Movie Review: "Gypsy: Rock & Roll Nomads"

"Gypsy: Rock & Roll Nomads": B.  In the mid-sixties the three most popular rock bands in the Twin Cities were, arguably, the Accents, Gregory Dee & The Avantis, and the Underbeats.  Gypsy: Rock & Roll Nomads is the story of the band which originally called themselves the Underbeats before moving to Los Angeles in 1968.  The documentary received a warm welcome at its initial showing last week as part of the Minneapolis St. Paul International Film Festival.

The Underbeats played at numerous venues throughout the Cities, including Mr. Lucky's, the Prom Ballroom and Danceland.  They also performed at teen clubs throughout the five state area and invariably drew large enthusiastic crowds.   The band was booked every weekend.  The roster changed over time, but its principal core was the trio of keyboardist James "Owl" Walsh, rhythm guitarist Jim James and lead guitarist Enrico Rosenbaum.   Although he kept a low profile, Enrico was responsible for writing almost all of the Underbeats' original music.

Notwithstanding the group's wild popularity on the five state circuit, the promised land in the music industry was LA.  The guys felt their careers had reached maximum potential as a Minnesota band, and only a move to the West Coast could send them to new heights.  While Johnson, a draftee, was fulfilling his obligations in Viet Nam, the band picked up stakes in 1968 and rented a house in the Los Feliz section of the big city.  Their back yard abutted that of the La Bianca family, murder victims at the hands of the Manson family.  In the City Of Angels there would be access to more radio stations, labels, promoters, booking agents, music halls, print media coverage, and other necessities for their dream to go national.

Among the first orders of business was to change their name to Gypsy, after briefly considering the moniker Spare Change.  Much of documentarian Aaron Goodyear's movie concentrates on those years in the Santa Monica hills.  One of Gypsy's early breaks occurred when they were hired to be the house band at Whiskey A Go Go, the pre-eminent venue for soon-to-be breaking artists in LA..  There they would be following in the footsteps of bands like Buffalo Springfield, the Byrds and the Doors, who also got their starts in that rollicking Sunset Strip club.

Blessed with three members who could sing lead, Gypsy's forte was vocal strength.  That, coupled with excellent production values and arrangements, set them apart from the competition.  Rosenbaum's music was catchy, electric, up tempo and danceable.  Although some members fell victim to the California rock star life style of drugs, booze, parties and groupies, they took their musical mission seriously, playing up to nine shows a week and rehearsing their craft diligently.  They were asked to tour as the warm up band with some of the big names in the business, like the Guess Who and Chicago.  Thanks to St. Louis radio station KSHE, which allowed their DJs to spin records of their own choosing, Gypsy established that city as their primary fan base.  The documentary contains video of a packed Busch Stadium, where the fans cheered the band on with Beatlesque hysteria.

The film briefly explores why Gypsy, in spite of its stellar Rosenbaum-penned repertoire, never made it as a national artist.  The main reason, albeit obvious, is that Gypsy never had that monster hit which could serve as their gateway to stardom.   The band never landed a song in the Top 40, as their most successful single, Gypsy Queen - Part 1, reached its zenith at # 62 on the Billboard charts in early 1971.  A second important cause of their shortcoming, if you want to call it that, was the selection of the label with which they chose to sign a recording contract.  According to Walsh and James, they opted for Metromedia instead of Atlantic Records because they thought the former company would give them more one-on-one support than the larger Atlantic could offer.  As it turned out, Metromedia simply did not have the resources or the experience to promote and underwrite a newcomer like Gypsy in its attempt to get noticed out of the dozens of competitors trying to go beyond the LA scene.

I was impressed with the work that went into the making of Goodyear's documentary.  He wisely inserted interviews with Minneapolis rock historian Rick Shefchik (the author of Everybody's Heard About The Bird: The True Story Of 1960's Rock 'n' Roll In Minnesota), who elaborated on the music landscape of the Twin Cities in the sixties.  Goodyear, whose day job is being a cameraman for WCCO sports, and Walsh were present at the Festival showing for a Q & A.  Although the film does show concert footage from the later years of Gypsy's run - they disbanded in 1975 -- it is sorely lacking in video coverage from the Underbeat days.  The irony of that omission is inescapably noticeable and disappointing , given the local angle marketing of the film by the Festival.  There is also no video from any of the dozens of shows Gypsy played at Whiskey A Go Go.

