A Whale Of A Tale

Hello World, And so we find ourselves perched on the very brink of the last weekend in August, believe that or not, because next Saturday will be September already, and nothing left of August but our memories. So if you have any important summer season plans left to accomplish - and here I mean, of the watermelon, hammock, lemonade, and sand castle variety - you'd better cram them into this last week of the month, or live to regret it once September rolls around. Of course, the season lives on in clearance sales, and all the swimsuits you couldn't find a trace of in July when you needed one (having failed to buy one in March, when they first went on sale) are turning up at discount prices in all the catalogs of winter clothes that are arriving in clumps on the doorstep, from desperate retailers looking to unload their out-of-date merchandise by hook or by crook. Now, I could solve their problem at a stroke, by creating a shopping season known as "win-spri-sum-all," where everything would be available all year long, rather than the hit-or-miss hodge-podge that bedevils us these days. I'm sure the President's economic advisers would consider that a whale of an idea. Speaking of seasonal apparel, alert readers may recall last week when I mentioned the end-of-season bra sale that seemed so incongruous to me, as if undergarments were like outerwear, to be changed at a whim with the caprices of the temperature. Now it seems that there is even more afoot under the surface, as it were, if the sporting goods circulars are to be believed. As the gridiron season has been getting underway on all levels from the mightiest professionals all the way down to the puniest pipsqueaks, these glossy pages have been awash with burly young men all decked out in their football uniforms, practice togs or exercise wear, plus the requisite shoes, gloves, helmets and accessories. These ads would lead us to believe that the crucial underpinning of a successful uniform is what they describe as a "5-Pad Impact Top" and its companion "5-Pad Girdle," which would seem laughable to me, except when it's being worn by a 300-pound behemoth staring malevolently from the page with a face that would stop a clock. Mind you, this is no one's idea of a joke, as this item will set you back $100 all by its little old girdly lonesome, and that's no laughing matter. It's astounding to me that with all the resources at their command, corporate giants like Adidas and Nike can't come up with a more robust name for this garment than a girdle, for heaven's sake, which can't help but conjure up images of portly housewives from decades ago, sacrificing comfort for vanity in the age-old battle of the bulge. Even more astonishing is that they can actually sell these products - at a hundred bucks a pop - to fierce and gargantuan pigskin palookas who are not too embarrassed to wear such a thing on the field. What's next - ballet flats and tutus? Tiaras and satin gloves? Petticoats and feather boas? The dinosaurs and I can remember a time that Joe Namath wore pantyhose in a TV commercial, but I still think a girdle is just way too much, and that's not just the spandex talking, believe me. Also on the subject of outrageous ideas, I couldn't help but notice the welter of ads all over the Welcome screen lately, touting the introduction of new Yoplait Trix yogurt, of all things. As Dave Barry says, "I am not making this up," although how anything Trix could possibly be considered yogurt, I'm sure is beyond me. Why, you may as well have Twinkie flavor rice cakes, or beer-battered granola bars, for all the sense it would make in terms of health food. When I claimed two weeks ago that nefarious forces had "super-sized" ordinary yogurt into the bloated confection of frozen yogurt that is worse for you than actual junk food, well, all I can say is, I rest my case. Now, the nay-sayers and scoffers may pooh-pooh this as nothing more than righteous indignation, and claim that Yoplait Trix would be an excellent way to get children to eat more yogurt. Sure, if you want them scarf down 100 calories per measly 4 oz cup, including 50mg sodium and 14g sugar, thanks not. (By comparison, regular Dannon yogurt would clock in at 50 calories and 6g sugar for the same size container.) You may as well just give them a box of Yodels in the first place and be done with it, at least they don't take up space in the refrigerator, and you don't have to wash any spoons. They call this yogurt, ye gods. Now this is normally where I would be saying, "In other news," and launch into something else of a fresh or noteworthy nature. However, I feel compelled to point out that this next tidbit is certainly not new in any way, or even that anything about it has recently come to light, to make anyone take a new look at it with fresh eyes. But I will say that it comes as news to me, after all this time, and to say that it was also an unwelcome surprise, pretty much sums it up in the proverbial nutshell. Of course, we are all, along with countless legions of hapless school children through the years, abundantly familiar with John Greenleaf Whittier's famous Civil War poem, where an affronted Barbara Frietchie declares unflinchingly: "Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, but spare your country's flag," to the chagrin of marauding rebel soldiers who back down from her steely resolve like paper napkins in a strong wind. With those rousing words, she joins the ranks of esteemed others before and since, like Captain Ahab, Beowulf, Hercules, Robin Hood, and even The Mighty Casey At The Bat, whose distinctive clarion call has echoed throughout the ages of literature, weaving a glorious tapestry of heroic fictional characters standing shoulder-to-shoulder on the ramparts of freedom, justice, and joy in Mudville. Whoa! Or, as Mr. Ed would say, "Hold the palominos!" According to our friends at wikipedia, the actual real and authentic Barbara Hauer (1766-1862) married John Fritchie, and became a leading citizen of Frederick, Maryland, as well as a compatriot of Francis Scott Key, no stranger to military poetry himself. The 1864 poem is purportedly based on an account of the 95-year-old Union stalwart facing down the troops of Stonewall Jackson from her front steps, as they marched through the town. In keeping with what I always considered the fictitious nature of the poem, this part turns out to be pure hogwash, as the route of the troops was nowhere near the Fritchie house, while the family stayed safely locked inside for protection. In the interests of accuracy, Whittier could just as well have invented a suitable heroine, placing her old gray head and tattered flag in the troop's path on the other side of town where they actually were instead, and left the poor grizzled Mrs. Fritchie peacefully unaccosted. But taking a page out of the Liberty Valance casebook ("When the legend becomes fact, print the legend" ) Whittier chose to commemorate this indomitable matron of the American spirit, and through the power of poetic license, took a real person and a real event in the same town, and still managed to come up with something that was a complete figment of the imagination. I guess that's what Captain Ahab would call a whale of a story. And as long as we're taking pains to set the historical record straight (and Liberty Valance notwithstanding) and as much as I hate to admit it, there's no denying that it was in actuality Joe E. Lewis who made the classic observation that "Rooting for the Yankees is like rooting for U.S. Steel," and not the fabled Ring Lardner, who might seem the more obvious choice. Lewis was a vaudeville comic and film actor (not to be confused with the rubber-faced Joe E. Brown) who was well known for his quips on a variety of subjects, and since he lived and died in the shadow of the House That Ruth Built, I'm sure he knew a thing or two about the storied Bombers. On the other hand, the legendary Lardner hailed from Michigan and worked in Chicago, widely famous for his humorous sports columns and satirical stories, entertaining readers everywhere for decades. (A typical excerpt from his work, "He looked at me as if I were a side dish he hadn't ordered," is one that cannot be improved upon, no matter how you try.) Not to begrudge the affable Lewis one of my favorite quotes of all time, but in my mind at least, the U.S. Steel jibe was one that sounded more like it would have leaped from the fertile pen of someone who covered sports for a living, and not just a disgruntled New Yorker taking random swipes at everything under the sun. So there you have it, sports fans and history buffs alike, we have stripped away the tawdry cloak of hokum and fabrication, beaming the spotlight of accuracy on popular misconceptions, until they shine with the unadulterated ring of truth, at long last, and long may they wave, Stonewall Jackson. Anyway, that's my story and I'm sticking with it, or my name isn't, well, you can just - Call me Ishmael