A View of The Myrtles Plantation

The Myrtles as seen from the entrance.

Louisiana is well-known for its array of antebellum homes scattered along the banks of the Mississippi river.  Louisiana is also famous for its many ghost legends, primarily centered around New Orleans.  And while many plantations can be found just upriver from the Crescent City, one of the most legendary haunted plantations can be found not in New Orleans, but in St Francisville.  Located about thirty minutes north of Baton Rouge, The Myrtles Plantation has received wide attention for its colorful and mysterious history.  On the first weekend in April, our family gathered from our scattered homes to meet at this hauntingly beautiful estate.

  A short drive up U.S. Highway 61 out of Baton Rouge will deliver you to the small community of St Francisville.  Pass through this and you will quickly see The Myrtles on the western side of the highway.  As you drive onto the grounds, you'll immediately be treated to a view of oak trees heavy with Spanish moss.  If you arrive in the afternoon, as we did, the sun will pour in from the west providing a perfect golden glow for a backdrop.  And you'll want to arrive in the afternoon if you are interested in one of the Mystery Tours held on Friday and Saturday nights.  These are held at 6, 7, and 8 pm both nights.

  If you arrive early enough, you can have dinner at the Carriage House Restaurant, which is located on the grounds.  They have a traditional Louisiana sampling of shrimp etouffee, oysters, catfish, and other seafood.  You can also add some gumbo, boudin balls, and crab cakes if you're hungry enough.

  The grounds surrounding the house are immaculate.  Crepe myrtles and azalea bushes hide beneath the shade of massive oak trees, with plenty of space for the sun to splash through onto the lawn.  There are walkways and benches for visitors who wish to stroll about this pastoral setting, and there are several wide open spaces for the kids to run around and expend their energy.

  On the backside of the house is a brick court yard with a fountain in its center.  From here you can visit the General's Store gift shop, enter the Carriage House Restaurant, or queue up for your tour of the main house. If you like cats, you might want to chase them around, as one young boy did for most of his time there.  Another popular activity is snapping as many pictures as you can in the hopes that you'll catch a ghost on film.  (I wonder if ghosts are not as easily caught on digital cameras as they are on film?  I have no way to prove this, but I suspect that spirits don't show up on pixels, and it is really the chemical properties of film that trap their images for all the world to see.  But that's just my own theory.  Feel free to float one of your own on the subject.)

  It was here, in this court yard, that the infamous Chloe photograph was taken back in 1992.  The new owners of the estate were taking pictures for insurance purposes.  In one photo, a shadowy figure could be seen on the porch as if it were heading toward the old kitchen.  It is somewhat transparent, and the theory is that this is an image of the ghost of a slave girl who was hanged for murdering two of the plantation owner's children.  It is a sad, tragic tale that seems to contain all of the usual suspects: lust, jealousy, betrayal, retribution, and the desecration of the dead.  (And don't forget the moral tossed in on the evils of eavesdropping.)  You'll hear all the Gothic details on your tour.  And if you're not into the night tours, there are plenty of daylight tours throughout the week.  You'll get the same details from the day or night tour.

  The tour guide will spend about thirty minutes showcasing the first floor of the house, entertaining the large group with stories of the various deaths that occurred in the house as well as the ghost stories associated with those deaths.  While our guide assured us that many members of the tour-groups have experienced strange phenomenons during the tours, our group did not, unless someone did and was not eager to volunteer such information.  It was my first tour of the house.  I was with a family member who had been through during a daylight tour and it was his view that the daylight tour was better since you could see the rooms better and enjoy the antiques and artwork.  I'm pretty sure he is right, since I was disappointed during the tour that the lights were kept so low.  This was an effort to increase the mystery, but I would have rather been able to enjoy the historical aspects of the tour over the supernatural.  I was also disappointed that we were not allowed to take pictures on the tour, with the exception of the front hall.  But you know how much I like to take pictures.

  In the front hall you will see another celebrated piece of their haunted legend.  A large mirror sits atop a bureau in an ornate gilded frame.  It is said that the mirror has been changed out many times over the years, and yet a stain/etching has returned after each restoration.  Mirrors play a big role in old superstitions at times of death, and the legend is that this one was not covered after the murders of the children, hence the visual evidence of someone trying to "come through" the mirror.  I'm not entirely sure what that means, since we were also told that you can see the silhouettes of the children on the roof in the Chloe photo.  Perhaps I didn't understand the story correctly.  I admit I wasn't paying close attention.

  I did enjoy the stories of John Leake and William Winters.  Both men died in the house, the first from his wounds in the Civil War, and the second from a cowardly murder one tragic night.  The tale of William Winters was the most interesting of all the stories, I thought.  Both of these men had lived in the house for a time, and their rooms are available for guests.  But be forewarned, many stories of strange happenings have come out of those rooms from guests.  But if you aren't afraid of someone tugging at your foot in the night or porcelain dolls joining you in your bed, then you'll have no trouble sleeping in the rooms.

And sleeping in the house is one of your options.  There are six rooms available to be rented in the original house.  There are also an assortment of other homes on the estate that have rooms available.  Notably, there are four new cottages that face the main house, with porches looking out over a pleasant pond.  I imagine it would be a great place to wake up and drink coffee on a cool morning.

  To find out more about The Myrtles, just use this link to see their website.

The court yard at night.  I never caught sight of a ghost, but
I did see plenty of people enjoying the evening.

This idyllic setting is perfect for photographers.  A wedding party had
been on the grounds the day we arrived.  You couldn't ask for a more
romantic backdrop.

There are many wonderful touches to the landscaping here.  These
little guys stand guard over the porch steps at the front of the house.

From the front porch you can see the order and peaceful view
found on the estate.  It is impressive, peaceful, and a great way
to experience Louisiana at its best.

