I have a pretty hefty collection of photos I took in and around Oklahoma City from the 1970s and 1980s that I've been trying to pull together. This one, oddly, has always fascinated me. It's such an amazing sign. And I greatly appreciate that it's a parlour not a parlor. I remember this place from my childhood and know that it was there well into the 1980s but am fairly certain it is long gone. I don't get to Oklahoma very often, but I know there were a number of curious attractions like this one that made an impression on me during my impressionable years. For some reason, poodles have been coming up a lot lately in my life.
The past week is that weird time of the year when, in the course of three days, we have a trilogy of back-to-back tragic anniversaries -- the San Francisco Earthquake and fire (April 18, 1906); the Oklahoma City Bombing (April 19, 1995) and the Columbine massacre (April 20, 1999). I left San Francisco last week to be in Denver where there were a few people from Oklahoma, so these three sad anniversaries were top of mind. I was in Oklahoma at the time of the 1995 bombing and routed through Denver the day of Columbine, so they hold special meaning.
Believe it or not, I wasn't around for the 1906 earthquake.
I just came across the great videos above by Rick Prelinger of The Long Now Foundation. Some great images of Bay history that I've never seen and interesting commentary.
Having watched Milk several times now, I can't help wondering if there are history repeating parallels beyond Proposition 6/Proposition 8. Has anyone thought of Anita Bryant recently, or have we assumed she is completely defanged and living harmlessly in obscurity? Not according to this investigation by Gossip Boy.
In the meantime, I hope you enjoy her 1979 opus Drugs Are Like That. It's really worth watching not just the opening above but also part 2 and the riveting part 3 finale. The surreal influences can be seen right off with the opening shower of drugs/Legos echoing the opening credits for Douglas Sirk's version of Imitation of Life. The child actors were clearly schooled by master class leader Edith Massey at the JWSDA (John Waters School of Dramatic Arts). There is an overarching sense of dread and clear a message that something wonderful might turn out to be horrible, or something that seems horrible might turn out to be great. Basically, the take away message is that no matter what you do in life you'll probably get screwed over. The overall aesthetic, however, most reminds me of Elevator Girls in Bondage, right down to the sound effects, acting, make-up, sets and Legos. And Anita and Rumi's portrayal of Maxine seem to be twins separated at birth.
The Oscars were on last night, and I watched it off and on, but DVR'd it so I didn't have to suffer through the more painful parts. Hugh Jackman was more interesting in the post-Oscar interview when he contended that straight men can love musicals and then did a lap dance for Barbara Walters. Too bad he consented to star in Baz Luhrman's career suicide homage to David Lean, Australia. Related or not, the previous night I watched 1965's Dr. Zhivago on KQED. At the time of its release my leftist Jewish relatives complained that it was shameless, pro-Czarist propaganda. Mainly I liked all the snow and big coats but had trouble with the repeated cuing up of "Somewhere My Love" (the worst song ever pre-"Feelings"/"I Just Called to Say I Love You"/"Ray of Light"). I liked the film as a kid because it was such a long, depressing examination of the futility of life. One reviewer described it as being Chekov for the masses with Omar Sharif being picked because he was a lot cuter than the real Chekov
Growing up in Oklahoma, Dr. Zhivago made me think of our Canadian snow storms that came sweeping down the plains from Manitoba via Fargo and Omaha. That was fitting since much of Dr. Zhivago was filmed in Canada, even though the snow still looks fake. Also, Oklahoma once had a history of being a hotbed of American Bolsheviks and when Eugene V. Debs ran for President in 1912 on the Socialist ticket, he got more votes in Oklahoma than anywhere in the Union.
Things have dramatically changed since then. Oklahoma has gone Red but in the bad kind of way. On the other hand, I learned yesterday from Bryce Digdug that they now have a Czar and Czarina. Perhaps they parade around in Oklahoma's Red Square and show off their collection of Fabergé eggs. If they ever make a movie about them, Joaquin Phoenix should be lured out of retirement and cast as Rasputin. For a mere $25 you can fill out a membership application and become a member of the Royal Barony of Oklahoma. (It's just $15 if you're under 21. Maybe what they say about recruiting the young is true.)
