FROM THE ELISSON ARCHIVE

The Mistress of Sarcasm and She Who Must Be Obeyed have spent the last three days in a frenzy of Basement-Organizing Activity.

This is no lightweight job. We’ve lived here in the latest incarnation of Chez Elisson for hard on to ten years...and the basement is the Final Frontier, the last repository of Random Accumulated Crap. Getting it in some semblance of order is no job for the faint of heart.

In three days, there has been an astonishing amount of progress as the Mistress and SWMBO have relentlessly attacked the Mountains of Miscellany. You can now walk around down there without tripping over twenty thousand separate obstacles.

Once we Garage-Sale some of the more useful detritus and have Mr. Trash-Man haul off the remainder, we’ll have a reasonable amount of space down there.

We’ve found all kinds of interesting things that haven’t seen the light of day in years. Old laboratory glassware. Darkroom equipment. Hundreds of Sunday newspaper comics sections. Magazines from the 1980’s. Anybody remember Cuisine?

And we’ve found Old Photographs.




Here’s one of Anna, the Grandmomma d’Elisson, flanked by her two children. On the left is nine-year-old Uncle Phil; on the right is the Momma d’Elisson, who is all of three years old in this photograph taken sometime in mid-1931.

Anna was unusual for the time. A strawberry blonde, she drove a car...and she was an athlete, playing both golf and tennis. Back then, none of these were typical Motherly Activities...at least, not amongst Our Crowd.

She could lob a mean oath, too. A useful talent in Sheepshead Bay, back in the day. Or now.

I sure miss her. She was, as they might say, a pistol.

FROM THE ELISSON ARCHIVE

SWMBO’s Printer’s Case o’ Tchotchkes.

The Missus likes to collect Useless Little Things. Tchotchkes. And this Printer’s Case is a perfect way to show them off. It hangs on the wall of our family room.

Figuring significantly in this collection is the Missus’s pile of Wade Whimsies, miniature porcelain figurines in the form of characters from nursery rhymes. But there’s other cool crap too - like those little bottles of Dr Pepper and Tabasco sauce.

Now, if I can only figure out what to do with my collection of Shrunken Heads...

FROM THE ELISSON ARCHIVE

Cambridge, England, May 2000.

This pastoral scene is from Cambridge, England, where I had traveled on behalf of the Great Corporate Salt Mine in order to meet with one of our major global customers. What you see is, literally, a Cam Bridge: a bridge over the River Cam.

It was an interesting enough trip: I had not been to Jolly Olde for over a decade, and this was my first journey by rail outside the immediate environs of London. In retrospect, it was a little like riding the Hogwarts Express, except without the bogie-flavoured jellybeans. And, happily, we managed to schedule enough free time to permit a leisurely walk around the grounds of Cambridge University.

I felt right at home at Cambridge...and well I could have, for the architecture at my own Alma Mater borrowed heavily from the classic Tudor Gothic style. And a classic Limerick came to mind:

There was a young man of St John’s
Who wanted to bugger the swans,
But the loyal hall-porter
Said, “Pray take my daughter!
Them birds are reserved for the dons.”

Indeed. Thankfully, I saw no swans...and dons were thin on the ground, this being Reading Period, when students were busily preparing for final exams.

There’s a Cambridge on this side of the pond as well, and Elder Daughter spent many years there following her graduation from Boston University. We’ve spent many a pleasant weekend there, using it as a jumping-off place to explore the Greater Boston area, or to sample the delights of Harvard Square...but there is something to be said for the Original, what?

FROM THE ELISSON ARCHIVE

Billie Bob holds his new granddaughter.

This photo from 1982 shows Billie Bob - SWMBO’s daddy, z’’l, holding his new baby granddaughter, the Mistress of Sarcasm, on the very day of her birth. The Mistress, at this point in her young life, has yet to develop her prodigious sarcastic sense of humor. Or the ability to speak, for that matter. But check out alla that hair!

