Long since eaten I’m afraid, and their decedents relegated to the evil confines of some factory farm hidden out of site up in the hills somewhere. The only time they get their pictures in a magazine these days is if they’re lucky enough to have some PETA spy smuggle a camera into one of their torture sessions.

I joke, of course. The Arizona National Livestock Show continues to this day, going strong, “supporting youth and promoting livestock and agriculture since 1948.” In fact, you can go see it this year from December 28 through January 1 at the Arizona State Fairgrounds. Bring your camera (hidden or otherwise).

But if you can’t muster the effort to head down there (I know I can’t), you can check out these glorious pix from yesteryear — the October 1968 edition of “Arizona Highways” magazine, to be specific.

Albums like arranger Joe Scott’s “”Motion Pictures: The NOW Generation” also brought added grease to the wheels, helping to point Middle America down unfamiliar roads and smoothing the path at the same time. Appropriately lush and stately-of-pace, with just a touch of electric grit, Joe’s album offers listener a nice pat on the back for being so musically adventurous. Which is to say, the whole thing goes down like the average late-sixties nightly network news broadcast theme.

The album kicks off with a glossy reading of The Band’s “The Weight,” and includes driving, uptempo detective-show takes on “Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head” and “Mrs. Robinson. The rest of the album is filled with alternately shimmering and brooding big orchestra arrangements of such “now” filler as “Midnight Cowboy,” “Goodbye Columbus” and “Come Saturday Morning.” My personal favorite track is a version of “Born To Be Wild” that’s just dying to be carved up into dope samples.

I don’t know much about this album or Joe Scott. The internet has not been much help either, telling me only that the album can be purchased for collectors prices and that the name “Joe Scott” is quite common. Fair enough. I can’t do anything about the latter, but as to the former, I might be able to save you 35 bucks. That is, provided you don’t mind that my rip is from a non-shrink-wrapped copy.


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Like so many guys my age, I made my first connection with male sexual identity in the back of mass-market magazines like “True Detective” and “Man’s Adventure.” Naturally, I was drawn to the so-called “adult” content in these tiny sidebar ads, but what strikes me now is how juvenile they are, and how devoid of any actual females. They almost seem to suggest that pictures, films or stories about women are much better than the real thing.

When I got older, I began to experience the “skin trade” up close. I remember visiting my first downtown adult theater when I was eighteen or nineteen. This place was different from the “peep show” places that offered curtained smut loops for a quarter. This was an real “theater” that showed full-length films. It shared a strip of commercial property with a pawn shop, a liquor store and an anonymous storage facility. It had no lobby or backstage — just a screen and a low platform at one end of a small room and a 16mm film projector at the other end.

I have no memory of the films I saw that day. What I do remember was how after the first movie, a woman came out on the stage. To a soundtrack of the current disco hits, she removed her clothing, lay down on her back and and spread her legs. She lay there for a few minutes, then got up and left.

This was a surprise. The theater had not advertised live entertainment. A few minutes into the next film, I noticed someone coming towards me down the aisle. Before I could make out the figure clearly, I heard a woman’s voice. “Can you give me some money for my dance?”

I quickly fished out whatever was in my pocket and gave her what she wanted. She rubbed the bills against her chest, moaned a little, and slid the money into a pocket. Then she moved on to the next patron. I watched the movie for a little while longer, but I knew I’d have to leave soon. I didn’t have enough cash left for any more tips.

Up until that day, I had always assumed the “adult entertainment” business to be entirely one-sided and exploitative. It now occurred to me that the woman had actually derived some pleasure from the transaction, albeit second-hand, and not of a perverse nor prurient nature. It was the pleasure she got from keeping a roof over her head and providing food for her family. As I drove home, my guilt feelings in no way assuaged by the insight, I wondered which one of us had gotten the better end of the deal.



I haven’t been to Chicago in over a dozen years, but I still have my memories. Unfortunately, most of them involve trying driving around the club trying to find safe legal parking for two vans and a trailer. So the next best thing for me are these postcards from my grandfather’s collection, some of which date back a hundred years, to the 1893 World’s Exposition.

