point produce market in the Bronx, an enormous operation.

“The city’s colorful history includes the Banana Docks of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, which were located at Old Slip in lower Manhattan,” it says.

Banana Docks, New York City

The article goes on to say that the songwriters took their inspiration from a Greek fruit stand owner who said the famous line to him, but the account published in Time magazine in the summer of 1923 is, I think, more believable. Especially since it quotes the songwriter himself only months after the monster hit song came out.

“I am an American, of Jewish ancestry, with a wife and a young son,” songwriter Frank Silver told Time. “About a year ago my little orchestra was playing at a Long Island hotel. To and from the hotel I was wont to stop at a fruit stand owned by a Greek, who began every sentence with ‘Yess.’ The jingle of his idiom haunted me and my friend Cohn. Finally I wrote this verse and Gohn [sic] fitted it with a tune.”

It was the first song Silver ever sold. For a most harmonious recording of it, listen to the Mellomen version. With Thurl Ravenscroft. (!) For a sing-along version that also happens to be an early product of the remarkable and mostly unsung Fleischer Studios, and thus has a surreal edge to it, watch this video.

Here’s an series idea for a prestige streaming service: Banana Dock Empire. Criminals vying for control of the Banana Docks in 1890s New York. Too bad Daniel Day-Lewis is too old now to play the part of a rising young thug who murders his way into control of the city’s banana supply.

New Born

Still chilly, and a little windy, but that didn’t keep us from taking the dog for a walk around Volkening Lake, a pond really, just at dusk. As we have many times. Geese were taking their final approach to the pond, where many of the them apparently float the night away.

Congratulations to my nephew Dees and his wife Eden, whose second child, a second son, was just born. His first name, Leland. I can’t help feeling that a few more Striblings in the world is a good thing.

That makes 12 living descendants of my parents (so far, all of us, from newborn to near 71), four grandchildren for my brother Jay, and three grandnephews and one grandniece for me. Emissaries to a future we will not see, possibly a bit of the 22nd century. With any luck, one not as bad as current conventional wisdom would have it. Such wisdom tends to be a projection of present anxieties more than anything else.

A New Flag

A cold May Day today, following a wet and chilly run of days to end April, which discouraged us from finding a new forest preserve – new to us, there are so many – for a springtime stroll. So we were home most of the time.

One thing I found out over the stay-at-home weekend is that Utah has a new flag. Or will, officially, on March 9, 2024.

It’s a good one. Keeps the beehive. How could it not? In fact, I’d say the golden beehive has been promoted to the centerpiece of the new flag.

Though Gov. Cox of Utah signed the bill authorizing the flag in March – and not quite everyone is happy about it, for some reason — I didn’t hear about it until this weekend, when I wondered whether the always entertaining-informative CGP Grey had posted anything new. He has, an amusing “grading” of U.S. state flags.

At nearly 19 minutes, it’s longer than most of his videos (including another recent one about a flag), but worth watching all the way through, even if you don’t quite agree with all of his opinions, though of course he’s spot-on about the Texas flag. Mention of the new Utah flag is very near the end, and the first I’d heard of it.

Big Bend Camera Failure

Though I grew up in Texas, I never got around to visiting Big Bend NP until five years ago in April. Didn’t give it much thought while I schemed to go other places. The distance to the park is more psychological than geographic, I think. From San Antonio, for example, it’s a full-ish day’s drive to the park (six hours), but since when have Texans ever said, That’s too far to drive?

I had two cameras with me on the trip. One, my sturdy Olympus, model number I can’t remember, a standard and not especially expensive digital camera I acquired in 2012 so I could take pictures at events for a new freelance job. It took good pictures, better than I expected. The other digital image-maker at Big Bend was my camera phone. It was newer than the Olympus, since I got it to go to Mexico City a few months earlier. Even so, it only intermittently produced good pictures.

I started capturing the Big Bend scenery with the Olympus, as usual. It started taking vastly overexposed images, often the second or third of the same scene.Big Bend NP Big Bend NP

A thing that made me go hm.Big Bend NP Big Bend NP

Still, I got some decent images with the Olympus. It’s hard to go wrong in Big Bend.Big Bend NP Big Bend NP

By the time I got to Santa Elena Canyon on the Rio Grande, the Olympus had quit taking anything but overexposures. So I resorted to using the camera phone, producing lower-quality pictures that were sometimes OK.Big Bend NP

The Olympus revived to create some good images later in the trip, but was increasingly unreliable. That was its last trip. Later I checked its settings, tried different settings, tried different data storage cards, and poked around online for some reason for it taking overexposures, to inconclusive results.

Once upon a time, you’d have taken your broken camera to a shop for examination and possible repair, but now? I figured I’d gotten my money’s worth out of the Olympus, and soon acquired just as good camera — better in some ways — in the form of a used iPhone that was no longer a communication device.

