Oh Say Can You See

The Super Bowl each year creates the kind of “buzz” that every organization would kill for. Despite being built around a sporting event, it has become an event unto itself, subject of conversation and conjecture among non-football fans and non-sports fans as much as among the NFL faithful.

The commercials. The half-time shows. And, oh yes, at times, some football.

This year, a great deal of the post-game chatter has been about the poor job pop singer Christina Aguilera did in rendering the National Anthem. She has taken quite a bit of criticism for it, but it is only partially her fault. She should not have been singing it in the first place.

The National Anthem is not intended to be an entertainment component of any event. The organizers of the Super Bowl and other events seek out pop stars for their drawing power, rather than seeking singers and musicians whose talent and skill trump their tabloid appeal. This practice reflects more poorly on the NFL and the television networks than it does on those of limited talent – like Christina Aguilera – who are propped up in front of millions and expected to make a “hit” out of the Star-Spangled Banner.

This year’s Super Bowl anthem is merely one such example. The National Anthem has been cheapened not only by borderline renditions at major sporting events, but also by the sheer number of renditions at lesser events, right down to the local level. Every ball game, every auto race, every time you turn around these days, someone is struggling through the National Anthem while thinking that they are “honoring America.”

It is time to stop thinking about the Star-Spangled Banner both as an entertainment opportunity and as a rote part of any gathering. It is a special song with special meaning. Save it for special times, treat it with respect and dignity, and perform it with musicians, not pop stars.

By the way, the accompanying photo tells you all you need to know about whether Christina Aguilera’s fame is based on her talent as a singer.

Measuring the Snow

A leading topic of conversation this winter is how much snow we are getting. Today is February first, and already we’ve had more snow than falls during an entire typical winter season.

How many inches? I don’t know. With each storm I look out the window and estimate the depth of the new snowfall, but I do not keep a running tally.

Except...

I just purchased the third 2-1/2 gallon can of gasoline for the snowblower this season. This is remarkable because, prior to this winter, I have never had to purchase even a second can of fuel. Historically, I fill the snowblower’s two-gallon tank in November, clear the driveway during the winter, and drain the leftover gas in the Spring.

Not this year. I’ve burned through five gallons so far and with this week’s storm I will begin to use gallon number six.

Snowed In?

I believe that’s a Chevrolet under all that snow, but this story concerns a Chrysler, and the same snow storm.

The photo is from 1947, when more than 26 inches of snow fell on New York City December 26 and 27. Not too different from what happened this week, on December 26 and 27.

But in 1947 my father was a pilot for Pan American World Airways, flying a European route out of Laguardia Field (that’s what the airport was called in those days) that kept him away for weeks at a time. He returned the day after the storm, to find the city buried in snow. Similarly, his 1936 Chrysler Imperial Airflow was buried as well, in the airport’s parking lot.

The radically-styled Chrysler Airflow came in a number of models of differing size, and the Imperial was the biggest – and heaviest – of them all. The car’s immense size was my father’s only clue to finding the car among the many snow-covered automobiles in the parking lot. He chose a large object near where he remembered parking, and began to brush snow away from the area of the driver’s door. It proved to be his car.

So he got in, and started it up. Remarkably, the 6-volt electrical system delivered a good start, and more remarkably, my father simply backed the huge car out of the snow. He did not dig it out or otherwise clear a path. He just rumbled out onto the plowed aisleway.

He then brushed the snow from the windows and drove home to Glen Rock, New Jersey, to enjoy a belated Christmas with his family (which did not yet include me).

Today we are all convinced that we need four-wheel-drive if there is a flurry. But in the record-breaking storm of 1947, all that was necessary was a big old Chrysler.

From the Skies

It was 50 years ago today, on December 16, 1960, that two commercial airplanes collided and rained debris and death onto Brooklyn and Staten Island. I remember it well. I was only a small child living in New Jersey, but it was Big News and I realized that it was Big News.

That my father had been a pilot for Pan Am, flying the same model aircraft as one of those involved in the crash, gave the news special significance in our household.