My View of Jury Duty

I've never been known to have traditional interests.  Scouring graveyards for inspiration is often cited as one of my more, uh, non-traditional interests.  I don't recall when it started, but since I was aware of the possibility, I've been dying to be chosen for jury duty.  After all, I've spent a lifetime watching Perry Mason, Matlock, Law and Order, and so many other television courtroom dramas.  Twelve Angry Men, Miracle on 34th Street, To Kill a Mockingbird, A Few Good Men, Primal Fear, The Caine Mutiny, and of course My Cousin Vinny all provided me with valuable experience as a trial lawyer, a judge, and certainly a juror.  From them I've learned that whichever hand a man writes his name with is the hand with which he pummels his daughter, if the postal service recognizes you then you do indeed exist, no self-respecting Southerner would use instant grits, Tom Cruise can't handle the truth, and Humphrey Bogart loves strawberries.  That being said, I think I'm well qualified to be an exemplary juror.

  So ever since I turned 18 I've been ready to adjudicate.  As a bonus, having raised five kids, I've learned something of the wisdom of Solomon.  I've got an eye for who's lying, who's telling the truth, and who's deflecting suspicion by telling on his little brother.  At all times, no matter the date, season, or circumstance, I'm at the Parish's, State's, or even Federal Government's disposal.

  Most people are not.  They live in fear of that little white paper that comes in the mail with the ominous words Jury Summons stamped across it.  This is a mystery to me.  At work, I hear people who have not been summoned confer with fellow jury-phobes about the best schemes to escape the juror's box.  Some of them seem as desperate as John Cusack in the John Grisham film Runaway Jury.  If you haven't seen it, Cusack spends a lot of effort trying to get off the jury.  He whines, he pleads, he schemes, all to no avail.  I cannot relate to this in any way, shape, or form.

  Once, many years ago, I was excited to finally receive my first jury summons.  At that time, I lived in a different parish.  (That's a Louisiana county for all you plain folks who are not privileged to live in this mystical Catholic state.)  I pinned the notice to our cork board, circled the date on the calendar, and was crushed when a follow-up notice arrived to inform me that I was no longer needed.  Hard news, indeed.

Herman Munster (okay, I know it's Fred Gwynn) lays
down the law for the irreverent Joe Pesci in My Cousin Vinny

  So life moved on, I watched co-workers called up for jury duty with envy, wondering what made them so special.  Wasn't I willing?  Wasn't I eager to serve my local government?  I certainly wasn't one of the unfaithful begging his doctor to write out a fake diagnosis with some jury-duty prohibitive injury or illness.  I was their man!  Why couldn't they see that?

  At this point, let me make a small proposal.  I think it would be fair to set up a volunteer sheet that citizens can sign if they want to be on a jury.  Honestly, this should be standard practice.  Perhaps I'll run for local office and make this my major campaign promise.  I'm thinking it should win over the voting public.  Vote for me and I'll make sure Everyone gets Jury Duty!  I should win in a landslide.

  But there is no volunteer option.  And so I waited on the sidelines.  Even my wife was chosen before me.  She was back home in an hour that day, which did not bother her.  It didn't bother me either.  I didn't want her on the jury.  I wanted me on the jury.

  But as they say, all things come to them that wait.  And finally, sweet rapturous joy--my summons arrived!

  Now, I immediately ignored the fact that my summons ordered me to arrive at the jury pool room on April 1st.  There was no way this was an April Fool's gag.  If it was, someone was going to be in serious trouble.  I love to joke around as much as the next guy, but don't tease me about jury duty.  Don't go there.  And I was sure Calcasieu Parish was not in the habit of spending money mailing out jokes.  So I circled the date, informed my employer I would be temporarily unavailable to perform my job since I was needed to adjudicate what was likely to be a very tricky, bombshell of a trial that would have far-reaching consequences in the legal world.  I rather expected I would not be back to work for long, long time.

Do you think it would hurt my
chances to be selected for a jury
if they knew I'd written a book
entitled Jury Rig?

  The legal system needed me.  And as you know, I was more than willing to offer up my expertise.

  The morning arrived.  I was up early, four hours early in fact, ready to do my duty.  I left with plenty of time to spare, just in case a long, slow train blocked my path, or traffic attempted to thwart my efforts to assist the legal system.  Nothing was going to get in my way.

  When I was settled in my seat in the jury pool, I surveyed the room.  There must have been three hundred people there.  It seemed all so unnecessary.   I could hear them muttering to each other, wishing they could think of an excuse to leave.  One lady had brought a baby, and some of the less patriotic amongst us asked her if they could borrow the baby so they too could have an excuse to be let go.  Such a shocking suggestion inflamed my sense of moral, righteous, and civic outrage.  I would have stood up and denounced them for the cowards and traitors that they were, but I was savvy enough to realize that if these reprobates could succeed in escaping the jury, then my chances of serving were that much better.  So I held my tongue, and tried not to sneer at their willful negligence of civic responsibility.

  I felt the first stirring of doubt when the kind jury lady announced that the two civil cases had been settled out of court.  Settled out of court?  What kind of nonsense is that?  Who said these people could resolve their differences without me, the jury?  This sort of cooperation between plaintiff and defendant will get out of hand.  Before you know it, the courts will stand empty of conflict and accusation.  In no time at all, lambs will be lying down with lions.  It isn't right.  That's supposed to be reserved for heaven.  Not appropriate behavior for this Earth, I can tell you.  Someone should look into this.  Put a stop to it.

  But there was still hope.  There supposed to be two criminal trials, so at least people were still breaking the law and it would be up to us wise, Solomonic jurors to weed out the innocent from the criminal.  The good guys from the bad guys.  The cowboys from the...sorry, I forgot.  (I know, I know.  Cut me some slack, I was raised in the 70's.)