I've never comprehended the San Francisco Royal Court and what powers they possess. Personally, Bow and I want to be declared the Kaiser and Kaiserina of the Mission. We could ride in a gold carriage in the Carnival parade wearing gold pith helmets with elaborate fezes. Of course, I would want to be referred to as Kaiser Permanente (Prussian for Kaiser for life).
Back in the mid-1960s, Oklahoma City's youth had an enormous dilemma -- which of the three amusement parks should you favor?
First, there was Spring Lake, the stalwart Beatles-esque playground for the young that, by the 1980s, would be converted into a vocational educational school. I remember my sister going there with her best friend Karen Brown in 1966. They entered a "make-your-own-record" booth where ever witty Karen opened their recording with "This is Mrs. Brown's Lovely Daughter, " appropriately referencing a top 40 song of the era. Across town, just north of the Northwest Expressway was its rival, the upstart, short-lived Wedgewood that would be converted into a similarly named apartment complex during the Carter administration. Its cheeky approach was the Rolling Stones to the more mainstream Spring Lake. Who would have thought that bland Frontier City would soldier on into the 21st Century? I remember my dear friend Molene doing "Who Can Stop the Rain" in drag in the mid-1970s down the block at the wonderfully raunchy trannyshack named The Road House. These memories branded on my brain like a rose tattoo that will neither forgive nor forget.s
Even more than gifts that come on time or early, I love those that come late. Above is a photo I received yesterday honoring my 20th year at work commemorated on September 15 and below a creation made by my sister who is becoming gloriously more eccentric with age. It is made with fabric from drapes in the house we grew up in. I've asked her if it has a name.
UPDATE: An explanation from my sister. The "north 40" is the name for the family land and house we recently sold.
Her name is Norty II. You will find a little ID card in the back of her coat. Of course everything is symbolic. Her "heart" is my key to the North 40, a fan from one of Mama and Camille's Christmas angel projects that I found on my last walk thru of the house and the blue bead was by the side of the porch when I left the last time.
Her hair is from the roll of baling twine in the barn. Her coat is made of various fabrics from the archives. The majority of the pieces are from the living room drapes at the farm and the original drapes at the North 40.
To me the most symbolic pieces are the two urns, the three "webs" representing the three homes that now hold Mama and Daddy's treasures and on the back notice the two birds from the farm house drapes. You only see the wing of one as it flies off into the unknown and you see the other complete bird as it follows.
The day before she was completed the little butterfly appeared from somewhere and I thought it was Mama's, but later Camille said that it was hers.
This was my first opportunity to use my Dremel to drill the holes for the eye hooks in the arms and legs. Its smallest drill bit is the size of a needle.
Having grown up in Oklahoma, I can attest that it is not made up exclusively of wingnut wackos and actually had a history of progressives (Fred Harris, Woody Guthrie, the leftist Green Corn Movement and the largest block voting for Socialist Eugene Debs in his 1912 presidential bid).
However recent news about Brent Rinehart and Sally Kern makes me wonder if the state stands at risk of being taken over by such loonies. Having lived in California long enough and having traveled frequently inland, I can attest that there are more here.
Having recently learned about the performer Joan Crawford Texas (seen below), I suggest that she hook up with a new artist using the name of Sally Kern County. That would be a perfect tribute to the county with Okies too wacko for even Oklahoma. I think Sally would be honored since the photo above proves that she's already hanging out with Oklahoma's top Divine imitator (on the left).
I am giving serious consideration to a radical make over of the Junk Plex. Although I will not part with my famed Ming Dynasty tea pots, Biedermeier chests, CatalanisteModernisme mosaics, BurkinabeBobo ceremonial masks or Mixtecan insect dye textiles. I've heard my motif as being described as Heidi-Mediterranean. The new motif being considered is Hollywood Regency. I've spent a fair amount of time in Hollywood, and one of my favorite TV characters growing up was Hollywood Harry. That's not the real Hollywood Harry on the right. He had a top hat, but it was much larger, and he had a beard and tuxedo. Harry appeared every Friday on the Lunch with Ho Ho Show and was from Hollywood Corners, Oklahoma, and he always had an update on his latest projects "out on the coast". His voice was just like Paul McCartney's on "Monkberry Moon Delight". I've not been able to find any video clips of him on the show either, but here's one from a few years later when Ho Ho advanced from lunch to a show place.