When Elder Daughter dug this out of the Pile o’ Albums a few days ago, I did a quick calculation: SWMBO today is as old as her father was when this picture was taken. Scary, innit?

FROM THE ELISSON ARCHIVE

An Arty Display at the Toronto airport, taken enroute to Saint John, New Brunswick this past summer.

The watery effect is an optical illusion caused by consuming thirty-five cups of Tim Horton’s coffee.

FROM THE ELISSON ARCHIVE

Elder Daughter, circa 1996.

Beauty and grace are characteristics that I lack, but of which the ladies in my life have a-plenty.

As evidence, I submit this photograph of Elder Daughter, taken during one of her myriad dance recitals back in High School. Later, she would go on to choreograph and perform in shows at university.

The memory of some of those shows still brings a tear to my eye when I remember how proud I was of our daughter’s prodigious talents.

And she had talented friends, too. Look at the young lady on the far right. One of Elder Daughter’s best friends when this picture was taken, Erica Mansfield went directly to New York after being graduated from high school, there to pursue her dream of acting and dancing onstage. We last saw her a couple of years ago, when Mamma Mia! played at the Fox Theatre in Atlanta. Today, you can catch her at the Winter Garden Theatre in New York. Broadway!

FROM THE ELISSON ARCHIVE

Mr. and Mrs. Debonair, September 1998.

This photo, excavated from the Elisson Archive, shows Mr. and Mrs. Debonair attending a formal wedding at the River Oaks Country Club in Houston. Yes, we used to live in Texas (although this photograph was taken two months after we had relocated to Atlanta).

But do not get the idea that it was always champagne and caviar, tie and tails with Mr. Debonair. Living in Texas had its Earthy Aspects, too.


The Official State Uniform of Texas, circa 1992.

Take, for example, the Official State Uniform of Texas, modeled above by Yours Truly.

Yes, it’s the One-Piece Polyester Texas Old-Guy Jumpsuit!

I don’t know where else these outfits are popular, but I discovered, upon moving to Texas in 1974, that every male over the age of fifty not only owned a closet full of these Bad Boys; he would actually wear the fuckin’ things. Ye Gods!

I received the specimen above as a gag gift on my fortieth birthday, which means the photograph above likely dates from around 1992. Dapper, ain’t it?

I can’t understand the attraction these things hold for Texans...or whoever else might wear ’em. For one thing, they’re a lot trickier to remove in a hurry...say, for example, if you have a Bowel Emergency. When I’m dealing with Mr. Turtlehead, the last thing I want to have on my mind is how to get out of my clothes.

FROM THE ELISSON ARCHIVE

comes this Fictional Interview with Abbie Hoffman, legendary counterculture troublemaker, political activist, and Chicago Seven member.

As you may or may not know, Hoffman died in 1989 from complications resulting from swallowing about 150 phenobarbital tablets. Namely, that shit’ll kill you. He had been suffering from bipolar disorder, and it probably did not help his frame of mind to know that he was increasingly irrelevant. His suicide note read, “It’s too late. We can’t win. They’ve gotten too powerful.”

Too powerful for him, in any event.

Back in 1990, sixteen months after Hoffman’s suicide, Rush Limbaugh (who was then only beginning to grow into the nationally broadcast blowhard he is today) had suggested that USA Today was planning to interview the late Hoffman in the event he were to be exhumed as part of an investigation into his death. Farfecthed? Sure. But irresistible. I therefore took pen in hand and wrote a script for that interview.

Imagine, if you will...

USA Today:
We’re here today with the late Abbie Hoffman, who has been kind enough to allow us to ask a few questions relative to his political career as a professional revolutionary and gadfly, and also to illuminate details of his recent unfortunate demise. You’re looking rather fit today, Abbie, despite the fact that you haven’t been getting much sun lately.

Hoffman:


USA Today:
It has been reported that your antidepressant medication has been implicated in several suicides, a circumstance which is currently under investigation. Do you recall feeling especially depressed coincident with your beginning this therapy?