The death of Prince occurred five days ago, yet the Minneapolis Star Tribune still carries related stories as front page headline news.  One of the reasons Prince was cherished here is because even after he became a megastar, he continued to live and work in the area.  This leads me to wonder about the Underbeats' decision to bid farewell to Minny in 1968 and make its way to the coast.  Other of their Twin Cities contemporaries chose to stay in Cold Country and ended up with Top 40 hits, to wit, the Castaways from Richfield (Liar, Liar hit # 12 in 1965) and The Trashmen from Minneapolis (Surfin' Bird hitting # 4 in 1963, followed by Bird Dance Beat reaching # 30 in 1964).  Was heading to LA the right move for the Underbeats?  

Movie Review: "They Will Have To Kill Us First"

"They Will Have To Kill Us First": B.  Imagine a poor landlocked region of almost a half million square miles on the Dark Continent, somewhat shaped like a figure 8.  Then turn its north/south axis forty-five degrees to the right, put it in the middle of the Sahara Desert, and what you end up with is the country of Mali.  Despite their desolate third world surroundings, the people of Mali, most of whom are Muslim, are a happy, peaceful population who rely on music as an important source of joy. They Will Have To Kill Us First is a documentary which takes us through a recent three year period, commencing 2012, when the northern half of the country was overrun by jihadists who imposed a new, super-conservative set of laws on the citizens, including a prohibition against listening to or playing music.

The film focuses on four artists, the two most prominent of whom are the very likable Khaira Arby and Fadimatah "Disco" Oumar.  Both women are optimistic that one day they will play instrumental roles in bringing their native music back to their homeland.  For much of the story they are exiled from "the north" and must live either in the southern section of Mali, where its capital, Bamako, is located, or in neighboring Burkina Faso.  In spite of their setbacks, they have smiles on their faces as they are interviewed over the course of three years by the filmmakers.  Khaira's dream is to return to her home city of Timbuktu, located in the north, and put on a free concert for those who lived through the turmoil and suffering under the invaders' regime.  While they wait for the French army, and later the UN forces, to eradicate the Islamic extremists, Khaira and Disco carry on singing and playing.  These strong women do so with joy, and a touch of defiance.  Music is like a religion to these spiritual women; they will not be denied.

The other two artists interviewed at various times throughout the film are Moussa Sidi and the band Songhoy Blues.  The former, usually seen in his purple robe and turban, speaks of his wife whom he left behind in the northern city of Gao and who now might be in prison.  Strangely, he does not seem too worried.  Moussa's social skills, at least in front of a camera, are nearly at the opposite end of the spectrum to those of the two featured women.  One reason for his reticence is that he is a Tuareg, i.e., a member of the nomadic race that is indigenous to the Sahara.  This makes him noticeably different from most of the residents of Bamako, whose ethnicity is Bambara, so he keeps a low profile.   He is unintentionally funny.

The fourth artist, Songhoy Blues, is comprised of four musicians from various parts of Mali.  They came together in Bamako.  Unlike Khaira, Disco and Moussa, they choose to make their mark in London rather than wait for the northern section of Mali to be restored to peace.  Thus one questions why they are included in the documentary, other than to show how different artists handled the disruption to their lives in different ways.  The music of Soghoy Blues is the most accessible and, to my ears, most enjoyable of any on the soundtrack.  It's a fusion of reggae and blues, heavy on acoustic guitars and percussion.  So, I don't blame director Johanna Schwartz for including the quartet.

Although the salvation and restoration of music is the impetus for the film, I found the historical details for this remote country even more attention grabbing.  The 2012 turmoil started when the Tuareg people of the north rebelled against the national government in an attempt to form their own independent state.  That uprising made the north vulnerable to the jihadists who poured in, overwhelmed their opposition and established their version of Sharia law.  The documentary includes rare footage of the extremists' exploits, including a gruesome infliction of corporal punishment, albeit distantly shot (thank goodness).

This movie is part of the 35th annual Minneapolis St. Paul International Film Festival.  Unless one buys a season pass or a discounted six pack, individual tickets are priced at $13.  That is fairly steep, yet the Uptown Theater was almost filled to capacity for the film's first showing last Friday evening.  To take the bite out of the hefty entry fee, Songhoy Blues showed up in person after the screening for a twenty minute Q & A.  French is their native language, although one of the three also spoke English.  The band's manager who stood next to them assisted with translation.  At least three of the young men seemed eager to share their story, and required little prompting by the Festival moderator.  The band, which was booked at Ice House right after the show, is on a short American tour.  The Festival is screening the film one more time, tomorrow at 4:35 at the Uptown.