Aside from the postcards, the closest I’ve been to Chicago recently has been through a book and DVD by “This American Life” host Ira Glass and illustrator Chris Ware, “Lost Buildings.” The DVD tells the story of a kid who’s love for the work of architect Louis Sullivan led him into the orbit of photographer Richard Nickel. Forty years ago, Nickel traced an ever-shrinking circuit, documenting the progress of urban renewal as it consigned more and more of Sullivan’s buildings to the wrecking ball. Increasingly frustrated by the loss of these historic monuments, Nickel finally met his end inside the old Chicago Stock Exchange building. Seems he’d been trying to rescue an ornate specimen of staircase railing from demolition when the floor above him collapsed.

No doubt, many of the older subjects of these postcards are long gone as well, and the ones remaining are not long for this world. Who knows? One day, I might actually get back to Chicago, create a circuit of my own, and find out.

These ads are unrecognizably archaic. As one insists, “before your daughter marries, it’s your solemn duty to instruct her on how important douching is to marriage happiness. But first, make sure your own knowledge is as up-to-date and scientific as it can be!” In another, “color authority Carol Neuschaefer” touts the latest “miracle ingredient” in this season’s line of beauty products. Another one shouts, “She’s Engaged! She’s Lovely! She uses PONDS!” Next to a photo of the product surrounded by engagement rings (“diamonds for some of America’s loveliest girls!”), reads a list of “beautiful women of Society who use Ponds”: Mrs. Henry L. Roosevelt, Jr, Mrs. Richard C. Du Pont, Mrs. Anthony J. Drexell III, The Lady Victoria Montagu-Douglas-Scott and Mrs. Francis Grover Cleveland.

I’m ashamed to confess how much I paid for this museum piece. I was badly gouged. But I dutifully paid up and brought it home, tore it apart and scanned the highlights. I now present the best parts to you, not just for entertainment, but for your education as well. You never know when certain peripheral factions in our society might take the main stage and try to turn America’s past into its future.



Thanks to the share-isphere, the best time for your fans to catch up with you is once you’ve died. It’s not like everything you’ve ever released isn’t already available for free several times over, but once you die, everything gets consolidated and much easier to find. Last year it was James Brown; the year before, it was Buck Owens. Right now, it’s George Carlin’s turn.

Thinking about George Carlin for the past week or so has kind of pissed me off. I can still remember how delighted I was to discover him back in 1972 (which, by the way, was inversely proportional to how disgusted my step-father was to discover him). But that seems like only yesterday, and now, just like George I’m getting damn old. And I’m also just about as charmed by the current state of affairs as he was. So, as liberating as his long-haired counter-culture material was to a twelve-year-old boy 35 years ago, the enlightened bitterness of the take-no-prisoners routines from the end of his life end up resonating with me even more.

I continue to think about George as I prepare yet another post of goofy newspaper clippings that managed to survive in my collection over the years. It used to be fun to collect and laugh at this stuff, but now it all feels somehow depressing — now that what had been presumed cultural anomalies at the time now stand reveled to look more like harbingers. Maybe it’s just because this particular batch is too new, and not enough time has passed to allow me the luxury of ironic distance. Or maybe the wounds haven’t had enough time to heal.

Or maybe these articles can actually offer hope, that if I live long enough, I might be able to find humor even in the events of today. I’m quite sure there’s plenty to laugh at in the links below; I’m sure I found them funny twenty years ago. But today, they feel just too uncomfortably prescient.

The War on Drugs

Drug Abuse Coupons

Councilman Asks Feds to Execute Drug Users

Nancy Reagan Visits The Ghetto

Glittering Presidential Balls

The President Prays for War

Political Discourse

Prison Sentences for Presidential Insults

Improved Oppressor Relations

Pastoral Missile-scape

A Game of Grab the Corn Dog Goes Awry

The A.L.F. Visits the U. of A.

Sewage from Baltimore Still in Louisiana

McHusband

Couple Accuses Proctor & Gamble of Being in League with Satan

LaRouche Supporter Defends His Sanity

Wishful Thinking

UFO Swag

The Man on the Street Demands to be Heard

Love Slaves of Nitro

A Special Message from the Smithereens

‘Zert

Supply Your Own Caption

If you’re lucky, and you haunt your local dollar bins long enough, you’ll still find albums on the Alshire label. But the best ones are getting harder and harder to find. You’ll still come across the odd 101 Strings album, provided it doesn’t have hot models in skimpy sixties getups on the cover — most of those were snapped up and shipped overseas long ago. But you’ll almost never find records by the Animated Egg, Doctor Marigold’s Prescription or John Bunyan’s Progressive Pilgrims. You also won’t find too many albums by the subject of this week’s featured fetish, the California Poppy Pickers.