Hoffman:


USA Today:
Is it possible that, during your ingestion of a fifth of “Gentleman Jack,” you may have overlooked your having taken, just prior, about 250 tablets and capsules of various sleep-inducing medications?

Hoffman:


USA Today:
What are your views concerning the buildup of US forces in Saudi Arabia? [Note: this was written during the preparation for the Desert Storm invasion of Iraq.] Do you feel, as Ron Kovic does, that a parallel can be drawn between this action and the events leading up to the US involvement in Vietnam?

Hoffman:


USA Today:
Abbie, we’d like to thank you for taking the time to visit with us today and wish you the best of luck.


* * *
The rest of the story:
I faxed the interview to Limbaugh and - whaddaya know? - he read it over the air the next day. Whoop-tee-doo.

FROM THE ELISSON ARCHIVE

SWMBO and Elisson, 1976.

This charming little snapshot, taken near the T.G.I. Friday’s that used to sit on Richmond near Post Oak in Houston, dates from the very first days of our time together. She Who Must Be Obeyed looks young and lovely; I, on the other hand, look completely ridiculous tricked out in my mid-1970’s Disco Era Qiana shirt and Afro Isro hairstyle. Thank Gawd the Platform Shoes are not visible in this photograph...

Disco Duck? Muthafuck!

FROM THE ELISSON ARCHIVE

comes this picture of She Who Must Be Obeyed and the Mistress of Sarcasm, from my 30th college reunion, June 2004.

Here, the ladies are relaxing on the grass after the One and Only P-Rade. Imagine it: every graduating class is represented, from doddering oldsters who wore raccoon coats back in the early 1920’s through the latest graduates, variously decked out with iPods, Beer Goggles, and Massive Debt. And all of ’em wearing ridiculous outfits.

All of ’em.


“Anyone got a cat I can dissect? Anyone? Anyone?”

FROM THE ELISSON ARCHIVE

Elisson, circa 1975.

Just for shits ’n’ grins, here’s a 1975-vintage photograph of Yours Truly, getting down with his bad self. Check out that Afro Isro. Get down, get funky! Like V-Man’s Monkey!

Thank Gawd I never had the bad taste to invest in a Leisure Suit.

But I did have plenty of those stupid-ass Qiana disco shirts. Just Damn!

FROM THE ELISSON ARCHIVES

With the Jawja Blogtoberfest coming in just three weeks, I thought it would be nice to remind myself why the Georgia mountains are so nice to visit this time of year.



Admittedly, these are not photographs of the North Georgia landscape. They’re from Blowing Rock, NC, where SWMBO, the Mistress of Sarcasm, and I spent a delightful weekend four years ago. But you get the idea.

Take this sort of natural beauty, throw in a river and a bunch of degenerate fascinating Online Journalists, and you pretty much have Helen, GA, the first weekend in October.

THE AIRPORT CONGA LINE

Nothing quite like looking out your window, as you’re waiting for takeoff, to see an endless queue of aircraft snaking along the tarmac, as far as the eye can see.

It means you are going to wait. Possibly a long, long time.

This picture is similar to what I saw looking out the window yesterday on my flight from Houston to Chicago. That same ol’ conga line. Fortunately, it looked worse than it really was and we were on our way in about 20 minutes.

But the picture is different. Look at all of those skinny-fuselage planes, the ones with four engines hanging from the wings. Those are Boeing 707’s.

The photograph - from the Elisson Archive - was taken at New York’s JFK Airport in September, 1968, during the height of a (then) unprecedented aviation boom. Too many flights without the infrastructure to handle them. Long waits - this one two hours long - on the tarmac as the conga lines snaked along.

The reddish color is a combination of the effects of sunset and Ektachrome Infrared Aero, which renders grass and anything else bearing chlorophyll as red.

FROM THE ELISSON ARCHIVE, A RFOAC

Graffiti Billboard for Tiger Magazine, 1971.