  We waited a little longer, the suspense hung in the air like the heady odor of movie popcorn at the theater.  I could taste it.  The juror's box was mine.  All those years of listening to Matlock's closing arguments, all the time spent studying Herman Munster's portrayal of a judge, it was all going to be worth it.  I was going to decide a fellow human's fate.  The scales of justice would be in my hands.

Co-workers suggested I might not be the best guy to stick in a room
with eleven other people under pressure.  They thought I might get
into an argument or something.  I don't know what they are talking
about.  I'm easy to get along with.  (Scene from Twelve Angry Men)

  The kind jury lady steps to the rostrum again.  She looks over the crowd.  She announces that she will call out fifty names.  The field is narrowing.  Surely they've been watching us in the room, surely they've seen who is worthy and who should be flicked out of the room like an ant from the sugar bowl.  They didn't belong, and the officers of the court would deal swiftly with them.  Then they would turn to me, and a few other worthies, and admit how much they needed our assistance to keep the wheels of justice moving.  Oh, it was there, within my grasp.  I had only to wait for my name to be called, and I would take my judgement seat with a humble attitude and a firm resolve.

  Who am I kidding?  I knew before she read the names I wouldn't be chosen.  But I listened intently, just in case.  I watched her call the names of those who had been bartering for the baby.  Lucky vermin.  Where was justice when you needed her?  Blindfolded and half-drunk, it seemed.  She's not very bright, that's for sure.  She completely jiggered the whole thing.  Never called my name.  I was left with only the smallest measure of hope; there was one more criminal case.  I might still be needed.  I might still be allowed to perform my duty.

  But what's this?  The not-so-kind jury lady offers up a lame explanation of the second criminal case.  She says something about it, with no specifics.  Mostly it sounds like the judge just wasn't going to deal with the case that week.  I still don't know what she meant.  But before I could point out that justice was nothing to be ignored, that a case must be handled in a timely manner--she dismissed us.  Just like that.  We were sent home.

  Twenty-five years of waiting.  All for naught.  I couldn't help wishing that crime had been a bit more prevalent in our district.  How can a city this large have only one criminal trial?  This can't be good for society.

  But I won't give in to despair.  I'm back home now, ready and willing to serve.  And if it takes another twenty-five years, I'll still be ready.  By then, I'll have the wisdom of a grandfather.  That ought to put me at the head of the line, don't you think? 

Room With Paris View

A year ago, I began posting snapshot views of Paris during our trip to that wonderful city.  Since then, I've heard from many people who enjoyed those posts.  Encouraged by the positive comments and interest, I spent the summer writing a manuscript that detailed our exploration of the City of Light.  At the time, I was not sure if it was for personal use or if I planned to share it with others.  The project grew to include travel tips, historical anecdotes, and my views on art, waiters, movies, writers, coffee, and much, much more.

  There's something here for everyone--those who have always wanted to visit Paris but think they'll never get the chance, those who plan to visit Paris, those who have already been, and even those who say they wouldn't be caught dead in Paris.

   Excerpt from Room With Paris View

The Hôtel de Sens is not well known by Parisian tourists.  It is out of the way, just off the main Rue de Rivoli.  It has a fairytale appearance, like something you might see in Beauty and the Beast.  It was built around the same time as Hôtel de Cluny, from 1498 to 1519.  At one time, like many historical sites in Paris, it had become extremely rundown, but it has since been restored.

As I circled this treasure—taking photographs, as you might guess—a man about my age approached and asked if I would mind taking his picture in front of the hotel.  I was happy to, of course.  Though I found his conditions sort of odd.

“Would you please take it with all these bushes showing in front of me?” he asked, indicating a row of shrubbery on the street opposite the Hotel.  His accent was British, and he was in fact driving a Land Rover which he must have brought over on the Chunnel Train.

“No problem,” I answered, promptly lining up the shot and snapping the picture.  He quickly scanned the results.

“Uh, if you don’t mind, I just need…” he turned and bent his knees, to show me the angle he wanted.  With the camera in hand, he framed the shot and pointed where he wanted to be in it.  Half of the shot included the shrubbery.  I couldn’t help but think about the Knights of Ni! who demanded shrubbery from King Arthur in that old Monty Python movie.  I kept a straight face and did as he asked.

He was happier than a fifteen-year-old boy at the Moulin Rouge.  Maybe he was a landscape artist who was writing a book.  I dunno.  But I was glad to help the guy out.  It seemed unlikely that two men from separate worlds would meet on the same day as they visited an out-of-the-way old house in the middle of Paris.

We chatted a little, expressing our admiration for the wonderful old palace, then went back to our separate worlds.  Somewhere in London or Surrey there is a photograph on a wall of a man in front of the Hôtel de Sens with a great shot of shrubbery in the foreground.  I know, I made sure the shrubbery looked good.  It obviously meant a lot to him.

If you should take the time to look up this wonderful jewel, be sure to notice the cannonball stuck in the wall just off to the side of the left turret (it’s left if you’re facing the main gate).  Some idiot during the July Revolution of 1830 not only pointed a loaded cannon at this irreplaceable landmark, but he actually fired the stupid thing.  Thankfully, the walls were stronger than his intellect.

The day I made this tour was Sunday, April the 22^nd, a Presidential Election day for France.  What intrigued me most was that you would not have known it unless you were paying attention.  Just across the street from the Hôtel de Sens was an old school building bearing the words École Primaire Communale des Filles, which means it was a girl’s elementary school many years ago.  It is still a school today; a paper sign tacked to a bulletin board at the entrance reads École Élémentaire Ave Maria.   Interestingly enough, the original stone inscription shows heavy damage, as if someone had chiseled or hammered away at it, which is likely, considering the passionate uprisings that have occurred over the years.  The French like to make all of these signs and symbols in permanent stone, then go to great lengths to erase them when they become enraged.