Quarterly Cinema Scan - Volume XXIII

Did you ever notice that, throughout the years, there exists a handful of movies which have become almost equally famous for a certain spoken line as for the story itself.  For example, most of you have probably heard the famous quote, "I coulda been a contenda" uttered by a distraught Marlon Brando.  But I'd be willing to bet that only a fraction of the people who are vaguely familiar with it can identify the movie, the name of Brando's character or, much less, the plot.  The film is On The Waterfront, winner of the Best Picture Oscar from 1954.  Another prize commensurate with the Oscar garnered by that classic was the grade of A which I bestowed upon it in my Quarterly Cinema Scan on April 2, 2013.

 

Along the same lines is this: "What we have here is a failure to communicate."  Many have heard, or even used, that expression -- I heard a basketball analyst use it this year when a guard errantly passed the ball out of bounds because he mistakenly thought his teammate would be there -- but I dare say they may be stumped in an attempt to identify the movie (1967's Cool Hand Luke), the character or actor (originally spoken by Strother Martin playing the Captain), and the plot.  (I gave the film a B in the same QCS noted above.)

 

The list of quotes which have come close to supplanting, in our collective memories, the stories of the movies in which they were spoken goes on.  Examples include "Make my day" from 1971's Dirty Harry,  "I'll have what she's having" from 1989's When Harry Met Sally, and "The Dude abides" from 1998's The Big Lebowski.  One of the most puzzling instances of a movie line becoming almost an everyday expression was "Love means never having to say you're sorry."  It comes from the 1970's weeper, Love Story, starring Ryan O'Neill as Oliver Barrett IV and Ali McGraw as Jenny Cavalleri.  He is a Harvard senior from a wealthy family which has sent generations of sons to that Ivy League school.  She's a Radcliffe student from a blue collar family, and works in the library where they meet.  As you might guess from the title, they fall in love, but their relationship is star-crossed.

 

The famous line is uttered only twice.  In the first instance, the couple has a quarrel and Jenny storms out of their house.  When she doesn't return, Oliver unsuccessfully  searches for her all over the neighborhood and nearby campus.  He is beside himself when he walks back to the house in the pouring rain, only to find his wife sitting on the front steps, shivering and locked out.  Pneumonia is a possibility.  Oliver begins to apologize profusely, but Jenny stops him mid-sentence and tells him there's no need to apologize.  "Love means never having to say you're sorry."  (The second time the line is spoken is near the end of the movie, but to put it in context more would be a spoiler of sorts.)

 

My reaction to Jenny's proclamation: Huh?  What a bunch of hooey.  It seems to me just the opposite is true.  If more warring couples found the humility to cough up an apology instead of insisting on getting in the last dig, peace could be restored more often and more expeditiously.  I am confident my position on the matter is true, yet the line became a catch phrase in the seventies to the point where it seemed the majority of the public agreed with it.  Maybe it's simply a matter of the words being more catchy than profound.

 

Here are the movies I watched at the QE during the first three months of this year.

 

1. Cooley High (1975 comedy; Glynn Turman and Lawrence-Hilton Jacobs are high school seniors growing up in the projects of the near north side in Chicago, where they play hooky, sweet talk girls, shoot hoops, party and commit petty crimes.) C

2. For Whom The Bell Tolls (1943 war drama; during the Spanish Civil War, American explosives expert Gary Cooper holes up in a cave with Republican rebels led by Katina Paxinou, and while waiting for the signal to blow up a strategic bridge, he falls in love with Ingrid Bergman.) C

3. Lillith (1964 drama; mental asylum beauty Jean Seberg is the object of affection from fellow inmate Peter Fonda and staff assistant Warren Beatty.) C+

4. Love Story (1970 romance drama; Ryan O'Neill is a legacy Harvard senior who falls for Radcliffe student Ali McGraw, the daughter of an Italian bakery chef.)  B

5. Pride And Prejudice (1940 comedy; Greer Garson, the second oldest of five daughters in a commoner's family, is hesitatingly wooed by Laurence Olivier, a wealthy bachelor who initially isn't sure if Greer is good enough for him.) A-

6. Room (2015 drama; after being kidnapped, impregnated and secretly held captive in a back yard shed for seven years, Brie Larson helps her five year old son, Jacob Tremblay, adjust to the outside world, while she herself confronts a range of obstacles and emotions.) B-

7. Scarlet Street (1945 drama; Edward G. Robinson, an unhappily married painter, gets played for a sucker by a much younger Joan Bennett at the urging of her worthless boyfriend, Dan Duryea.) B+

