Inane in the Membrane

For no reason whatsoever, I recently found myself repeating four words that sound nonsensical, which is appropriate, because they connote idiocy.

Pell mell.

Harum scarum.

Willy-nilly.

Helter-skelter.

I'm a word nerd, a grammar geek, a usage unicorn. Wait, that last one doesn't make sense. I love using obsolete or obscure words and phrases, such as "What the deuce!" and "satchel." So as I repeated the four words above, I realized I needed to know more about them. So on, then, to the Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary.

Pell mell -- adv.: in a confused and hurried way; Middle French pêlemêle; first known use, 1590.

Via Google Books, I found a great usage of the word from Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art. In an essay dated December 28, 1889 and titled, "Remarkable Charities," the author recalls days gone by when the well-to-do of England would donate food, drink and tobacco to the poor.

Referring to "the lord of the manor" giving "a bull, a boar, a sack of wheat, and a sack of malt" to the less fortunate, the author says that at some point this practice was discontinued in favor of beef and mutton being distributed.

"The origin of this seems lost in obscurity, and the practice whilst it lasted seems to have been productive of much intoxication and riot; the poor paraded the streets during the whole night preceding the distribution with an incessant clamor. In the morning they marched in crowds to the donor's house, and when the doors were opened, rushed in pell-mell to the feast prepared for them, often inflicting wounds on one another with their knives in their struggle for priority."

Like Dave Barry, I often find myself, when confronted with an interesting word or phrase, thinking, "That would be a good band name."

Ladies and gentlemen, Pell Mell:

I picked this song at random on YouTube, but realized almost immediately that it was familiar. Turns out it was played on HBO's "Six Feet Under" for the first two seasons during the previous episode recap at the beginning of each show.

Harum scarum -- adj.: reckless, irresponsible; perhaps from archaic hare to harass, and scare; first known use, 1751.

Also, an Elvis Presley movie, "where the slave girls and sultans are swingers":

You see, The King is in Iraq, I think, or perhaps Saudi Arabia or even the Garden of Paradise, and all those swingin' chicks are his harem, so, well you can make the connection.

Willy-nilly -- adv. or adj.: in a careless and unplanned way; in a haphazard or spontaneous way; alteration of will I nill or will ye nill ye; first known use, 1608.

You could straight up use Willy Nilly as a punk rock stage name, or perhaps a porn appellation. Singer/songwriter/dancer/comic entertainer Rufus Thomas ("Do the Funky Chicken") used it as a title for a catchy R&B romp:

Helter-skelter -- adv.: in a confused and careless way; perhaps from Middle English, skelten, to come, go. First known use, 1593.

This one, of course, also has a music tie-in, but it's a bit more complicated than the other ones. Paul McCartney wrote "Helter Skelter," so the story goes, in an effort to pen the loudest, most un-ballad-like song he could muster. Released on the White album, the song relies on two definitions of "helter-skelter": the one I've indicated above, but also the British term for an amusement park slide ("When I get to the bottom I go back to the top of the slide").

Let's listen to it, shall we, in all its mania and dishevelment, before we discuss the darkness. Unfortunately, the Overlords of Beatles Central have evidently made sure that YouTube is void of any decent McCartney/Lennon version of this song, so you get this gamer's video featuring "Helter Skelter" as a soundtrack, and not the full song.

Helter Skelter from Dag@bert on Vimeo.

Charles Manson. Yes, we need to discuss the mastermind behind the Tate-LaBianca murders, in which seven people were killed in Los Angeles in the summer of 1969. Somehow, he interpreted the lyrics in "Helter Skelter" as a call to wage an apocalyptic race war.

"Helter Skelter is confusion. Confusion is coming down fast. If you don't see the confusion coming down fast, you can call it what you wish. It's not my conspiracy. It is not my music. I hear what it relates. It says 'Rise!' It says 'Kill!' Why blame it on me? I didn't write the music. I am not the person who projected it into your social consciousness."-- Charles Manson, November 1970 (I took this from The Beatles Bible web site)

Well, let's not waste any more time on that.

Did I forget any similar words? Let me know. Now pardon me while I go run amok.

Watching "Lou Grant" with My Dad

My dad passed away four weeks and a day after his 85th birthday. He would've been 86 today. He was a great man who donated time and/or money to countless organizations, from the YMCA to Springfield College, Simsbury ABC to soup kitchens in Hartford. He was a regular blood donor, helped coach my Little League team and was an officer for the retired men's organization in my hometown, Simsbury, CT.

He taught elementary school for 35 years, and after retiring at age 62, mentored and tutored students for many years. He also acted in countless plays over the course of his life. Through all of these activities, he received many honors and awards and various sorts of recognition. I was aware of all of these activities to some degree, but what I remember about him are the smaller moments.

In the fall of 1994, I moved back in to my parents' house for a few months, with my girlfriend (now wife), Beth. We had moved from Boston to Middletown, CT, in the fall of 1993 so Beth could complete a clerkship, after finishing law school. Our lease in Middletown ended in September of 1994, but she had a few more months of work to do before we made our planned move back to Boston.