But this election was quite peaceful, and I watched old people and young men and tired ladies stand in line at the school for the chance to cast their ballot.  It looked much like our own elections at home, where little old ladies run the election process to choose the leaders of a superpower.  I’ve always been fascinated by that fact.  I could not see who was running the show in the school but I would not have been surprised to find a few tough old birds like our League of Women Voters.

There is one last little irony about this voting location.  The school was built against a portion of what was once King Phillipe-Auguste’s Wall (1190 to 1210 AD), which he ordered to be built for the city’s defense against the Plantagenets of Norman England while he was away on the Third Crusade.  The wall was covered for many years, and it wasn’t until a row of houses was torn down that it was discovered.  So King Philip’s wall now shelters a voting booth for the French democratic government.

For more information on the book, please visit the Saint James Infirmary Books website.

You can also order the book from Amazon (both print and Kindle editions are available).

A View of the Café du Monde Corner

  Since 1862, Café du Monde has been serving café au lait and beignets to the people of New Orleans and millions of tourists in the same location across from the corner of Decatur Street and St. Ann street.  If you have ever visited New Orleans, or if you ever plan to, you will end up here.  Everyone does.

A coveted spot for street performers, this prime stage is guaranteed to feature a music act.  Such acts might include a few horn players, guitarists, or the occasional harmonica player.  You can't get more authentic blues jazz than the music you'll hear as you sip your coffee.  Just don't forget to drop a dollar or two into the bucket/hat/box/basket as you head off into the French Quarter.

To get to the French Quarter from Café du Monde, you'll have to cross Decatur.  Enjoy the last sounds of the musicians beside you as you wait for the signal to cross.  Once across, you won't need to watch for traffic on St. Ann, since it is closed to vehicles.

On your right, you'll see the Pontalba buildings, which were built by the Baroness Micaela Almonester Pontalba in the 1840s.  Originally they were row houses, but became apartments in the 1930s.  Many boutiques on the first floor provide ample shopping choices for tourists.  Restaurants are also in abundance, including Rivers Edge, Stanley, and the Pontalba Café.  The buildings face both the northeast and southwest sides of Jackson square.

If you're interested in a carriage ride around the Quarter, this is the place to find one.  You'll find plenty of carriages, pulled by either a jack or a jenny (a male or a female mule).  Expect to pay a fairly hefty sum to climb aboard (the current rate is $18 per person), however, you can be sure to hear only top-notch and highly entertaining lies from the drivers who are not hesitant to embellish their stories of New Orleans and its sordid past.

  If, instead of a carriage ride, you're hungry for some authentic New Orleans' food, you might want to walk a few blocks up Decatur street away from Jackson Square, until you reach Central Grocery.  Forget about all those little restaurants selling gumbo and boiled shrimp.  You can get that some other time.  Here at Central Grocery, which has been around since 1906, you can get one of the most famous sandwiches in New Orleans.  The Mufuletta.
  Made with an olive salad base, this iconic sandwich draws customers from the ranks of tourists, celebrities, and the local population.  Expect to stand in line for a short wait.  I've seen a line outside the doors on a Sunday morning before the store has even opened.  A little full disclosure here: I don't like olives, so I don't partake of this delicacy.  However, my wife loves them, and generally wants to grab a sandwich to take home as we're leaving the city.
  Central Grocery is also known for its variety of ethnic foods displayed on their shelves.  They carry Italian, Greek, Spanish, French, and Creole products.  Here you'll find canned octopus, hearts of palm, and (so I've heard) bumble bees in soy sauce.  I've not actually seen that last item there, but I didn't look very hard for it.

Don't think the kids would enjoy a coffee stand?  Think again! Our kids
learned to drink coffee here (it's really only half coffee, the other half is
cut with milk).  And there's no kid in the world who wouldn't want to eat
beignets.  Better than any doughnut, you'll love these treats, which are
always liberally sprinkled with powdered sugar.  Four in each order, you'll
want to get at least two plates.

  So be sure to stop by and get some coffee and beignets.  It may sound like Café du Monde is so famous you'll never get a table, but there always seems to be tables available.  You can even find it empty if you get up early enough in the morning or stay late enough.  It is open twenty-four hours a day, and every day except Christmas.  After Hurricane Katrina, it was closed for two months.  But it received little damage, and they took the down time as an opportunity to upgrade the facilities.  Also, remember that they only take cash, so hit the ATM before you go.

Use these links for 2014 calendars featuring my photography from New Orleans:

French Quarter Balconies Calendars by jreeser1

New Orleans' French Quarter Calendar by jreeser1

The Saint Christopher Lights

For those of you who were unaware of it, this story is available online at Rocket Fire Journal.  The Saint Christopher Lights tells the story of a society in the future who has found a way to rid their world of the dead.  Eli, a young man with a curiosity about the dead that friends and family collectively condemn, discovers that regardless of society's attempts to banish the dead from their world, the dead are harder to cast out than expected.

The Saint Christopher Lights,
a short story by Jason Phillip Reeser

A Note from Ronald Reagan, Twenty-Five Years Ago

Ronald Reagan (1976)

  I am not much of an activist.  I have never campaigned for any candidate, never carried a picket sign, never chained myself to a tree.  (Though I have been tempted to chain myself to one of those old coffee shops that they're always needlessly tearing down.)  However, in 1988, as a Senior in High School, I sent President Ronald Reagan a birthday card for his last birthday in office.  He turned 77 on February 6, 1988.  I do not remember what prompted me to do this, though it was most likely suggested to me by my father, or a teacher.  But I'm grateful to whomever it was that put the idea in my head.