8. Sense And Sensibility (1995 drama; sensible Emma Thompson and her younger sensitive sister, Kate Winslet, are initially unlucky at love, partly due to the English laws which deprive them of inheriting their father's fortune.) B

Movie Review: "Whiskey Tango Foxtrot"

"Whiskey Tango Foxtrot": B.  Whiskey Tango Foxtrot is a coming of age movie, but not of the sort usually given that description.  Kim Baker (Tina Fey) works for a big city news organization, mostly writing copy for the on-air "talent."  It is boring and ungratifying work.  In the age of nascent social media and instant notification of newsworthy events, the trend for the public's reliance on newspapers is dwindling, and local news is mere filler in between more important national and international stories.  As this revelation is occurring to Baker, she sees Tanya Vanderpoel (sexy Margot Robbie), a beautiful Australian war correspondent, giving a battlefront report from Afghanistan on live network television.  Baker envies Vanderpoel's status as a revered journalist, and within a few scenes, Baker has become an embedded reporter with the US Marines in Kandahar Province.  This new career will be the exact opposite of the boring yet safe occupation she left behind.

Baker is naive as she starts this new chapter in her life.  She does not speak the local language and has to be tutored regarding religious proprieties.  Vanderpoel, who is simultaneously Baker's friend and occupational rival, takes the rookie under her wing, telling the new arrival that back in the States she (Baker) might only be "a six or a seven," but in Afghanistan she's a "Kabul Cutie."  In other words, be on your guard around men.

Marine Corps General Hollanek (Billy Bob Thornton) is a difficult man to impress.  If it were up to him there would be no embedded journalists accompanying his troops.  They mostly get in the way of his men, and God forbid a journalist should be killed or wounded on his watch.  But the Corps is willing to put up with the intrusion because of the upside potential of good publicity making the airwaves back home.  Notwithstanding Hollanek's reservations, from the first combat mission on which Baker rides along her bravery in the line of fire impresses the grizzled Marine.  She is there to report on the firefights, not just their aftermath.

Before too long, life in the war torn desert country becomes the new norm for Baker.  She catches herself referring to Kabul as her home, and what started out as a temporary assignment turns into a three year sojourn.  There is little she misses about the life she once knew, including her boyfriend Chris (Josh Charles).  In front of the camera Baker covers life and death.  Behind the scenes out of the public's view are wild parties and one night stands.  She and her friends work hard and play even harder.

The script is guilty of presenting a few too many redundant scenes, but one which stands out positively shows how Baker is able to gain the trust of the women in a small village where General Hollanek's men are repairing, for the third or fourth time, a water well.  Hollanek is puzzled regarding the cause of the well's repeated damage.  Baker advises the general that the women themselves confided to her that they intentionally sabotaged the well so that they would have an excuse to get their water from the nearby river, thus providing an opportunity to socialize out of earshot of the local men.

The unsung hero in Baker's story is her Afghan "fixer," Fahim (Christopher Abbott).  He mentors her as she tries to assimilate the local customs and culture, a challenge even for a man to undertake and exponentially more difficult for a woman.  Fahim also bravely pulls Baker away when she foolishly attempts to photograph covertly a radical Muslim who is preaching to an angry crowd.  Of the male characters in the film, he is the only likable one.  The story lines involving Scottish photographer Iain Mac Kelpie (Martin Freeman) and Afghan attorney Ali Massoud Sadiq (Alfred Molina), both of whom have sexual conquest on the brain, are ridiculously absurd and count as negative check marks on my report card.  At least they provide a laugh or two.

I was impressed with Fey's acting performance in the predominately serious role.  I was a little worried that every time I saw her on screen I would have difficulty erasing Sarah Palin from my thoughts.  (A similar problem occurs in other movies when I see Steve Carell onscreen and flash back to his Michael Scott character from The Office.)  Whiskey Tango Foxtrot is a film which mixes drama and comedy while delivering a message that war is never the answer.  It is not in the same league with the incomparable satire MASH, but few movies, regardless of genre, are.             

Dillon Hall Diaries: The Four Reasons You Pray, & The Grotto

I had a buddy in high school who became a priest. I talked to him right after he was ordained, and I remember he told me that in the seminary they taught the seminarians that the ideal homily was seven minutes long. Anything longer risked losing the congregation's attention; anything shorter was too light weight. I often wish he had never revealed that "secret" to me, because nowadays when I'm in church I just can't bring myself to give the homilist more than those seven minutes of my undivided attention. To be honest, I usually make a judgment about three minutes into his sermon, and if what he has to say hasn't grabbed me by that time, I tune him out. Shame on me! (By the way, if the homilist is reading a canned sermon, shame on him!) I'm sorry to report that at my church, my "stick with the sermon to the end" record is rather poor. But... here is where my rationalization comes into play. In those circumstances when I'm not into the sermon, instead of using that time to mentally DCE the Notre Dame football roster or think about what I'm going to eat for Sunday brunch, I use that time to pray.

