Ring-A-Ding In the New Year

Known as, "Ring-A-Ding Rhythm" in the US or, "It's Trad, Dad," in the UK, this little picture was directed by Richard Lester in 1962 and was turned on to me by fellow TCM obsessive, Main Line Sportsman sometime last night.  I hate to say, "last night" 'cause it's embarrassing I never heard of it.  Who cares.

It's a funky little film that mixes a fictional "Boy-Girl story with amazing B&W cinema vérité and you can see Lester's, "A Hard Day's Night" coming at you for a country mile.  It's a rough patch at the beginning but it manages to loosen up and the musical numbers are the reason to hang in there.

Bert Stern mentioned in a Lincoln Center viewing of his 1958 documentary, 'Jazz on a Summer's Day,' that it was his original intent to have a "Boy-Girl backstory with actual footage of the festival threaded throughout the film.  He eventually gave up on the idea, in large part, because there was no script and he was winging it without any idea of what to do with the story.  Lester, a sneeze in time later, seemed to pull off what Stern couldn't do with, Ring-A-Ding/It's Trad Dad.



Bizarre minutiae attends this film in spades, which really makes for a deeper appreciation. John Lennon wrote "Misery" for the "Girl" and  co star, Helen Shapiro, a uniquely attractive brunette with an even more unique and beautiful voice.  The Boy, Craig Douglas, is still touring, although in a wheel chair, and his performance, as a "local" introduced by Miss Shapiro in this clip, "Rainbow in Your Tea" is a show stealer. Then there's a bizarre appearance Craig makes in a very rare clip (that's what they say) of Russ Conway's television show, Russ Conway & a Few Friends:



Sweet, Jesus.  If I were a designer, I'd rip off this entire clip, shoot it in B&W at the Oak Room in the Algonquin and use it to feature my new line.  It certainly beats Lincoln Center.  Happy New Year.

Can I help you?

The Living Room

I was 14, when a friend I was with got caught stealing a double Chicago album in the Willow Oaks Shopping Center just before Christmas. He was older and his father was a famous Air Force Ace as well as Thunderbird pilot. My friend was detained by the store and police were called.

That afternoon the Ace visited my home with his son. I was called downstairs by my father and we all sat in our living room with Danish furniture and a white Flokati rug. My fathers paintings were everywhere. Some were, I like to think, tasteful nudes. I don't think the Ace painted.

He told my father his son was arrested for shoplifting and that I was I with him. My father, who didn't have much use for me at this age, sat on the edge of the sofa and looked my way. "Is that true?" he asked. "Yes." I said, and said nothing more. There was silence and I looked at my friend who was staring at the Flokati rug.

The Ace suggested I was the lookout and that it was probably my idea to steal the Chicago album. My father turned to me and I told him I didn't even like Chicago, that my friend had been stealing anything that wasn't nailed down for as long as I knew him, and that he told me about stuff he stole before he ever met me.

My father, a major, turned to the Ace, a colonel, and said, "There you go." The Ace looked at his son and asked if it was true. The son nodded. The Ace suddenly looked small and dark in our bright living room. He left with his son taking the dark with him. Nothing else was said by my father.

40 years later I still obsess over shoplifting paranoia. If I don't buy something a feeling of dread comes over me. I'll be stopped. Questioned. Accused. By a famous Ace. And then I remember my father... and how bright it was in that living room.

How Not to Drink too Much at a Party

"The way I figure it, the law of averages is on our side..."
Playboy, 1965

Sometime between 8PM and that point when you hear a voice in your head tell you it's time to go... there is everything else. It can be a sober, hail fellow well met, gallant exit with thanks directed to the right people. Or, a slightly buzzed exit with gratitude displayed to the hosts and a little too much hand shaking and kissing on the way out. Not that that's a bad thing...

New Years eve night (1986) and I was on a California king size bed - in Atlantic City Long Branch - with three sorority sisters - watching TV. We were all leaning up against a massive butt ugly headboard when a sorority sister suggested we all have sex.

The night started with beers at the Stoned Stone Pony. Somewhere along the way it turned to gin martinis. Beaver Brown (WS: I don't think that was a Beaver Brown night though, you're conflating that with New Year's 1983) sang about bourbon and a retro order for Whiskey Sours was made (WS: The other option that night was to see Buddy Guy and Junior Wells at the Deckhouse in Asbury Park, which in retrospect we should have done instead). Wally mentioned his girlfriend was having a party for her sorority sisters at her parent's Atlantic City Long Branch condo.