  Growing up in the 70's and 80's, my generation had a front row seat to some very big historical moments on the world stage.  We saw the apex of the Cold War, the rise of Terrorism, and the fall of the Berlin Wall.  They were scary times.  Yet through eight years in the 1980's, we were privileged to have a man in the White House who never flinched from his role as the leader of our country.

  Many pundits and comedians enjoyed poking fun at the President's age, often without even attempting to hide their malice.  I never understood that.  There was something serenely comforting about having a man of his age and stature at the helm.  Yes, there were jokes about Reagan being old--like an old grandfather.  I saw that, however, as an asset.  What was even better, was the fact that he wasn't just a grandfather who was always ready to dispense his wealth of common-sense wisdom, but you just knew that this guy had your back.  He wasn't going to let anyone mess with you.  (When is the last time a President responded as swiftly and decisively as Reagan did after the murder of our soldiers in Berlin?)

  And so, as Reagan's time in office was coming to a close, I took time out from my teenager's busy schedule of school and work to send him a simple birthday card.  I don't remember what I sent him.  A store-bought card.  Just a hand-written note.  I don't know.  And I might have even forgot that I sent him anything at all except that one day in March, a large, manila envelope arrived in the mail.  The stamp on the top left corner of it was labeled The White House.  Inside, protected by a piece of cardboard, was a small sheet of paper, embossed with the seal of the President of the United States at top center.  The President had sent a thank-you note.

  Now despite the fact that the signature had been signed with a felt-tip pen, I had no illusions that President Reagan had actually signed the paper.  Maybe he had.  But I've always assumed that this was a form letter, and that the signature was done with a mechanical pen.  I do not think there were printers that could replicate such a signature in 1988, though it is marginally possible, I guess.  At any rate, I would be surprised to discover that it was an actual signature.  Tens of thousands of people might have sent him birthday wishes.  Imagine how many grade-schoolers might have done so as a class project.  So I'm gonna stick with my guess that the President never knew about my note and a very low-level, White House assistant to an aide's assistant oversaw the mailing of countless form-letter thank-you notes.  And that's perfectly fine with me.

  What I do know is that after I received it, I carefully placed it back in the manila envelope.  Over the years, despite the many times I've moved from State to State, and throughout my twenty-plus years of marriage during which time I've helped my wife raise five children, that envelope has been kept safely in an old cardboard box high up on a shelf.  From time to time, I've pulled it out to show to my children as they grew up.  Just yesterday I did it again, for my youngest sons, who had never seen it.

  When I looked at the date on it, I realized that it had been twenty-five years since it had come in the mail.  In fact, the date on the note was February 29th, a leap year.  That in itself is pretty cool.  At the suggestion of my wife, I scanned the note into the computer, to share with friends and family.  Then I carefully placed it back in its envelope, that single piece of cardboard ensuring that it never gets bent or torn.  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something else in the envelope.  It was a note I had placed in there a few months after it arrived.  It had been so long ago that I'd forgotten it was there.  I have no memory of writing it.  I'd never pulled it out to show my older children.  I'd overlooked it.  But this time I saw it.  Just a short note in blue ink from a seventeen-year-old young man who had taken the time to jot down a few words.

     This document is important to me.

     I believe Ronald Reagan is and will be

     one of our best Presidents.

     Jason Reeser

     9-26-88

My View of that Cold Turkey Dick Van Dyke and Some Kind of a Nut (Part One)

  On January 27th, 2013, Dick Van Dyke was honored at the SAG awards with their 49th Life Achievement Award.  And you would have to be living under a rock to not know about this 87-year-old's amazing career in show business.  He is, of course, the iconic comedian of the 1960's, as showcased in his television series 

The Dick Van Dyke Show, which ran from 1961 to 1966.  You can ask my kids, this is still one of the my favorite shows ever on television.  But Van Dyke is also known world wide as the singing, dancing, cockney-accented Burt from Mary Poppins.  Those of my generation will easily recall that his performance as the wise and fun-loving chimney sweep was sure to be on our TV sets every Thanksgiving night.  And it was always a special treat when his equally entertaining Chitty Chitty Bang Bang appeared on TV every now and then.  But his successes were not limited to the 1960's.  His series Diagnosis: Murder (1993-2001) ran for 178 episodes.  And a new generation of fans were treated to his comedic skills in the film Night at the Museum.

  But these are merely bookends on an impressive lifetime performance by Dick Van Dyke.  According to the movie site IMDB, Van Dyke has appeared in twenty feature films and nearly fifty different television series and movies.  He has kept busy over the years, and judging by his appearance at the SAG awards, he's just as spry and nimble as ever.

  I was able to catch two of his movies the this week that I captured on DVR from Turner Classic Movies: Some Kind of a Nut, and Cold Turkey.  These films, both filmed around 1969 (Nut being released in '69, Turkey released after a brief hold-up in '71), are not as well known as others in his portfolio.  Frankly, I'd never even heard of them.  But I needed something to watch while I hit the treadmill, so I threw them up on the screen to see if they were any good.

  I was pleasantly surprised.