I went to a Catholic grade school and a Catholic high school. Somewhere along the way we were taught that there are four stages of prayer: adoration, thanksgiving, contrition and petition, and they MUST be done in that order. If you start asking God for favors as soon as you hit your knees, your prayer request has little chance of being granted by The Man Upstairs. On the other hand, so said my religion teachers, if you first take the time to give a prayer of love/adoration, then thank God for all He has given you, and follow it up with an act of contrition, only THEN are you in a position to ask for favors.

This morning at Mass was one of those "tune out the sermon early" kind of experiences, so I did a little praying. As I was praying, my mind drifted (again!) to my visitations to the Grotto at ND when I was a student. I was there quite a lot. What better place to do some serious thinking, if not praying? I must admit, when I visited the Grotto I totally blew off what I had been taught in grade school and high school about prayer. I hastily skipped the first three stages and launched directly into my all-important petitions. I particularly needed some supernatural help first semester freshman year. About two weeks before leaving for ND in the fall, my high school girl friend and I broke up. Emil T's chemistry class was causing me too many sleepless nights. I was a little homesick. I had virtually no spending money. I wasn't pulling down the "A's" that I used to get in high school. Lots of things to worry about and pray for.

Things started to turn around for me in the latter half of freshman year. I firmly believe that year would not have had a happy ending without my visits to the Grotto. Now when I'm back on campus for a football game or a reunion, I make a point of stopping by there, but I do a little more thanking and a little less asking. The area surrounding the Grotto is much the same as it was forty years ago. (One huge difference: Brother Duck is no longer doling out bread to his favorite web-footed creatures treading water in St. Mary's Lake.) On the morning of game day there are usually hundreds of people visiting the Grotto, many of them sporting attire for our opponent. When I look at the throng I wonder how many of them are ND alums thinking back to their days of invoking help there as students. It's probably a safe bet that most of them went right to Prayer Step # 4 then, just as I did.

The Putative Penultimate Post

If a tree falls in the forest and there's no one there to hear it…

- various attributed sources

 

To be or not to be, that is the question…

 

- Shakespeare's Hamlet

 

About the time I started blogging in the fall of 2011, one of the Star Tribune's Sunday financial writers -- her surname escapes me, but I'm fairly certain her first name was Jennifer --announced that she was publishing her last column, which would be her twenty-ninth.  She was voluntarily moving on to different endeavors.  Her news struck me as a little early to be pulling the curtain on a column, especially since I usually found her offerings to be worthwhile.  It was then I secretly set for myself the seemingly very attainable goal of writing at least thirty posts on the Quentin Chronicle.  Then, if I chose to hang it up, at least I'd have the satisfaction in my own little world of knowing that I'd outlasted the Strib's columnist!

 

It has not escaped my attention that my next post on the QC will be my two hundred fiftieth, a nice round number.  It is time for introspection and decision making.  Do I want to keep doing this?  In order to answer the question, the starting point should probably be to remember why I started blogging in the first place.  My daughter Jill is the one who talked me into blogging.  There were two main reasons at the time, and a third later entered the picture.   As I explained in my December 6, 2011 introductory post (Following David Brinkley's Lead), prior to blogging I had been writing and sending periodic unsolicited movie reviews via e-mail to my family for a number of years.  Putting future reviews in a blog would be an easy transition, Jill predicted.  New movies come out every week, so there would never be a shortage of things to write about.  Ditto for other topics about which --again, on an unsolicited basis -- I would opine to my family via e-mail.  Topics like etiquette, personal finance, current events, grammar and sports were frequent fodder.  Transitioning from e-mailing to blogging would simply involve an extra step or two of effort.  And one of the beauties of a free lance blog is that you can write on any subject you wish.