The failure of my camera on a trip was a kind of inconvenience, though barely even that. Back when Ann went to Washington, D.C., with a junior high group, some camera error or other meant she returned with few images. This upset her. I told her I was sorry she lost the images. But as worthwhile as capturing images can be, or sharing them, seeing a place yourself is the important thing.

Thursday Nodules

Did a little shopping at a local grocery store (part of a grocery conglomerate) and saw this display.

The Fourth of July? Really?

The Kingston Trio did a version of “Seasons in the Sun,” in 1964, a song recorded 10 years later to vast popularity by Terry Jacks, one remembered for being as saccharine as a Shirley Temple. One that was on the radio all the time.

The Kingston Trio version has a bitter twist to dilute the sentimentality, which I suspect is closer to the French-language source material. Just another thing I happened across in the YouTube treasure cave.

Not long ago, Yuriko bought an article of clothing at a local store (part of a retail conglomerate), and the clerk forgot to take off the bulky security tag. In trying to avoid a trip back to the store to have it removed, I looked up the matter on YouTube. Musical selections aren’t the only jewels in the cave. Of course, often enough you find cubic zirconia.

One video suggested a technique using two forks that didn’t look remotely easy; another assumed you had a workshop of tools; and a third – my favorite – suggested you simply smash it with a hammer. Never would have thought of that.

Lots of people post images of their meals, usually while there’s still food on the plate. But what about the debris of a good meal? Evidence that you completed the meal, with the hope that you might have enjoyed it.

Chicken bones, in this case. The last leftovers of the Korean chicken we bought about a week ago, and we did enjoy it.

Brand name: bb.q chicken. It is an enormous chain, with more than 3,500 locations in 57 countries. Not quite sure when the northwest suburban outlet we go to opened, but it hasn’t been that long. We drop by once a month or so.

Weed Man

Spring is here, which means lawn care circulars in the suburbs. Paper ads through the U.S. mail that is, which somehow doesn’t seem to be obsolete. Sure, I’ve edged into pre-dotage, but it can’t just be old people who still respond to advertising postcards.

Weed Man (registered trademark) promises weed control (I’d hope so), but also core aeration, lawn fertilization and all manner of other control: crabgrass control, grub control, and mosquito control, and I guess for all the other bugs not covered in those categories, insect control. Also, “landscape bed control,” which I can’t quite visualize.

This is the first time I’ve ever seen an ad from Weed Man, or ever heard of it, but I am woefully ignorant of the world of organized lawn care. The card has a professionally produced aspect, so I suspected that it is a large operation. So it is. Franchised.

Weed Man’s web site says (sic): “The first Weed Man turf grass Professional was Desmond Rice, who established his business in 1970 in Mississauga, Ontario. In 1976, he decided to grow the business through franchising. Today, there are more than 300 Weed Man franchises providing Professional horticultural services across Canada, the USA, and in the United Kingdom.”

Ah, Mississauga. Few other places in the world do I have such fond memories of a water treatment plant.

Sad to say, Des Rice, founder of the Weed Man empire, passed from this world of lawns back in 2011.

“He was 100 percent business. Every ounce of energy and every hour he was awake, he was thinking about business and about Weed Man,” his right-hand man Mike Kernaghan told Lawn & Landscape soon after his death.

For $30 + tax, a Weed Man tech will show up to assess my lawn’s potential for de-weedification. Probably they do fine work, but I must pass. They call them weeds. I call it biodiversity.

Still, the name Weed Man is inspired. It could have been the title of cheaply made flick for drive-ins and low-budget movie houses of the Eisenhower era. The name inspired me to go to a random AI generative site and ask the robot brain to paint me a picture.

“Weed Man” seemed a little too slender as a prompt, so I made it, “Weed Man emerging from the forest.”

Not bad. You know, I think I’ve seen him before. Well, Conifer Man anyway.

April Flowers

Temps are expected to dip down to freezing tonight. Bah. But I expect our local April flowers are hardy enough to take it, unlike (say) July flowers that would wilt at a whiff of air below about 50° F.

April flowers at a park not far from where we live.

A lovely scene. Just needed a bit more atmospheric warmth to make an idyllic scene. 

Just carping about the temps, as I do. Even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.

Among the new life of spring, a reminder of mortality.

A plaque I hadn’t noticed before. Because it’s all too new.

This young man, emphasis on young. Enough to set one’s teeth on edge, seeing that one of your children’s generation died so young. RIP, Jake.

Starship Down

The trees are budding, flowers are emerging – including a fine crop of dandelions, suburbia’s most underappreciated blossoms – and the grass is green and long enough to merit a trim. One thing missing from this spring: about 20 degrees Fahrenheit of ambient temperature, sometimes 30. That winter clings so long into what should be spring is, I’ve long felt, worse that the actual pit of winter here in the North.