  Let's look at them in the same order I did:

Poster Image from Amazon.com

Some Kind of a Nut, 1969
  This satire takes a comedic look at the fears of conformity in society.  Van Dyke plays Fred Amidon, a bank teller who grows a beard while on vacation.  If you've ever done this, you know that it will draw a strong reaction from most people who just can't get used to change.  As expected, everyone wants him to shave it off.  Even Fred himself doesn't particularly like it.  But as he says, "something just clicked" and that was it.  He refused to cave in to everyone's demand.  You'd think he'd decided to become a Communist.  His rebellion does not go unpunished.
  He's fired, his girlfriend's family is aghast.  And she's not too happy either.  But the more pressure that is put to him, the harder he digs in his heels.  Then, one night, after a lot of drinking and hanging out with the counter-culture chick played by the alluring Zorha Lampert, things spin out of control.  Before it's over, he's a television celebrity, he's institutionalized, and he manages to regain the respect of his soon to be ex-wife Rachel, played by Angie Dickinson, who is in her prime in 1969.
  These types of little comedies were all over the 1960's.  They often championed some sort of cause, blew plenty of raspberries at the establishment, and pandered to the counter-culturalists and their love of all things Eastern, Herbal, and peace-loving.  Usually, they end up so bizarre and out-of -this-world that the movie is not really watchable by any of us sane people four decades removed from that goofy period.  (I'm thinking of James Coburn's psychedelic effort in The President's Analyst, which becomes painful to watch really early in the movie.)  But here in Some Kind of a Nut, writer/director Garson Kanin manages to keep the story sensible, even as the wackiness ensues.  Kanin comes from a solid writing background, however, having won his spurs writing such well-known classics as Adam's Rib, Pat and Mike, and the original stage version of Born Yesterday.  Yes, he can unleash the absurdity, but he knows how to get it back on the leash before it runs away from him.
  As with most comedies in the late 60's, there's a good deal of eye-candy with the actresses, led of course by Angie Dickinson, though the larger role of Van Dyke's girlfriend is played by Rosemary Forsyth, once considered to be a rising star.  (Nut was filmed after an extensive maternity leave that is blamed for her disappointing career.)  Forsyth does the job required of her, but Dickinson firmly takes center stage, despite her smaller role, and Lampert uses her oddball character to steal the show.  Now, I'll admit the real failure here is the idea that Amidon is trying to keep his new girlfriend instead of patching things up with Rachel, since Rachel is actually a 38-year-old Angie Dickinson.  I mean, really?
  Dick Van Dyke is fun to watch in this, since it seems a bit outside of his usual shtick.  He's a bit on the edgier side, at least he's edgier than Rob Petrie and Burt, though that doesn't take much.  But no matter that he's running around with his new girlfriend while still officially married to Dickinson (they're days away from the divorce being final), Van Dyke can never really erase his image as a Boy Scout.  It is just in his DNA.  But that's what makes this film work.  You never dislike Fred Amidon.  And if another comedic name from that time had taken the role, say maybe Dean Martin, Elliot Gould, Jack Lemmon, George Segal, or Alan Arkin, Amidon would have come off more or less as a creep who just needs to shave his beard and be done with it.  After all, beards do have a tendency to add a sinister quality to men.  But Van Dyke keeps his happy-go-lucky spirit despite the depressing turn his life takes.
  And of course, we're treated to his superb, physical style during a lengthy scene in which Amidon is drunk and falling all over himself as well as climbing along rooftops.
  When all is said and done, and all the foolishness is pushed aside, this is a satisfying movie with characters you can care about and a happy ending that actually makes sense.
  Some Kind of a Nut can be seen on Amazon's Instant Video.  I have not been able to find it anywhere else, including Netflix.
  I'll cover the second movie Cold Turkey in Part Two of this post.
Below you can see Some Kind of Nut free on Amazon if you are a Prime Member, or watch it for only a few dollars.

My View of Seven Thieves

An obvious attempt to market the movie as an
Ocean's Eleven knock-off, despite the fact
it was released four months before
the Rat Pack extravaganza.

Everyone knows the heist caper Ocean's Eleven--all you youngsters know the Brad Pitt, George Clooney, glitzy production by Steven Soderbergh; you older kids might first think of the Rat Pack glamour flick from the days when Frank, Dean, Sammy, and Peter were the hottest ticket in town.  They were both entertaining movies.  Both of them sold tickets because of their stars; as ensembles go, these movies are some of the best examples of an ensemble cast with dynamite chemistry.

  The Ocean's Eleven success did more than just propel the Rat Pack (and eventually the Clooney/Pitt Pack) to iconic status.  Released in August of 1960, it almost completely erased the film Seven Thieves from our collective memory.  Unfortunately for those actors and technicians who worked on Seven Thieves, it was released only four months prior to Ocean's.  This gave it very little time to garner any sort of loyalty from the viewing public.  I think I can see several reasons for this:

  The obvious jumps out at us right away--who would most people rather watch?  The young, dynamic Rat Pack lead by Sinatra and his side-kick Dino?  Or  the elderly Edward G. Robinson with his dour companion Rod Steiger?  Thieves might have had an advantage with the alluring Joan Collins in its corner (she does a strip-tease, more or less), but at best this leaves the film evenly matched with Ocean's own glamorous screen-goddess Angie Dickinson.

  Just as obvious is the fact that Ocean's is filmed in color, Thieves in black and white.  Now, that's not a problem for a cinephile  like myself, but it certainly didn't help this movie at a time when the public was increasingly coming to expect color films at the theaters.  Black and white was okay for television, even though color television had been broadcast since 1951.  (Oddly enough, it wasn't until the 1970's that more Americans were buying color TVs instead of black and white ones.)  But a film about casinos really ought to be seen in color.

A far more appropriate ad campaign for a
film that easily stands on its own two feet.

  The third difference that hits you right away is the comedy found in Ocean's, which is non-existent in Thieves.  The Rat Pack spends more time making jokes than being tough-guy crooks.  The whole feel of the movie is that it is all a lark.  And it was.  The boys filmed it in the afternoons, after waking up late from their nights of performing in Vegas.  There was little acting, since they were essentially playing themselves.  It was all shot right there in the casinos where they performed.  (Including Dino's crooning in his little piano bar.)  There's no humor in Seven Thieves.  Though a heist movie, it also carries a pretty heavy Noir atmosphere, much like the French heist film Rififfi.  By 1960, the Noir train had run out of steam; the dark days of WWII were getting farther away, the boom of the 50's was well established, and people weren't looking to explore the darker side of life anymore.