About seven years ago, I was hit up by a guy whose boyfriend had just for a two year stint in Paris and he assured me that he was not looking for a one nighter but a permanent two year temp. There was something about his face that was very familiar, and as our conversation expanded to my childhood years, I learned that we did have a link. He was a nephew of Ho Ho's and had grown up in Connecticut where Ho Ho hailed from. Much as I cherished the thought of yet another Connecticut beau, the thought of waking up to see a 35-year-old Ho Ho out of make up was more than I could deal with.
I'd feel the same way if I ran into Hollywood Harry's kin too.
This whole remodel job may take a while since I'll need to sort out my investments which I've not checked lately. About ten years ago my investment adviser was concerned that I had so much of my money tied up in real estate in Carmel and Sea Cliff and diversified my assets by investing in stock in Web Van, Oldsmobile, Tower Records and Petopia. I've not checked those stocks in a long time, so I'm hoping they've increased enough to where I can afford the new decor. So what exactly is Hollywood Regency? Two of the central components are Chinoiserieobjetsdearte and cove lighting. These were central to my formative years. I learned early on that nothing cove lighting makes everyone look 20 years young and 30 pounds thinner.
Central to the movement was former silent star William Haineswho went on to sell his soul to the Reagans and Annenburgs. However, he had one of my favorite quotes: "I can only tell you this -- I would rather have taste than either love or money."
I am about to head out from the reportedly fattest city in the U.S. without once enduring what is considered the official state meal of cornbread, sausage and gravy, chicken fried steak and pecan pie (gag!). Actually I'd say that less than 5% of the people I encountered on the trip fit that profile, which either says a lot of the voracity of such rankings or the circles I whirled around in for a few days.
Among the three to four books I've been reading this trip was Michael Pollan's latest, In Defense of Food. While the first half or more felt like a rehash of Omnivore's Dilemma, his treatise for breaking from the "western diet" at the end is fairly solid albeit a tad obvious and simplistic.
I'm not sure how he'd feel about the above mentioned official state meal. Like Bryce Digdug, Mr. Pollan is not very fond of corn. I guess neither of those two are Mayan. When Hello Kitty and I were kicking around Mel Gibson in the manger, we noticed a corncob lodged in a the most curious of places, but we refrained from sharing too many details. Pollan did not seem to be interested in weighing in (sorry about that one) on the Four Pork Products of the Apocalypse, but Mel was gnawing on pork rinds when we found him.
One of the many projects I started tinkering with during the two four-day holidays of December that I am continuing in the new year is the digitalization of VHS tapes that date back to my first VCR from around 1983 to 1984. There are a number of yet-to-make-it-to-DVD treasures in there that I can wow my friends with, including such obvious ones as The Boys in the Band and more really obscure ones like À corps perdu (Straight to the Heart), a late 1980s Quebec filmed drama.
Beyond that are some of the broadcasts captured through the years. It's fascinating to see interviews from Jon Stewart's mid-1990s Fox TV show, Charlie Rose asking Kissinger for his opinion on Iraq circa 1991. Then there are the commercials! A spot for a record retailer in Asbury Park from 1993. An ad for a strip club in Oklahoma City called Show Girlz with shots of poles, feathered hair and Jellies circa 1987. Another for something called The Hair Genie that comes with an instructional VHS tape all for just $19.95!
A particular surprise is 1991's The Hours and the Times that speculates on what might have gone down between Brian Epstein and John Lennon while on a holiday on the Continent. I really liked it when I acquired (I'll refrain from sharing how) more than a decade and a half ago. What I had completely forgotten is that it is set in Barcelona. About a quarter of the way through they go to see Bergman's El Silencio. It is one of the best uses of the city's scenery of a film set there that I can recall, especially of evoking foreigner's spending time there, at once a part of and distant from the landscape. It feels like it actually was made just before A Hard Day's Night and not in the Bush I era. It's also such a great title, so familiar sounding that you can swear that it's the name of a Beatles song you know that you have heard but can't find on any of their albums. I look forward to other similar discoveries as I weave through the hundreds of hours of other mystery VHS tapes.