Happens every year. Then I forget about it as summer really does come.

Over the weekend I watched a clip of the flopnik launch of Starship, a few days after the event, as one does in our time. Flopnik probably isn’t a fair way to describe it, since Vanguard only got a few feet off the pad, but still: “rapid unscheduled disassembly”? That sounds like terminology made up for Space Force. Or it should have been. I only saw the first episode of that series, and found it to be lame. If it had had more jokes like rapid unscheduled disassembly, it might have been a better show.

I’d read about the launch before I watched the video, of course. Learned a few things, too. Apparently the Starship first stage has 33 engines. Sounds like a Soviet approach to clustering engines, and so it is. The N1 rocket first stage (retired in failure in 1972) had 30 engines and, like Starship, was a sumo wrestler among launch vehicles. The N1 didn’t ever propel anything to the Moon, but never mind. The Saturn V? A flawless record.

I’m no rocket engineer and so not up to the task of commenting on Starship‘s technical specs, or even whether the launch was a successful failure, but I will say this: dump that ridiculous name. Until you can build something that proceeds at some sizable fraction of the speed of light, say via sophisticated ion propulsion, and arrives at a nearby star system within a human generation, you haven’t got a starship, Mr. Musk.

Titan is taken, I guess. How about Gargantua? Behemoth? Juggernaut? Granted, all those may convey the rocket’s enormous size, but there’s also an undercurrent of threat in each of those names. Nothing a few million dollars in PR couldn’t try to change. What about Ares? The U.S. decided not to use that name for a rocket, and the thing called Starship is supposed to go to Mars someday, after all.

Something else: what’s all the cheering and applause recorded with the Starship video? A latter addition, or a capture of cheers among spectators? If the latter, were those people really cheering, or hired to cheer? If really cheering, I can understand a cheer at the successful launch, why did they continue to cheer when the rocket had obviously failed?

Das Volkswagen

RIP, Marianne Savalli Vanness. I knew her at Vanderbilt during my senior year, when we both worked on the student newspaper, the Vanderbilt Hustler, and had a number of friends in common.

I hadn’t seen her or had any contact with her since 1983, except for a nominal link on Facebook, but her obituary isn’t exaggerating about “her warm and generous spirit and her love of laughter.” We weren’t close, but I knew her well enough to know that was true even then.

Not mentioned in the obit, because why would it be – she played a part in the movie Das Volkswagen. Forty years ago, on April 21, 1983, I attended the world premiere of Das Volkswagen, in fact its only screening in front of an audience that I know of. For the film class that I took at the time.

During my last semester at Vanderbilt, one of my easy classes was Film. We watched movies (Bonnie and Clyde, Casablanca, Citizen Kane, Meshes of the Afternoon, among a number of others) and wrote papers about them. Also, in groups of three, we were lent 8mm cameras and made three different movies throughout the semester, which were then shown to the class.

By definition, they were collegiate efforts, some better than others. Our first assignment was to make a silent movie with a certain number of shots, not very many. I partnered with my friends Dan and Steve, who were also in the class, to make The Going Away Party. In it, Dan’s character has taken a bath; he puts on a towel and emerges from the bathroom, only to find a party in progress that he clearly hadn’t known about. A girl in a frilly black blouse and black slacks, wearing the kind of fancy black mask you might see at a masque, immediately pays attention to Dan, including stroking his newly shaved face. Through emphatic gestures, Dan tells her to stay right there; he’ll get dressed in the bathroom, and be right back. So in the bathroom, door closed, Dan hastily dresses, opens the door and finds – nothing. The party is gone.

The inspiration had been, and more than one person noticed this, “Splish Splash,” the Bobby Darin song. It was a fun little movie. We had filmed the party sequences during an actual party one Saturday evening at our rented house, the fondly remembered 207 31st St. N. in Nashville, where we threw a half-dozen parties at least, including the Lonely Existential Blender Blues Party (it’s good, I think, to have a few named parties in one’s past).

The girl in black, who wasn’t in our film class, was a frequent attendee at our parties, and rumored to be a bondage enthusiast, something I did not confirm one way or the other. She hammed up her part just right, though.

I made another movie with a couple of underclassmen I didn’t know that well, and it was forgettable. For the third and final movie of the class, a sound movie – it might have even counted as the final exam – I partnered with Steve again, and a girl in the class who didn’t actually want to help much in making a movie. But Steve and I didn’t mind, since we knew what we wanted to make: a parody of Das Boot, which had been screened at the Vanderbilt Cinema not long before.