Living with my parents was a bit strange -- when I moved to Dover, NH, in the summer of 1988 I didn't expect to be back for any reason other than visiting. But my parents are great people, and we all got along well. One of my fondest memories of this brief time comes to me just about every time I eat peanuts, one of my dad's favorite snacks.

I was working a temp job at Fleet Bank in East Hartford, CT. This was the only point in my life I used the bus to commute. One of my parents would pick me up at the stop, about a mile from their house. Beth drove herself to work and back, and worked later than I did, so I had time to kill each day before she got home.

My dad and I fell into a routine of watching "Lou Grant," a drama that was spun off from the incredibly popular sitcom, "The Mary Tyler Moore Show." I was never a huge "MTM" fan, but I did like Mary's boss, the grumpy Lou Grant, played by Ed Asner. "Lou Grant" ran from 1977 to 1982, but I didn't watch it then.

Thank God for syndication. The show was right up my alley: it starred Asner as a character I already liked, although he was more hard-nosed in this show than he was in "MTM." Grant is an editor for an L.A. newspaper; I worked for my college newspaper while earning a B.A. in journalism, and then for my hometown paper after.

My dad had been a fan of "MTM," I believe, so he was obviously into checking out "Lou Grant." The show dealt with weighty issues, ranging from nuclear proliferation to mental illness, capital punishment to chemical pollution (thanks, Wikipedia). My dad cared about societal issues such as these, so the show was right up his alley, too.

I liked Grant, and identified with the two reporters, Rossi (played by Robert Walden) and Billie (Linda Kelsey), and got a kick out of staff photographer, Animal (Daryl Anderson).

I have no great recollection of specific episodes. I suspect the show stands the test of time, as it won 13 Emmys and two Golden Globes, among other honors.

What stands out in my mind about the show is that it brought my dad and me together. We would discuss the issues, laugh here and there, and just hang out in my parents' rec room. I would often load up a plate with some peanuts, and cheese and crackers, and often my dad would offer me a beer in a frosted mug.

In my head we did this every day for the few months Beth and I lived there. I'm sure that's not true,

I miss my dad, and the simple pleasures of watching TV, snacking and drinking beer together. I think of him when I eat peanuts, or tell my kids a corny joke like, "What time do you go to the dentist? Tooth-hurty!" or steal food off one of my kid's plates.

Today I'm driving to Connecticut to meet my mother, sister and a few other family members for lunch. I'm looking forward to hitting the open road, where my mind can wander to so many good memories of my father. At lunch, I'm sure we'll share stories about my dad and have some laughs. I wonder if Ruby Tuesday offers a cheese, cracker and peanut appetizer, with a Piels in a frosted mug to wash it all down?

American Gypsies

I've become hooked on National Geographic Channel's "American Gypsies". Yes, it's a reality show, and yes it too often comes across as scripted and forced. But I like it because of the peek it offers behind the closed doors of a mysterious ethnicity.

Produced by Ralph Macchio, who isn't a gypsy (or Romany, as those in the culture prefer), the reality show is sometimes a bit over the top for me, but that just comes with the territory.

Here's a brief sample:

I gave Nat Geo's "American Hutterities" show a chance, but I found it too stilted and, well, not all that interesting. Both of these shows are part of what the network calls its American Outliers series.

"American Gypsies" fascinates me in some of the same ways that "The Sopranos" or Black Mass, the book about Whitey Bulger, the FBI and Boston's Irish mob, did. All three deal with the trials, tribulations, crimes, misdemeanors, passions, screw-ups of distinct ethnic groups.

As someone who has no real ethnic identity, I'm fascinated by the traditions of those with strong ties to their country of origin. On my father's side, I'm English, Irish, French Canadian and perhaps Native American. On my mother's side, German, Dutch and French.

But there's little from those cultures that obviously defines our family. No certain foods or traditions or religious practices. So I am easily consumed by TV shows, magazine articles, books and movies that put such cultural identities on display.

I've done a lot of genealogical work over the past 15 years or so, learning the names of my ancestors, and the places they lived and died. And while I have access to some old family photos, and a few artifacts (my late Uncle George's banjo, some copies of my great-uncle's Major League Baseball cards -- he played in the bigs!), I don't have family Bibles or stories of who my ancestors were and how they lived.

So when the folks on "American Gypsies" argue about how to stay true to their culture and their traditions, I'm fascinated. They keep their kids in separate schools, or home-school them. They work in psychic healing shops of their own. They try to interact with non-Romany (or gaje) as little as possible, except for the men, who often have extra-marital affairs with such women, according to the show.

When they toss Romany phrases into their accented English (they live in New York City), I eat it up. When the family gives a hard time to a young man in their brood who dates a non-Gypsy girl, I'm sucked in, wondering whether he can ever be happy if he's forced to marry a Roma.

While I'm enjoying learning about the culture and beliefs of the Romany, of course I'm pulling for Bobby, the second-oldest son of the Johns family. He's the one who bucks against the ingrained culture the most, wanting to honor his family's traditions and values, while embracing at least some American ways.

As he tells his father when the older man comes down hard on Bobby for allowing his daughters to take acting lessons, "It's time to adapt to the times, like every other culture has."

Of course, the Johns family has already adapted to reality TV, so is it such a big deal for them to move further into the American culture? Maybe their own sitcom? Or a "Sopranos"-like drama?