  So why have I mentioned all of that?  Why don't I just review Ocean's Eleven and forget about Seven Thieves like everyone else?  Because it's a darned good movie, that's why.  So let me tell you all about it.

  The film opens when a professor by the name of Theo Wilkins (played by the unique and fascinating Edward G. Robinson) lures an old partner to Monte Carlo for the typically perfect heist.  The partner, Paul Mason (the staid, menacing Rod Steiger) wants nothing to do with it.  He's been in prison, and is not too eager to get caught again.  But as Wilkins points out, this one is fool-proof!  And he's assembled a team.

  You know what comes next: we begin to meet the crew.  There's the beatnik played by Eli Wallach.  If you're a fan of his, like I am, you'll know he's always a bit wild.  But for some reason, I never saw him as a beatnik.  But it suits him here.  He plays in the band as we meet the enticing Melanie, played by a twenty-seven-year old Joan Collins.  She's still a bit young here, and hasn't quite hit her stride yet in Hollywood, but you can tell she has charisma.  She's a stripper who wants to make that big score and get out of her club life.  Collins was famously trained by Candy Barr, a somewhat notorious stripper from the 50s.  (Please note the link will take you to her Wikipedia page, but there aren't any pictures there, guys, sorry.  But if you're really interested in her, I can tell you she shot her second husband and hung around with the likes of Mickey Cohen.  So...)  The rest of the team is filled in with the pretty boy safe-cracker (Michael Dante), the muscle (Berry Kroeger) and the fish-out-of-water Alexander Scourby, playing the "inside man" at the casino.

He's having an affair with her?  Are you kidding me?
(Alexander Scourby and Joan Collins in Seven Thieves.)

  I'll leave the musical dance number alone.  Watch the film and judge for yourself if Ms. Barr taught Ms. Collins anything worthwhile.  This is 1960, of course, so the strip-tease is anything but.  I will say it seems out of place, since the atmosphere of the rest of movie does not fit in with a club-act like hers.  But I'm sure the executives at the studio insisted on this to put seats in the seats, so to speak.

  One of the unique characters in this film is Raymond, played by the very English Alexander Scourby.  Some of you might know him from those commercials that used to run all the time advertising the Bible on audio tape, read aloud by Alexander Scourby.  He's very proper, always the unshakable Brit.  But not here.  Yes, he's the assistant to the Director of Casino operations, but he's also having an affair with Melanie, and he's the one who provides the information needed to locate and extract the money.  But he's one anxiety attack away from the funny farm.  He's a mess.  Who would have though Alex Scourby would be the comic relief?

  Edward G., as always, is top notch.  He has that haunting lilt to his speech.  I don't often say this about a guy, but his voice is mellifluous.  He could talk me into a crime caper, I'm sure, no matter how much I didn't want to get involved.  Yes, he's always portrayed as the gangster tough guy, but that's missing the point about him.  When he's not actively trying to intimidate you, he's subtly at work on you, suggesting, probing, giving out little bits of wisdom like chocolates.  Watch him in The Cincinnati Kid, or Double Indemnity, and you'll see what I mean.  And he gets it right here too, with a little twist; he shows unabashed love for his friend Paul Mason.  Who knew Edward G. could do this?  His face opens up, he looks like a kid who's just opened a Christmas present.  You can see he is so delighted to be with Rod Steiger, which is odd, since Steiger never seems to inspire this in anyone.  Ever.  But that is explained later in the film.

Steiger takes control of the crew and never lets go.
(left to right: Robinson, Steiger, Collins, and Wallach.)

  And speaking of Rod Steiger, let me say a few things.  First of all, I've always had a reserved respect for him.  Not because I don't like his acting, but because he's always played reserved, hard-to-like characters.  Almost always noble, full of good-intentions, Steiger's characters just have trouble being nice to whomever he happens to be next to.  One gets the idea there isn't anyone he is fond of, respects, or wishes to make happy.  Robert Osborne, the TCM host, said the same thing.  Saying he was surprised when Steiger came on the show to co-host a few movies, he was very affable, and easy to get along with.  All of which I point out because that is Steiger's character, Mason.  He doesn't want to be there.  If he has to be, he's gonna be in charge, and no one is going to question how he does things.  Beyond that, he says very little.  The Alpha dog who really just wants to be the lone wolf.  And of course, Melanie finds this irresistible, and her loyalties to Wallach, Scourby and even Robinson pale in comparison to her desire to be with Paul.  Some guys have all the luck.

  One more observation on Steiger.  I can see that Russell Crowe is our generation's Rod Steiger.  Both have that same solid, quiet power that keeps the camera entranced.

  Joan Collins has become something of a joke to our society.  Her success as the bad-girl of Dynasty as well as a few forays into the tawdry, near-porn of her late-70's films, as well as her stint as Potiphar's wife on stage in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat have all combined to convince us that she is nothing more than a sexed-up cougar who's only career asset was her body and her seductive ways.  But if you watch some of her earlier works, you'll see a talented actress who knew how to hold her own with actors like Steiger, Richard Burton, and yes, even William Shatner.  Here, in Thieves, she is more than just eye-candy.  Her effect on the usually unflappable Steiger is enough to spark some excellent scenes between them.  They're not Bogart and Becall, but they're not far behind.

  The heist itself is well done, with that same slow, systematic atmosphere one finds in other heist movies like Riffifi and the little known Maximilian Schell/Peter Ustinov Topkapi.  While there is tension as Steiger and Dante risk the high window ledges above the Mediterranean, the better story is on the casino floor as Wallach and Robinson put on their show for the casino officials, which includes one of my favorite actors, Sebastian Cabot.

  This is 1960, and so the Breen office still would not allow crime to be successful unless the crooks were eventually punished.  You know this going in, and I won't spoil the way they handled it.  It is not the strongest finish to a film, but it does manage to surprise you.  After all, who would have thought that I'd find it touching when Rod Steiger holds Edward G. Robinson in his arms and actually sheds tears?  I sure didn't.