One of several fake studio groups commissioned by Alshire boss Al Sherman and masterminded by producer Gary S. Paxton, the California Poppy Pickers seems to be intended to take advantage of the then-embryonic “country-rock” trend. Employing a bare bones production approach – no psychedelic touches, elaborate orchestrations or any other astro sounds — a faceless group of paid-by-the-hour musicians crank out by-numbers version of the hits of the day. But the album never descends to the dreadful level of similar projects on such labels as Crown, Custom or Design. For one thing, the mastering and pressing aren’t nearly as terrible. And though there are undistinguished filler original compositions, they are actually performed by the band and not by some guy playing solo calliope or something.

There is plenty of talent spread around on this album as well. Gary S.Paxton’s career highlights includes “Alley Oop” and “The Monster Mash,” as well as distinguished work with both Tommy Roe and The Association. His assembled stable of musicians includes both guitarist Clarence White, future Burrito Gram Parsons, and Elvis’ bass player Jerry Scheff (any of whom — or none of which — might be on this album). CPP’s leader Dennis Payne also went on to enjoy a successful career in the country & western field. Even better, since Paxton went on to became somewhat unhinged, this album rises to the level of bona-fide oddball classic.

While certain collectors will charge top dollar for the three California Poppy Pickers albums, I seek out instead the bins in back of shops asking top dollar for vinyl copies of “Thick As A Brick.” Since this album has no mod chicks in go-go dresses on the cover, I easily scored it for a dollar. As for the rest, all I can say is thank heaven for the blogosphere.


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My favorite passage deals with Hitler and chief architect Albert Speer’s fascination with “ruin value.” Inspired by the breathtaking ruins of Rome, Hitler and Speer wondered how the world would view their colossal urban plans a thousand years after the demise of the “Thousand Year Reich.” They hit upon the idea of adding extra structural reinforcements, strategically placed among the arches and pillars, ensuring that “some picturesque element” of the architecture would survive over the years. Thusly, the Nazis would continue to “inspire awe” long after the end of their reign:

Speer’s memoirs reproduce some of the sketches he did to illustrate the idea of ruin value. They show the immense public works projects he’d been designing [...] in a state of picturesque decay, half-crumbled and overrun by weeds. Hitler adored them. The members of his inner circle loathed them. They were uncomfortable with the idea that the Reich would ever fall, then or in a thousand years, and they darkly wondered if Speer was some kind of subversive troublemaker, playing to the Fuhrer’s mysterious and disturbing fondness for images of twilight, decay, and tragedy.

Of course, the Romans never had to contend with the modern innovation of aerial carpet bombing. Neither did the fine folks of Wurzburg; that is, not until March 16th, 1945. That evening, they got their own visit from Britain’s Royal Air Force. Was the attack of strategic importance to the Allied war aims, or just part of their ongoing campaign of retaliation and “workforce dehousing?” Whatever the reason, in just over 15 minutes, 85% of Wurzburg was gone, including most of the town’s true primary asset: its architectural treasures, many dating back more than thirteen centuries.

Undaunted by the destruction (and the five thousand dead), the town picked itself up and spent the next two decades salvaging what they could and replacing the rest. Sixty years later, a certain Yours Truly learned of Wurzburg during an idle browse of a Tucson antique shop, where I discovered a beautiful book on the subject. Though the text is entirely in German — more than a challenge for my one semester of that language (studied, coincidentally enough, at Tucson’s University Of Arizona), the gorgeous black and white photographs speak for themselves. The Allies may have delivered a hell on earth for the citizens of Wurzburg, but they also created a photographer’s paradise.

Dramatic subject matter abounds as we see folks going about the business of their lives amid the rubble of their ruined city. Construction crews, teams of engineers and small clusters of “Trümmerfrauen,” (“Rubblewomen” or “women of ruins,” depending on the rigors of your translatorship) work to put the pieces back together. The immediate concern was to quickly throw up places for people to live, seeing as how one hundred percent of the housing was destroyed in the raid. Naturally, given the constrictions of the situation, most of the new structures consisted of cement blocks with minimal ornamentation. Sure, it had a certain modernist charm, and it was no small accomplishment, but still: not exactly what folks had been accustomed to.