The collision involved a Lockheed Constellation, a four-engine propeller-driven craft like those my father had flown. He enjoyed flying the "Connie," a design well-regarded by pilots.

The Constellation was struck in midair by a DC-8 jet, the first commercial jet to be involved in an air disaster. The jet fell into Brooklyn, the Constellation onto Staten Island. Everyone on board the two planes died.

Except – for one day – there was a survivor. A plucky 11-year-old boy from Chicago, who had been on board the jet. Badly burned, he was rescued, and for a day he was a media darling and a symbol of hope. But then he succumbed to his injuries. The tragedy and heartbreak were complete.

The photo shows a portion of the wing from the DC-8. It was found only recently, when excavations were being made at the Brooklyn crash site for new residential development. It is in private hands, close to the crash site, because the investigations into the crash were long ago closed and the National Transportation Safety Board does not keep or preserve such wreckage.

Of course the NTSB did not exist in 1960. It was the Civil Aeronautic Board that handled the investigations 50 years ago, but the C.A.B. is long gone.

In the photo you can see a small black rectangular label next to the red circle. The red circle is a fuel port. The label reads in part, "No. 5 Main Tank Auxiliary Fuel."

At the time this crash was the worst commercial air disaster in history. The passage of 50 years has done little to erase the memory.

Sir, You have a Blurry Groin

The current news cycle is all about the TSA screening at the airports, and the so-called "pat-down" security checks. Many people find them objectionable. And it seems that most people on the receiving end of such an inspection have a story to tell. But this, I think, is the best story so far: Humor writer Dave Barry was pulled aside after the electronic screening system revealed what he was told was "a blurry groin."

You can listen to him explain it here:

In the meantime, I’m driving.

You’re From Jersey?

I am awaiting Amazon’s delivery of my copy of the documentary film about Harry Nilsson, when word of another, considerably different, documentary comes my way via the New Jersey Business and Industry Asociation.

It is a film about New Jersey's history of politics and corruption, and the toll it has exacted, and it is about to be released in theatres in the region.

The Soprano State: New Jersey's Culture of Corruption is based on the best-selling book written by Bob Ingle and Sandy McClure. The premiere is scheduled for Monday, October 18, and the film will be released starting October 22 in the following select Clearview Cinemas:

- Headquarters 10 Theatres, Morristown NJ
- Tenafly Cinema 4, Tenafly NJ
- Clairidge Cinemas, Montclair NJ
- Red Bank Art Cinema, Red Bank NJ
- Hoboken Cinema 5, Hoboken NJ
- Manhasset Cinemas, Manhasset NY
- Cinema 100, White Plains NY
- First & 62nd Cinemas, 400 E 62nd St. NY
- Chelsea Cinemas, 260 W 23rd St. NY
- American Place Cinema, Flemington NJ

If you would like to get a better idea of what the film is about, you can view its trailer  here.
Not exactly a date flick, but I think I will go see it.

And Dad Had a Studebaker

I was sitting at a traffic light this past week, and for some reason I began identifying the cars crossing the intersection by country of origin... Japan, Japan, Japan, Germany, Japan, Japan, Sweden, Japan, US, Japan, Japan, Japan, Korea, Germany, Japan... and so on.

The fact that I was sitting in front of a recently-closed Ford dealership may have been part of what triggered this little exercise.

Obviously, my identifications were not perfect. When a Toyota passed by it could have been a Japan-built car or a US-built car. When a Volvo went through the intersection it was probably from the Ford ownership period. That BMW might be from the South Carolina factory. The Chrysler PT Cruiser? Built in Mexico. And the Mini -- what country should I assign to that?

But what I was musing upon was the fact that, 40 years ago, such a car census would have been overwhelmingly US, with a smattering of Germany (thanks to the success of the Volkswagen Beetle), and with the occasional British or Italian car. France might be represented, too, since back then there was a Peugeot dealership not far away.

This evolution in passing traffic would have been unimaginable to a person at that intersection 40 years ago. Plymouth – gone? Oldsmobile – gone? Pontiac – gone? You would have been thrown in the looney bin for suggesting the possibility.