 

One of my favorite magazine titles is Mental Floss, which in a way describes my second reason.  Writing allegedly keeps the brain cells functioning to a higher degree than many other hobbies or pastimes I might have pursued such as golfing, bird watching or gardening.  (Notice how I picked three activities which I don't do!  No insult intended to you duffers, ornithologists or weed pickers out there.)  I have found that it's much more challenging to get an idea across using the written word than verbalizing, not that the latter is necessarily always easy.  Maybe if I wasn't so bad at doing crossword puzzles, drawing or playing bridge I would have bypassed blogging.  But I have long been attracted to writing and even seriously considered majoring in journalism, notwithstanding my unfortunate exploits as a journalism student in high school.  (See my August 25, 2012 post, Chrome Dome & The Cub Reporter.)  My desire to attend Notre Dame, which in 1965 did not offer a journalism degree, trumped my choice of major.  Otherwise I was thinking of applying to Missouri or Northwestern, renowned for their journalism programs.  I didn't take that path, and the rest is history. Now, after twenty-six years of practicing law for a living, here I am practicing writing for free.  

 

The permanency of a blog is personally appealing, and that leads me to the third reason, viz., my beautiful grandchildren, Rosie, Winnie, another baby girl who will make her appearance within the next two or three weeks, and any others who presently are mere twinkles in their parents' eyes.  My paternal grandparents died before I was born.  I do remember the Pook's parents, both of whom were born in Italy, but only a few isolated encounters with them remain fresh in my mind.  After the day comes when I am in that big writing lab in the sky, I would like to leave behind something about me for the grand kiddies to see.  If they ever, in a bored moment, ask their parents, "What was the Old Buckaroo like?" the reply might be a suggestion to read a QC post or two.  In my non-technological mind, blog posts have a better chance of being read in the future than, say, e-mails which could dissolve into cyber space (either accidentally or by design), or cards and letters which could become lost.

 

So, those are the reasons I started this blog, and arguably they're legitimate reasons to continue.  But it has not all been sunshine, lollipops and rainbows, to borrow a phrase from the recently departed Leslie Gore.  One of the subjects I originally intended to cover was traveling, and yet many trips have come and gone without my having written about them.  My high school reunion in North Dakota, circling Lake Superior, and this winter's road trip to Florida are just three recent examples of undocumented excursions.  When the US celebrated the fiftieth anniversary of the Beatles' first appearance on the Ed Sullivan show two years ago, I was going to chime in; never got around to it.  Ditto for new albums I bought but did not appraise.  There is a post about the Marquis in the recesses of my brain which hasn't transformed into a post.  I am disappointed in myself for the procrastination.  Thank you, Sisters Of Mercy, for the life-long guilt trip!  I can blame the time I've spent watching the football bowls and playoffs and the NCAA basketball tournament as the culprits, but another time consuming temptation will rear its head soon thereafter.  (Did I mention the Twins' season opener is April 4?)  In short, it is a lack of self discipline which prevents me from writing about some experiences and observations that I'd like to memorialize.  I guess, with respect to traveling, that's why we have cameras.

 

You might wonder why I referenced the tree falling question at the top of this post.  One thing I've learned as a blogger: I cannot have it both ways.  A quick internet check this morning revealed that the Huffington Post blog has 112 million followers.  I have twelve.  No, not twelve million; TWELVE period.  Actually that number is exaggerated, since one of those twelve is I.  Yes, I signed up to be a follower of my own blog!  My kids have offered to provide a link on their Facebook pages to the QC, but I declined.  Word-of-mouth is okay, but I am not interested in a written advertisement.  Having said that, it is kind of unfulfilling to write stuff that few people read.  Even some of "the other eleven" have asked me if I've seen a movie about which I'd written a week before.  Maybe instead of blogging I should alternatively keep a diary.

 

I do not find the Google Blogspot site to be a particularly user-friendly host for my posts.  Slight revisions to drafts, such as simply adding or deleting a comma, require having to re-separate the paragraphs all the way through the post.  That is a nerve wracking waste of time.  I have been told by a few people that they gave up in their attempts either to become a blog follower or to leave a comment because the Blogspot site threw up too many roadblocks.  I have earnestly thought about stopping the QC at two hundred fifty posts and then, if and when the mood strikes, starting a different blog by switching to another site.  (I even have a name for the new blog picked out.)  The word "closure" is overused, but there is at least some gratification in bringing closure to an undertaking which has gone on for almost four and a-half years.  In order to make the switch out of Blogspot I either need a magic wand -- Presto, done! -- or someone to hold my hand through the process.

 

Here is what I've decided.  After I publish my two hundred fiftieth post, I am going to continue for the immediate future with the QC.  In the meantime, I am going to attempt to find a more acceptable site to host a new blog.  Depending on my luck or lack thereof, I might stick with the QC, start a new blog, or start a new replacement hobby.  Am I too old a codger to take up backpacking?