Today is the Centennial of Oklahoma Statehood, something that I approach with mostly distant and slightly mixed feelings. Above is a shot of my paternal grandmother in the Oklahoma territory around 1901. And below is the source image of her with her parents and siblings, the Matzenbachers of Noble, Oklahoma, part of the contentious 1889 land run. They participated in this event, having made a journey mostly by train from the Lower East Side. Like most assimilated Jews of the Great Plains, they made a clean break with the past when they crossed Delancey Street and headed west. Looking into the eyes of the little girl that my mother would eventually call "the Little Yente on the Prairie," I can't help but wonder what secrets she suppressed and which ones she held on to until the grave.
Okay, truly the final shots of my visit on the prairie. May Avenue -- named after the Mayefsky family that, like my own, are assimilated Jews who also changed their name to fit in -- south of NW 23rd is becoming increasingly Hispanic. I recall that in the late 1970s the May Theater went from being a second run, neighborhood playhouse to a mecca for foreign films. I saw Seven Beauties, Swept Away and other Lena Wertmuller films there. Down the block was Buckstretcher and a Baptist Church. Just a few blocks west of the now busy Bricktown, a ready-made city center like a Santana Row dropped from the heavens, are the ruins of the city's true downtown. All that really survives is the aforementioned Hightower Building and a few abandoned storefronts It's a bit spooky to think that this the commercial core of a city of over a million people... ...and that this same part of town looked like this 70 years ago. Having read Erudite Redneck's comments about Mulligan Flats, I thought was it was this neighborhood. Though interesting, it's not the true place. As this house shows, there's some pretty interesting architecture. But as another commentor correctly noted, the true Mulligan Flats is gone. I was talking to my sister this afternoon, and we recalled that as late as the 1970s Mulligan Flats did exist on the shores of the then North Canadian River, a surviving remnant of the Dust Bowl with shacks along the banks of the muddy red creek of a river. It has since been widened and redubbed the Oklahoma River with ritzy boat houses, regattas and upscale rowing teams.I do believe that Oklahoma City is the only place in the world with a neighborhood named after a person that inspired an Ethel Merman character (Sally Adams in Call Me Madam, modeled after Perle Skirvin Mesta.)
This afternoon, my sister and I drove a couple of miles north of Lazy Acres and experienced the Maize Maze, an official Oklahoma Centennial event. We took the short version of the maize maze, which had five "riddle stations" where you had to test your knowledge of a topic in order to be told whether to go left or right. You had the option of picking six different topic tracks. We chose U.S. history. Did you know Wyoming was the first state to give women the right to vote? I knew that, but my sister insisted it was New York. Thus, we went right when we should have pursued my suggestion of going left. The purpose of the maze was to promote agritourism, something that I would argue is a good reason to go to Oklahoma and closely tied to its roots (pardon the pun) and worth taking pride it. It was much more fun than SF's Pride event or Folsom Street fair. And, thankfully, there were no 68 year old guys parading around with their pierced scrotom. If they were there, things were appropriately tucked away in their overalls. We begged off on the tractor ride, but we both took three shots on the corn cannon.
It's a nearly perfect weather on this, my last night in Oklahoma City. Noted for brutal, long summers, the only time to be outside in Oklahoma is generally November through February. The rest of the year is so obscenely hot, filled with tornadoes or allergy inducing weeds that it's not worth bothering. No wonder no one walks and obesity is at epidemic proportions. Though still a bit too hot for me today in the mid-70s, tonight is just about right, not requiring a jacket and worthy of long walks.
Having heard from so many people about how grim and pathetic my shots of the place look so far, I thought I'd share a few shots almost worthy of a chamber of commerce brochure. Further evidence of the much maligned "new urbanism" architecture is this development in the Deep Deuce District on the near east edge of downtown. Trying to ape Baltimore row houses, thedevelopers seem intent on creating ready-made history that is potentially interesting but feels a bit dishonest.