The excerpts of “Wurzburg 1945-1955″ presented here tell the story of a town’s forced entry into “the modern world.” Facing their future, with nowhere near the luxury of some of their contemporaries, the citizens of Wurzburg still managed to devote resources to preserving what they could of their past.

Nowadays, it’s pretty much over. We’re all slowly coming awake to the realization that we’ve squandered vast tracts of our future for an illusory past, our intellectual capital for a culture that’s lost its memory, our once-noble ambitions for a population hooked on cheap thrills, our emotional strength for a brittle autophobia. Boxed in by increasingly limited options and driven to near madness by denial and distraction, the population casts about uselessly, desperate to ignore the darkness at the periphery. Eruptions occur with increasing frequency, stressing the structure at all strata, applying constant pressure on the facade, laying more and more bare the true face of what’s in store for us. The smart ones are just trying to keep still while they wait for the other shoe to drop — best to not stir up the dust any more than necessary.

But that’s all changing in the world that’s coming. Fifteen years hence, the far-flung world of 1975 offers challenges and opportunities undreamed of by past generations. From the classroom to the dining room, from the work place to, yes, even outer space, quixotic, compellingly-designed products will enhance every aspect of our lives. And soon we’ll wonder how we ever got along without spherical audio systems and food preparing devices, bacon you pop into the toaster just like bread, and learning devices that make education no more cumbersome than punching a time card.

Oh, it’s not all good news. Increased drilling opportunities and advances in fuel economy may increase the attractiveness of the automobile so much that engineers may be forced to start building roads on top of buildings! And the shortage of medical professionals may lead to decentralized drive-in high-rise hospitals (in the round, of course) manned by limited-skill equipment operators who merely facilitate the transmission of diagnosis from remote specialists. And shortages in recreation area may force home designers to come up with living spaces so compelling that citizens will chose to spend their vacation in the comparative spacious isolation of their own property.

And that’s not all: enjoy these scans from "1975: And the Changes To Come" by Arnold B. Barach, which I picked up in a thrift store somewhere. In no time, this quick trip to the near future will leave you howling, “where’s my irradiated canned meat??”



I first discovered Michael Monti’s “100 South Mill Avenue” blog after he dropped some praise on my scans of an old menu from his family’s La Casa Vieja restaurant. “As a restaurateur and history buff,” He wrote, “I can assure you that these will be appreciated as a goldmine of nostalgia and useful information about trends in dining and pricing.” Sentiments after my own heart. Michael writes from the vantage point of both a restaurant entrepreneur and a steward of Phoenix’s cultural history. His family happens to do business in one of the area’s most cherished landmarks.

Built in 1871 near the banks of the Salt River, the Monti’s La Casa Vieja was part of a compound that included a ferry service as well as a flour mill. According to its web site, the restaurant is the oldest continually occupied structure in the Phoenix area. Monti is uniquely positioned to report on ongoing efforts to protect Phoenix architectural history in the face of both encroaching developmental opportunism and an increasingly challenging economic landscape. For his part, Michael Monti’s love of local history is tempered by a sensitivity to the prerogatives of the business community to which he belongs.

His dual perspective is on display in his recent article about the Hayden Flour Mill, which still stands, right across the street from his restaurant. Despite his appreciation for the boarded up “eyesore,” he none the less defends the current plan underway to annex the older structure to a hideous modern box of glass and steel, which he insists is the best way to preserve the structure without blighting the surrounding area. Still smarting from the fight to save his own structure, Monti doesn’t have the luxury of bloggers and print journalists, who view any such developmental activity as an abomination.

We’ve written on this subject before, and must be included among the ranks of hand-wringers. As a life-long Phoenix resident, I still remember when orange groves and dairy farms occupied spaces now filled with tract houses and strip malls. I never venture into town any more without my camera on hand to document an old friend before it gets a visit from the wrecking ball.

The cards this collection are souvenirs of a Phoenix from almost 60 years ago. You can just barely make out Hayden Mill in the postcard below depicting downtown postwar Tempe. It’s the white smudge clear at the end of the right side of the street. Followers of more recent history will find the view of the Central Avenue post office more interesting. It was at this location that longtime Phoenix celebrity Cris Kirkwood beat up a security guard, gaining in the process a prison sentence and bullet in his back.