That was possible because Steve drove a Volkswagen. So we made Das Volkswagen, the story of a crowded small car out on a vaguely defined mission on the dangerous-for-some-reason streets of Nashville. To make it more submarine-like, I made a periscope from a empty paper towel roll and a couple of empty toilet paper rolls, taped together.

Like Das Boot, our movie kicked off with loading the crew into the car, including jamming (by simple trick photography) an impossible number of items (suitcases, skis, etc.) in the front trunk. We filmed that scene at our rundown driveway at 207 31st St. N.

Steve was the driver. I sat in the front passenger seat, operating the camera most of the time as we drove along. Crammed in the back were variously three or four people we’d recruited with the promise of lunch, one of whom was Marianne Savalli. I filmed their antics sometimes as well.

During post-production, we added the voice of another friend of ours, who did a decent comic German accent, as a narrator. I don’t remember exactly what he said during the scene loading the crew, but something like, “It vas a virgin crew, and exzitement vas high.” Periodically through the movie, he narratived further, and he added some actual German, including some obscenities, and told us (off microphone) that “Der Volkswagen,” not Das, was grammatically correct. Our answer to that: who cares?

We had the sound library of student radio station WRVU available for the production, and so added music and sound effects. We used part of “The Imperial March,” (Darth Vader’s Theme) for the movie’s opening, because it was ominous-sounding, and we also used the immortal song “Da Da Da” for one or two of the driving scenes. Because it was German rock ‘n’ roll whose lyricism transcends mere language, I guess.

After loading Das Volkswagen on the driveway, we filmed driving around a few streets and making odd faces with odd sound effects thrown in. Sometimes I’d pass the camera to the back seat, and one of them would film me pretending to look through the periscope. Then came my big moment: I turned from the periscope to the back seat, and announced to the camera with a demented face, “Das McDonald’s!” The crew responded enthusiastically.

I then filmed the car inside and outside as it went through a McDonald’s drive-through and got the lunch we’d promised for everyone. Which we ate as part of the movie.

Afterward, we returned to the streets, but soon Das Volkswagen crashed into another car and, presumably, all hands were lost. Of course, it was a simulated accident. When we approached cars stopped at a light, I zoomed the lens toward the car ahead of us, as quickly as I could; then cut to black. Later, we added the sound effect of a comic car crash, something you might hear in a cartoon, with tires screeching, breaking glass and the sound of one of the hubcaps rolling away. The End. Or rather, Das Ende.

It all sounds juvenile. And it was. But damned if it wasn’t funny. April 21 came around, and we showed it to the class, who laughed hardily at most of the gags. Among my in-class moments at college, it was a high point. Even the professor laughed. We got an A.

Springtime Thursday Musings

Warm again early in the day. Thunderstorms rolled through in the morning and again in the afternoon. Cool air came back late in the day.

Ahead of the rain, we walked the dog around a pond, where a good many red-winged blackbirds flitted around. Hardly our first encounter with them, though there don’t seem to be as many after spring is over.

Moths are back in the house. How did this happen? There’s no lasting victory over moths, looks like. So I put out fresh glue traps, and some dozens have been caught. I still see a few flitting around, and slap them when I can, but I hope they too will either die in the traps, or die mateless and without descendants.

Rabbits are back in numbers too, often in the back yard, but I leave them alone. The dog does too, seemingly not interested in chasing them any more. Such is old age.

Completely by accident, and speaking of rabbits, I learned that today is the 44th anniversary of a swamp rabbit attacking President Carter’s boat (which wasn’t known till later in 1979). Even better, I learned that the photo of the incident is in the public domain, being the work of a White House photographer. This copy is via the Carter Library, though I don’t remember it being on display there.

With the looming deadline for renting more Netflix DVDs in mind, I watched part of the disk I currently have at home, Judgment at Nuremberg. I don’t remember why I put it in the queue, except that I’d never gotten around to seeing it, and Spencer Tracy and Burt Lancaster are always worth a look.

I didn’t realize that William Shatner was in it until I saw his name in the opening credits. As it happens, he plays a captain. In the U.S. Army, but still a captain.

I also didn’t know that Werner Klemperer played a part, one of the defendants. Naturally, I had a silly thought when he entered the courtroom: Col. Klink was put on trial at Nuremberg? No! His incompetence consistently aided the Allied cause. Call Col. Hogan as a character witness.

I’m reminded of something I once heard about Klemperer on stage: “Kevin D. told me that, during a production of Cabaret at the Chicago Theatre in the late ’80s, Werner Klemperer played [a Jewish merchant not in the movie version], and got the biggest applause of the night. ‘Everyone knew it was because he played Col. Klink,’ Kevin said.”

In the staged revival of Cabaret I saw in 2002, Hal Linden played the same part, and likewise got a vigorous round of applause on his first appearance. For playing Barney Miller, I figure. Such is the power of TV.