Monthly Archives: September 2010

Ya got to have friends

Sing it, Bette Midler. And a fabulous one is staying with us at the Fink house this very moment. Last night, most excellent fiend BoomR arrived and we spent the evening eating, laughing, catching up, and doing awesomely awesome geeky stuff like installing software and talking about what all I’ll be able to do with Logic Studio and Band-in-a-Box. It is going to be absolutely ding-dong-daddy fantastic.

BoomR and I met back in the 80s. We’ve made a lot of music together. We won a contest, recorded an album, formed a band, rocked out, swung, and pretty much had a ball. He watched Seamus and Lars go from babies to pre-teenagers. We went through some bad times together, and were there for each other. Then situations pulled us apart geographically, and we lost touch. I really don’t know how that happens; it just does, even to the best of friends. Fast-forward almost twenty years, and we reunited on email or Facebook — can’t remember which. Anyway, it’s like we were never apart. Have you experienced that with people in your life? It’s indescribable.

So. Boom Boom and I are spending the day at my classroom, training in Logic Studio. Photographs will be provided. I’ve made the morning coffee, our lunch for today, and the chili for tonight’s feast, and Mavis is doing her usual magic by getting everything ready by the time the family get here at 6. Thumbs up.

So enjoy your Saturn Day, my fiends. I know I will. Smell ya later.

Want a sad story?

I know, you don’t. But check it out anyway. The Heisman events of late brought to my mind a situation that makes Reggie Bush’s “loss” pretty much laughable.

If you’ve never heard of Fatty Arbuckle, you’re probably not alone. His persona has basically been lost to history for decades. But boy, was he a contenda — until the wheels fell off and he was destroyed by innuendo and sensationalism.

In 1918, Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle became the first Hollywood actor to sign a contract for $1 million. His physical grace and athletic abilities despite his huge size were legendary. His contemporaries (Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, and a very young Bob Hope, to name a few) admired him. The world was his oyster.

Then he went to a party in San Francisco over Labor Day in 1921. Several hours into the bash, a girl named Virginia Rappe ran screaming from a bedroom in the house. Four days later, she came down with an infection and died. Arbuckle was arrested and arraigned for rape and murder.

The rape was particularly brutal (I won’t go into the details here, but you can research it yourself to learn the nauseating facts), and many figured that the only person with the requisite size and strength to pull it off was Roscoe (his friends never called him “Fatty”). People assumed and figured, concocted and presupposed, and before long, Arbuckle was persona non grata in Hollywood. His career was over. There was just one little issue, however.

He didn’t do it.

He endured not only the scorn of his erstwhile adoring public, but the systematic deconstruction of the career he’d spent years building through touring with burlesque and vaudeville companies. Close friends refused to believe he’d done such a horrible thing, but with the combination of an overly-ambitious prosecutor looking for reelection, and a maniacal publisher (Wm. Randolph Hearst) dying to sell newspapers, Arbuckle was doomed. It was the first time that a major movie star was involved in such a spectacular scandal, and everyone wanted their piece of the action.

It was also the first time in the history of American justice that a jury later issued a formal, written apology. Even though they acquitted Arbuckle (at his THIRD trial) for the crime and set him free, they knew his life was irreparably shattered. In their letter to him and to the public, they said in a desperate plea for people to forgive and forget:

Acquittal is not enough for Roscoe Arbuckle. We feel that a great injustice has been done him … there was not the slightest proof adduced to connect him in any way with the commission of a crime. He was manly throughout the case and told a straightforward story which we all believe. We wish him success and hope that the American people will take the judgment of fourteen men and women that Roscoe Arbuckle is entirely innocent and free from all blame.”

Too bad it didn’t work out that way. He never recovered from the scandal. He died in 1933.

So, it’s no wonder people like Reggie Bush are counting their blessings today, Heisman or no Heisman. It could have been a lot worse.

But hey, let’s end this on a positive note: BOOMR ARRIVES TONIGHT!!!

:-)

Left turn at Albuquerque

AKA Facebook Made Me Do It.

Last night, I came home from a particularly demanding two-hour dance rehearsal and ended up yapping on Facebook instead of assembling my research for this morning’s intended post (see yesterday’s entry). I really hate admitting that other “things” are getting in the way of my precious RtB time, but the big weekend is starting to close in on me. There is much to do. It was close to 9 p.m. when I got home, and after chatting with the Thriller for a bit, I parked my bad self at the box and didn’t move for almost an hour. Now I am behind the proverbial 8-ball.

Mavis…..HELLLLLLP!

But I really shouldn’t complain, so I won’t. BoomR arrives tomorrow night, and we’re spending all day Saturday in my classroom, where he is going to train me on Logic Studio. I’ve been waiting for this for months — exciting! And tonight, Mavis and I are cooking/baking up a storm (she just doesn’t know how much yet, heh), and Justin and Jake are coming to visit for a bit as well. All that after I get some shaggy hair chopped off my head. Some last-minute cleaning will round out the night, and then it’s off to school for one more day before the weekend kicks in. So no complaining here.

Rather, I would just like a few more hours in the day.

FO

Fair, shmair

The whole Reggie Bush/Heisman issue: let’s get it over with already. As Don Draper said a couple of weeks ago — “people do things.”

Remember when Vanessa Williams was stripped of her Miss America crown because of racy pictures? No? That’s OK. It’s ancient history, and she went on to have a great career and she’s rich as crap. Nobody talks about it anymore. And so it will go with Reggie Bush “losing” his Heisman Trophy. He’ll go on making great plays for the Saints (dangit), and probably be famous and wealthy the rest of his life. Everyone knows he was the best player out there in 2005. Doesn’t change anything, and it’s not like he was allegedly hiding a huge, terrifying secret, like, oh, murdering his ex-wife and her boyfriend in 1994 (good point, Johnny), not to mention following it with a veritable laundry list of successive felonies.

I’m not justifying Bush’s being a stupid kid five years ago and taking money as a college recruit. Pete Carroll should have known better, too. You makes your choices, and you lives with the consequences. I’m saying that in the long run, it doesn’t matter. When you’re successful and the best at what you do, people tend to suffer amnesia. It’s like getting forgiveness, which isn’t altogether a bad thing. Bush and Carroll both go to the pros, and everyone’s happy. There will be other Heisman winners, and the tradition will go on. “Cementing legacies” is bull; it’s the next winner that counts.

Tomorrow, I shall attempt to impress/depress you with a tale from the other side of the table. Imagine having your career ruined by something you didn’t do.

It’s a mad, mad, mad, mad world, I tell ya.

Happy Wingsday — we’re almost there!