We arrived at the girlfriend's-parent's-condo filled with sorority sisters. I had been ignoring the "GO HOME " voice in my head for at least an hour but this opportunity was too much to pass up. A thick scent of cigarette smoke and hairspray filled a room covered in white shag and pale blue everything else -- a perfect frame for 20 drunk sorority sisters.

Champagne was poured and I made my way to the sliding glass doors of a balcony overlooking the black ocean. I slid the door open and drank cold air like water. My nose hairs froze and sweat quickly iced. Revived, I walked back in and found the parent's bedroom. The TV was on and I sat at the foot of the bed.

Rule 1) Avoid mixing drinks you say? Wrong. Avoid moving around? Good for you. When you get to the party find a place to sit down and stay there. Don't go anywhere unless you need to refill or defill. Moving around, dancing, push up contests...these all get the alcohol soaring through the bloodstream. The less movement the better.

Rule 2) Avoid drinking anything fast. Beer. Soda and anything. Tonic and anything. Champagne. Wine. All bad. Drink hard liquor straight. Cognac, Single Malt Scotch, Bourbon... No ice. Trust me, it'll slow you down and all the wrong sort of women will be impressed.

Rule 3) Arrive late and leave early. This was Trad Dad's advice to me many years ago. Not that I ever took it, and I doubt you'll take mine, but there it is. The strategy is everyone will remember the party didn't get going until you arrived and it went to shit about the time you left.

Rule 4) Do not lie down. Not until you're ready to stay there.

Rule 5) Eat. A lot. Greasy food works well. Popcorn does not. Keep it dense. Beef, chicken wings, fried anything...Eat as much as you can. Someone passes a tray of food around...eat it.

The bed comforter was soft and a shade between Tiffany and Infantry blue. It was marshmallow-ey and calming. I leaned back and laughed at the TV. A girl joined me. Then another and another. A cute brunette with nice hands asked the question and I answered by throwing up on the Tiffany-Infantry marshmallows.

Looking back, I remember seeing them out of the corner of my eye scramble off the bed in film-like slow motion. I could see fear on their faces. I don't remember screaming but Wally told me there was a lot of it. We left quickly. No erudite goodbyes. No hail fellow well met. No exchanging of phone numbers. No that it mattered, but we did obey Rule 3. I never did like that rule.

Update: Corrections and comments noted in RED from Wallace Stroby.

Tomorrow: The Hangover & What Not To Do

Hello, Death

Marty Feldman & Spike Milligan in The Undertakers from Marty Feldman's Comedy Machine

I've always been a dreamer. One of the earliest dreams I remember having was when I was 16 and having sex with Angie Dickinson on a bumper pool table. Lots of excitement and wonder but with plenty of anxiety and frustration. Ever have sex on a bumper pool table? It's not easy.

I've been thinking of death a lot lately. I had a dream where Dad and I are sitting at this rustic table on a hard scrabble hill overlooking an Italian village.  We're sharing a bottle of white wine and Dad's eating pasta. In front of us is Death. He's 10' or so and in the black hooded robe but instead of a sickle, he's got a hoe and he's chipping away at the hard dry dirt and digging up skulls. Each time he uncovers one, he picks it up and tucks it into his robe.

I hear a cell phone ringing and look at Dad who's slurping up pasta and ignoring Death. 'Is that you ?' I ask. Dad shakes his head without looking up from his bowl.  I look at Death and he reaches into his sleeve and pulls out a flip phone.

"Hello,"Death says. "Hello?...Hello?...Hello?"

Death shrugs and returns the phone to his sleeve. Death's mobile rings again.

"Hello? ... Hello?... Hello?..."

I turn to my father, "Death sure is a pain in the ass," I say.   Dad puts his fork down and looks at me, "No shit. "

Dead in Panama

Jungle Ops Training Center (JOTC) at Ft Sherman, Canal Zone

JOTC barracks reflected in crew chief's visor

Bravo Company, 1/325, 82nd Abn Div, on the Rio Chagres

Unloading LST

Rising Sun over Limon Bay

One of the strangest conversations I ever had with Dad, and there were some strange ones, concerned my being killed in Panama.  Dad was informed by my mother, who,  according to Dad, seemed to be on another planet.  She approached him in our backyard where he had set up a radial arm saw and spent as much time as he possibly could cutting wood and avoiding people.

"John's dead." she said.  "What?" he said, turning off the saw.  "John's dead.  It happened early this morning." He was stunned.  How could it have happened? And then he remembered I was in Panama.  He knew it could have happened any number of ways and plenty ran through his head.