  Seven Thieves is not the best heist caper you'll ever see.  It may not even be the best movie of 1960.  But I would strongly recommend it.  Ignore the silly newer posters/DVD covers for it.  It is not anything like Ocean's Eleven.  The marketing department needs a swift kick in its collective backside for trying to ride that horse.  Directed by Henry Hathaway (Kiss of Death, Niagara, True Grit), this movies stand easily on its own merits, and you'll be glad you took the time to look it up.  For now, you can rent it for just $2.99 from Amazon.  (See below.)  It is available at Neflix, though not for instant watch.

5 Songs I've Been Stuck on Lately

Presently, I have about 19,000 (give or take) songs in my music folder.  Now, considering there are 1500 sub-folders in there, we can assume that some of these are album cover jpgs, then there are the duplicate songs that are on several different albums, including some albums that are completely duplicated due to my inability to organize things properly.  So a conservative estimate would suggest that I have about 15,000 individual songs.  That sounds hard to believe.  But when you consider I have an album entitled 50 Must-Have Mystic Gregorian Pop Remixes, it begins to make sense.  (And if you're wondering why I have 50 Must-Have Mystic Gregorian Pop Remixes...well, it's because...they're...Must-Have.  But it was not an impulse buy, I can assure you.  I sampled most of the tracks first to make sure that they were the best Mystic Gregorian Pop Remixes, and even though it was only 99 cents to download it, I got out my calculator and did enough math to know that I was getting a pretty good deal--just 1.98 cents per song.  You really can't beat that.)  Anyway, since I have a plethora of songs, you would imagine that I am always listening to something new.  After all, if each song were just three minutes long (okay, so the Kansas songs average two or three times that, but we'll ignore them for this fascinating speculation), it would take me 750 hours to listen to all of them non-stop.  And given that I do not listen to more than twelve hours of music a day, this would mean at the best I could listen to all of them in about 62 and a half days.  But of course this is not the case.
  I usually spend my time listening to the same two or three albums.  Occasionally, a new album (or an old one) will upset the apple cart.  This happens every so often, sometimes sooner, sometimes later.  Even in my car, which is so old-school, CDs litter the front and back seats as well as the floors and glove compartment, I still only listen to a handful of albums.  There are a few staples that I also listen to, those few albums that will never go out of style, but there are only about five of them.
  So what I am trying to get at is the idea that I've got music coming out of my ears...actually, that's not right...it's going into my ears, but that's beside the point...I've got music coming out/going into my ears but I still only listen to a few songs at any given point in time.
  And that brings us to my post today, which will highlight some of the songs that I keep playing over and over again.  These are not the best songs that I've ever heard.  But they are the songs that have had my attention for the last month or more.

1. Catseye, by Cannister Six, from the album Paris Lounge, Deluxe Volume 2.  The first time I heard this, I thought--man, that girl sounds awful!  I was going to skip to the next song.  But then I hesitated, as she kept going, and I thought, "that's not as awful as I thought."  I know, a stellar review, right?  So then I listened to it a second time.  By the third time it played, I clicked.  And I've been listening to it so much my family is probably sick of it and trying to develop ways to delete it from Spotify.  But if you give it a chance, it will get into your head, and you might be glad of the fact.  An added benefit for this song is its anonymity.  In an age where you can find any information about whatever and whoever on the Internet, I can find precious little information on this song.  It is almost as if it does not exist.  Wonderfully mysterious.  It can be found on Spotify.

2. Song for the Crickets, by Parov Stelar, from the album The Princess Part One.  You already know my preoccupation with Parov Stelar.  (Check out my review of The Princess Part One if you missed it.)  This song begins with crickets, and if you turn it up nice and loud, sitting in the center of the stereo speakers, you'll get this awesome vibe as the crickets fill your head.  The song is subtle, very chill.  And there is a point where the crickets come back into the background as the song comes to a momentary standstill.  The crickets take over, in this hip little rhythm, and you won't want it to stop.  Brilliant.

3. State of the Art, by Gotye, from the album Making Mirrors.  This crazy little song is infectious.  It is a simple little story, about a family who has just acquired a Cotillion, a synthesizer, much like families used to get one of those massive Hammond organs you always saw sitting in people's living rooms in the sixties and seventies.  As the song says, "when the Cotillion arrived, we threw out the television...now for an arm and a leg, we get three half-dozen beats to choose from, so that we can pretend, there's an orchestra in the lounge room."  Full of everything that made messing around with synthesizers groovy (I bought one while I was in High School, and fiddled with it all the time), you can't help but listen again and again.  (Click the song title for the video.)

4.  Le Temps de L'Amour, by Francoise Hardy, as heard in the movie Moonrise Kingdom.  This is a fun little song from an absurd movie that came out last year.  Wes Anderson's story of young love has this wonderfully goofy, sweet scene between the two star-crossed lovers featuring this song played on a little mobile record player on the shores of a lake.  I don't understand French, but I know a great song when I hear one.

5. Stylo, by the Gorillaz, featuring Mos Def and Bobby Womack.  If you haven't seen the video, be sure to check it out.  But the song itself is intriguing and I can't seem to stop listening to it.  I've only heard the radio edit, so don't get mad at me if you listen to the explicit edit.

My View of Tour Saint-Jacques

Just across the Seine from Notre Dame Cathedral on the right bank is a lone tower-- Tour Saint-Jacques.  Standing 171 feet high, it is surrounded by far more popular sites: the Louvre, the Palais-Royal, Hotel de Ville, and of course Notre Dame.  For today's look at this spectacular Gothic tower, I'll take a break from writing and let the video camera do its work.