 

Finally, a word about post # 250, which I plan to publish Monday, the day after Easter.  I chose Easter Monday due to the religious theme of the post.  I first drafted and posted it on Notre Dame Nation under my non de plume, East Of Midnight, on March 8, 2009.  During that week, a hot topic on that site had been the grotto on the Notre Dame campus, and what it meant to the men and women on the board.  I weighed for a few days whether to contribute to the discussion, and finally decided to do so. Of all the posts I've published on NDN, that generated the most positive responses, so I will offer it here for your consideration.  I employed the term "DCE," a football reference commonly used on NDN.  It is shorthand for "depth chart engineering."  Thanks for reading my stuff. 

"Going Up To Four," & Other Elevator Musings

I worked in downtown Minneapolis for twenty-seven years, 1980 to 2007.  For the last nineteen of those years I was perched on the seventeenth floor of the Wells Fargo Tower, with a slivered view of a short span of the Mississippi River several blocks away to the north.  Except for a period of about two years in the mid-eighties when my office was on the third floor of the Investors' Building, one story above the Skyway, my co-workers (in corporate speak, "teammates") and I rode an elevator several times a day to get to and from our desks.  All the foregoing is to set the stage for this claim: I have ridden my share of "lifts" over the years.  What follows are some observations, quips, homemade rules, rants and even a personal historic moment for me related to that experience.

*****

 

You can always tell a rookie rider by the way they get on and off the elevator car.  The unwritten rule, apparently unbeknownst to the newbies, is similar to that of entering or alighting from a subway car.  When you are waiting to gain access, you should stand off to the side, i.e., on either side of the door, so that the exiting passengers can have the center pathway onto the platform or the floor, as the case may be.  Rookie riders waiting to get on insist on standing right in front of the door, smack dab in the middle like a tackling dummy. Then when it opens some of them barrel right in, thus obstructing the evacuation of those in the car who want to get out.  In addition to thereby displaying a total lack of common sense, such behavior is also mystifying because (i) there is no such thing as a choice spot to stand inside an elevator car in most office buildings -- I'd grant an exception for elevator cars with glass window-walls, except there are none downtown -- and (ii) how can anyone be that excited to take an elevator ride, especially if they're on their way to work?  These are the same preoccupied people who refuse to step out of a crowded elevator car temporarily to make room for those in the back row who need to exit at an earlier-reached floor.  Sigh.   

 

*****

 

Teachers often instruct their pupils to use their "inside voices" until they get to the playground.  Unfortunately there are some adults who are incapable of transporting that wisdom to an elevator scenario.  Of course, it's always the person with the loudest natural voice who insists upon speaking at a volume clearly audible to everyone present.  Here is my rule for those riding in a crowded car:  If you are getting off on the same floor as the person you're addressing who is not standing right next to you, call a conversation timeout until you've reached your destination.  Then step out and carry on as loudly as you wish; otherwise, spare the rest of us the headache.  If you're conversing with someone not from your floor, you may each utter one or two short, softly spoken exchanges.  If you have more to say, well, that's why we have telephones, e-mails and texting available to us.

 

*****

 

Another irksome behavior during an elevator ride is being with a coin jingler.  I could count on at least several rides a week when I would be in the same car with a guy jingling the coins in his pocket.  Maybe I was the only downtown worker who found this annoying, but, come on!  Can't you be in an elevator for sixty seconds without jingling your coins?  Men don't jingle their coins when they're walking down the street.  Why does being in an elevator prompt that idea?  Pavlov's dogs?  At least I rarely had a ride longer than seventeen floors.

 

*****

 

This behavioral trait of elevator riders is one I actually find amusing.  Many elevator cabs, including the ones in the Wells Tower, have lighted floor designations which flash on and then quickly off, one at a time, as each floor is passed.  This horizontal row of lights is above the doors.  Then there is a set of buttons for passengers to request a stop.  These buttons light up when pushed, then turn off as the elevator slows to a stop at the respective floor.  These buttons are next to the doors at eye level.  It is interesting to see how many people, craning their necks, are mesmerized by the flashing light show above the doors, when simply looking at the lighted buttons on the side would tell them when their floor has been reached.  They must have sore cervical spines from gazing up, as if in a trance.  This begs the question, what did they expect to see up there?