One part of Oklahoma City that boasts some incredible residential architecture is its near north side also noted for gorgeous tree lined streets and relatively intact pre-war commercial buildings.The bell tower of St. Luke's United Methodist is an example of successful 1950s modernist church architecture. Inside is an amazing pipe organ that takes up the entire wall behind the altar, looking like the skyline of Brasilia projected in Cinerama. I didn't want to interrupt the service in progress tonight to document the organ, so you might want to check it here. Across the street is the Aberdeen Apartments, a still relatively upscale residence that I recall having a doorman. It reminds me of the similar building that my grandmother lived in and was one of many surrounding the southern perimeter of Kansas City's Country Club Plaza.
I suppose the Overholser Mansion on a corner a couple of blocks to the west would qualify as Prairie Gothic. As far as I know it still serves as a historical museum and is a surviving example of pre-statehood residential grandeur. Further west on the same block is the Hightower Mansion. I recall my mother's stories of going to high school with one of their daughters who was brought to school by a driver. When I was a child, there was also a Hightower Building downtown with upscale shops and a tony restaurant in its basement called The Cellar. I forget the name of this Tudor revival number, but it reminds me of a favored style further north in the much more overdone Nichols Hills, a wealthy municipality that is like a prairie version of Beverly Hills ingesting Vegas steroids. I was afraid to take photos up there because I have heard that the police will hand cuff strangers taking photos and send them straight to Guantanamo.
See, now wasn't I a nice boy on this, the Sooner state's Centennial, weekend?
A few final Oklahoma musings:
I met a charming young woman running a new organic market using only locally grown produce in Norman, appropriately located on the town's historic Main Street. We were able to share recent first-person encounters with Barbara Kingslover.
Three people today spotted me for being 12 to 15 years younger than my actual age. I could learn to love people here, though one was from New York and one from Ecuador.
I had a long conversation about my upcoming Catalonia trip with an adorable coworker born in Seville but raised on the Canary Islands. It was a bit surreal to be getting tips on taking the bullet train to Madrid a few blocks from the Oklahoma River.
The food here has actually been reasonable but not remarkable here. It's not all icky barbecue, toxic tater tots and all-u-can-eat buffets (though all are in abundance, and I am two blocks down from something called the Sonic Drive-In the emits fumes worthy of a nuclear dump site.) I had dinner tonight at a Vietnamese restaurant in a former Village Inn. Beneath mirrored golden dragons on a scarlet background, a jazz trio played Porter, Carmichael, Ellington and Jobin. An endearing mix of African American and 60ish Caucasian couples sauntered onto the dance floor to foxtrot in between martinis and vermicelli bowls. A hella-cute Amer-Asian waiter flirted with me while taking my with a mildly French accent. At the table behind me, a pair of Canadian businessmen discussed the emergence of switch grass as a viable biofuel to cultivate in the south central prairie. My meal may have been a notch or two below anything at the Slanted Door, but having such an acceptable and cheap meal with a glass of an overpriced Sonoma chardonnay after being seated immediately upon entering the place made for a pleasant last meal on the prairie.
I spent the better part of today and tonight -- at a high end cocktail fundraiser -- in Oklahoma City's Bricktown. I wanted to make sure no one thought I was outright deriding the place. It's got its flaws, but how can you deride a place with a place with a street honoring local band the Flaming Lips? Can Manhattan or Seattle touch that?
Further, the shot below disproves the doubters who say it's a myth that Bricktown has a lot of pedestrians and street life. I saw the pedestrians, both of them, as documented below.
Location: San Francisco, California, United States
JunkThief is your typical Gallic Jew boy born on the Great Plains, went to Gotham and Ouagadougou and Kathmandu before settling in San Francisco's Mission District. Now he searches the dark alleys of that city to find good conversation, Weimar culture and (but of course) the perfect door knob.
I have a pretty hefty collection of photos I took in and around Oklahoma City from the 1970s and 1980s that I've been trying to pull together. This one, oddly, has always fascinated me. It's such an amazing sign. And I greatly appreciate that it's a parlour not a parlor. I remember this place from my childhood and know that it was there well into the 1980s but am fairly certain it is long gone. I don't get to Oklahoma very often, but I know there were a number of curious attractions like this one that made an impression on me during my impressionable years. For some reason, poodles have been coming up a lot lately in my life.