He looked at her and said, "Our son's not supposed to die before us."  She cocked her head, "What are you talking about?"  "John," he said.  "You said he was dead."  "No," she said. "My uncle -- John -- he died this morning." "Oh," he said. She turned and walked back into the house.  He switched the saw on and grabbed another piece of plywood.

Cutty Sark - Not Just for the Big Girl's Blouse

Cutty Sark by F.M. Tinseth, oil on canvas, 1976

Cutty Sark in Flagler College dorm room, 1983

Cutty Sark in September Esquire, 1961

Rare Cutty Sark tie on even rarer yellow university stripe oxford, 2020

Cutty Sark by A. J. Tinseth, 2020

My old man was very proud of his Cutty Sark.  His painting...not the Scotch. He was a gin martini  man through and through and Beefeater gin was his go to.  I don't ever remember him drinking anything else except beer, of which he gave no brand his loyalty, or the occasional glass of wine, which, if he knew anything, he learned from me.

His Cutty Sark painting was about an image - he knew - was instantly recognizable...at least by himself and his peers in the officer's clubs he frequented. My connection to Cutty Sark is through Berry Brothers and Rudd.  A wine merchant in the Pall Mall area of London, I was first introduced to the 300 year old merchant via their catalogs a London friend, Vodka Ronnie, kept by his toilet.  Not the most glorious of beginnings but Vodka Ronnie had very good taste in wine.

Barry & Rudd, as it's more commonly known, came up with the idea for a light blended Scotch as they were wine merchants and I assume didn't want to blow their customer's palettes outta the water with a double barrel Islay. Their target customer were Septics (Septic Tank- Yank) who were about to get back into Rub a Dubs (Rub a Dub- Pub) as Prohibition was coming to an end. With the Septic in mind, a 20 single malt blend was used with mostly Big Girl's Blouse Speyside (Glenrothes) being the predominant malt.

"Whis-KAY" as it's pronounced over there also sounds a lot like "Cut-TAY."  When I hear one, I think of the other.  I'm not sure why.  It's a Lemmon-NAY Whis-KAY.  Light and dry and being that it's not too dear, I think it's best to be mixed, which I did, with a $20 bottle. I  tried it with Polar Bitter Lemon (find it - far better than Canada Dry) and it wasn't bad. I mixed it with lemon flavored seltzer and thought it completely changed the Cutty with the soda giving it a rounder and fuller taste of a scotch double the price. Impressive for those like me who are mean when it comes to their Whis-KAY.

I used it to make a Side Car replacing the brandy with Cutty -- A favorite of the tasting and something I look forward to ordering in a Rub a Dub, "Make mine a Cut-TAY side car, To-NAY." If you're thinking a Manhattan -- I wouldn't -- Although I did.  There's just not enough backbone to the Cutty. Having said that, if you're a beginning Scotch drinker, this is the tricycle for you, in much the way Barry & Rudd always intended it to be, even if you are a big girl's blouse; I wear a 14.

"You Don't Take the Last of a Man's Anything"

I came home on leave and took a beer from the fridge. Couple minutes later, I heard him come in the front door, walk into the kitchen, open the fridge and close it. He came out to the porch and saw me drinking his beer. "That's my last beer." he said. I looked at the can. I looked at him. "You don't have anymore?" He looked at me and I saw his jaw tighten. "You don't take the last of a man's anything. Do you understand?" I got up full well knowing I was gonna have to replace a can of Black Label with a case of Heineken.

The Army Khaki

Ft Bliss, TX 1960

High rise and heavy starch

That's the old man on the left with a crusty 1st Sergeant on the right who looks like he took very little bullshit from anyone. Notice the high rise of the pant on the close up? Today, and I have no idea why, most khakis have a very low rise. Almost like a bikini bottom - not that I know what wearing a bikini bottom is like.

The army issue pant was comfortable and when it was not heavily starched the seat hung down in a not so attractive way. Especially if you were carrying a large wallet. That's why they looked so much better with heavy starch. And when I say heavy - I mean so heavy you'd have to cut the leg opening with a knife. Frequent washing improved how the cotton took to starch.

You can almost see my father's gig line where the shirt placket and fly seam of the pant are lined up with the web belt buckle's left edge . I still do this but not with popover shirts.

There were wash and wear khaki uniforms available for purchase at the P.X. but enlisted men were issued (three?) sets of the cotton khaki uniform until they were phased out in 1985 which was about the time I discovered Duck Head khakis. I was just thinking...I enlisted in the army 34 years ago today.

Happy Birthday

Duluth, 1937

Duluth, 1945

Puerto Rico, 1951

South Korea, 1959

South Korea, 1971

Yuma, 1987