 

*****

 

Is this an example of one-upmanship, or simply filling a conversational void?  This describes an extremely brief dialogue I had with a Wells banker named Rick whose office was also in the tower.  He and I never worked together -- he was not a commercial banker -- but over the course of a few years we had taken many elevator rides together, Rick to 14 and yours truly to 17.  (Our elevator bank went from 1 to 19 in the fifty-seven story building.)  We knew each other only by our first names, but if we ran into each other in the Skyway or on the sidewalk, we'd exchange quick pleasantries.  One autumn afternoon I left my office around 3:30, and it was clear from the jacket I was wearing that I was leaving for the day.  When I got on the elevator there was no one else in the car.  It stopped at 14, and Rick came on board.  Although this happened in the year 2001, I hereby submit a verbatim record of our conversation during the fifteen seconds it took to get down to the ground floor:

 

Rick: Leaving for the day?

 

Me: Yes, I'm going to watch my daughter, Jill, in a swim meet in St. Louis Park.  She's one of the captains on Benilde-St. Margaret's team.

 

[Silence for eight or nine seconds, while Rick tries to think of something to say.  Finally the doors open at the ground floor and Rick steps forward to exit, then turns toward me.]

 

Rick: My next door neighbor's niece is the captain of the Mounds View team.  Have a good day!

 

*****

 

I wrote earlier on this blog (January 12, 2016) that people remember where they were and what they were doing when first learning of tragic historic events, like the bombing of Pearl Harbor and the assassination of President Kennedy.  I will always remember my elevator ride on the morning of September 11, 2001.  I had taken the bus downtown, and boarded a crowded elevator to take me up to the seventeenth floor.  One of the paralegals in my Commercial Law Group, Sherry Ewert, was standing  behind my right shoulder.  She asked if I had heard what happened that morning in New York City.  When I told her I hadn't, she informed me that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center, and that it may not have been an accident.  This was before the second plane crashed into the other WTC tower.

 

The Law Department shared the seventeenth floor with the Wells Government Relations Department.  The latter department possessed the only television on the entire floor.  Many of us from both departments jammed into the small conference room where the TV was hooked up, and witnessed the networks' reportage of the awful events.  As you can imagine, we were glued to that set for the longest time.  When news of the other hijacked planes -- two of them outside New York -- became public, no one knew for sure if other buildings in other cities might be targeted.  Finally, around 10:45, the honchos in San Francisco advised us by phone to leave if we felt unsafe in the tower.  I'm not sure how many of us might have left early that day even without that green light, but in any event, I was back home by noon.

 

*****

 

Shortly after the 1998 merger of Norwest with Wells Fargo, the company moved its corporate headquarters from Minneapolis to San Francisco.  Before that event, the executive offices resided on the fourth floor of the tower, meaning that's where you'd find the CEO, the CFO, the COO, various regional presidents and department heads of the huge bank holding company, and other men and women wearing very expensive suits.  The "silk stocking gang," you might say.  The general counsel of the corporation, Stan Stroup (whom I've mentioned in two other posts, May 23, 2014 and March 16, 2015), set up shop on 17 with the rest of the lawyers, even though as a direct report of the CEO, Dick Kovacevich, he certainly was entitled to office on 4 had he so chosen.

 

One day I needed to meet with Stan, but when I walked over to his office his secretary, Julie Voels, informed me that he was "up on four."  "Up on four?" I asked, thinking that Julie got her directions mixed up.  She then informed me that the joke was Stan's creation.  When he met with the big boys he was "going up" even though they were thirteen floors below us.

 

*****

 

I've poked fun here about clueless, rude, coin jingling, transfixed elevator riders, so maybe the last entry should be on me; it's only fair.  When I was in fourth grade and my sister, Michele, was in second, our parents took us from Chicago to New York City on the New York Central Railroad.  We stayed in the Waldorf Astoria -- the Marquis must have had a good year -- and saw all the sights tourists to that city enjoy: the Statue Of Liberty, the United Nations, Central Park, Rockefeller Center, the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall, etc.  When we entered the Empire State Building, a one hundred two story skyscraper, I could hardly wait to get to the top.  There was an Otis Elevator crew working inside the shaft of one of the other nearby elevators which was temporarily out of commission.  Just before we set foot inside the car to which we were assigned, I heard a woman ask an usher, "Are these elevators safe?"  The usher replied, "Why yes, m'am, the Otis crew just put some fresh scotch tape on the cables this morning."

 

I wished I hadn't heard that.  Gullible me did not get the humor.  During the whole time we were in the building, I was more worried about the elevator ride than I was vertigo or fear of heights.

 

That leeriness toward elevators has carried on into my adult life to a modified extent.  Now I am not afraid to ride in elevators, but I do not like to take rides up to the very top floor of any building.  What if the elevator shot through the roof?  Then what?