[RFOAC: Reasonable Facsimile Of A Cat. ©Laurence Simon, all rights reserved.]

The time: Fall, 1971.

The place: Princeton University.

Two years prior, there had been a fire at Whig Hall, one of a matched set of Greek Revival buildings named after the 19th century Whig and Cliosophic debating societies. When it came time for the hall to be gutted and rebuilt, a plywood barrier was erected to keep wayward passersby out of the construction zone.

It was perhaps a Sign o’ the Times that the University, rather than trusting to random Graffiti Taggers, elected to have an official Paint the Wall festival. Students could sign up for a panel of the wall and decorate it as they saw fit. The result was...well, a lot of Peace and Love crap...but what did you expect from the early 1970’s, anyway?

One panel stood out, however, with its advertisement for the Tiger, the campus humor magazine. The magazine’s mascot was, naturally enough, a tiger, here rendered by two undergraduates, one of which just might have been Yours Truly.

Holy Crap, is that tiger drinking a can of Iron City beer - and smoking a spliff?

HOWL

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,

dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,

angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,

who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz...


Allen Ginsberg, January 1970.

From the Elisson archives comes this picture of the quintessential hipster, Beat poet Allen Ginsberg, seen here at Miami International Airport with his mother. He was a mere 43 years old when this photograph was taken.

FROM THE ELISSON ARCHIVE

Stripes, 1985.

Stripes was our first cat. He became part of our lives in January 1984, a somewhat sickly - but appealing - specimen. With love and a good home, he got healthy fast, and was a companion to the Clan d’Elisson for an all-too-fleeting eleven years.


Stretched-out Stripey, 1985.

And unlike Hakuna and Matata, Stripes was actually...slender.

He’s been gone for ten years, but we still think of him fondly. Requies-kittycat in Pace, Stripey-guy!

FROM THE ELISSON ARCHIVE

Tokyo, 1980.

These traditionally-garbed young ladies were attending their high school graduation party at the Imperial Hotel, Tokyo. In my rudimentary Japanese, I asked them to pose for a picture, and they happily obliged. [As a general observation, Nihon-jin like to have their pictures taken - no matter by whom.]

FROM THE ELISSON ARCHIVE

T minus 4 hours and counting...

This photograph shows She Who Must Be Obeyed as she was exactly twenty-six years ago this evening.

About four hours after this shot was taken, SWMBO’s water broke and we were off to our small-town western New Jersey hospital for a long, grueling night of labor. The next morning, we had a baby daughter...

...and our lives were forever, and marvelously, changed.

FROM THE ELISSON ARCHIVE

The Ginza, Tokyo, 1980.

I took this photograph on my first visit to Japan, back in 1980.

The Ginza was like New York with the volume and speed knobs turned up to 11 - but in Tokyo, cab drivers dusted their spotless vehicles with feather dusters and would refuse to accept tips. You could leave your wallet on the street and it would show up in your hotel room a few hours later, completely intact. And you could buy a can of the unfortunately-named “Calpis” soft drink from a curbside vending machine.

So you knew you weren’t in New York, if the above scene were not clue enough.

FROM THE ELISSON ARCHIVE

Philadelphia, 1980.

In this picture from November 1980, an eighteen-month-old Elder Daughter (at that time, Only Daughter) enjoys a quiet moment in the lobby of the Philadelphia Sheraton.

We had taken a mini-vacation in Philly, a four-day weekend spent seeing all of the historic sites (and sights), and Only Daughter enjoyed herself as much as we did. At eighteen months, her verbal abilities and manual dexterity at table would fool you into thinking she was much older. Hell, I’ve seen ten-year-olds who were less capable of eating a meal politely and holding up their end of a conversation.

When I snapped this picture, O.D. was engaging the lone bellman in an animated discussion about something-or-other. Possibly she was asking him why Philadelphians put mustard on their pretzels...it’s the kind of question she would have asked.

And now, of course, we can remind her about the time we changed her diaper in Independence Hall.