From Keillorville

My recent exploration of the poetry of M.A. Jenene made me recall that in 2016, I made four poems from a week’s worth of poems from Garrison Keillor’s The Writer’s Almanac : “Poem,” “Last Words,” “Upside Down,” and “Forecast.”

That radio show did feature some fine poems — you might recognize a line from William Wordsworth in “Poem.” But as I wrote in 2016,

an anecdotal sameness sets in rather quickly. Keillor’s reading voice adds an extra element of sameness, covering everything in dreary piety. Everyone sounds alike, or at least like cousins.

That dreary piety makes Keillor’s comment about the difference between the radio audience and the audience at a poetry reading even more baffling.

Ex-Lax in the news

““It’s my understanding they do have a non-detect level of Ex-Lax in them, but I figured since we’re OK with a non-detect level of PFAS, it would probably be OK”: “Laxative-laced brownies rattle Nantucket School Committee meeting” (The Boston Globe ).

Ex-Lax/Cosmetics/Luncheon

[100-02 Queens Boulevard, Forest Hills, Queens, c. 1939–1941. From the NYC Municipal Archives Collections. Click for a much larger view.]

These Queens storefronts seem (emphasis seem ) to me ahead of their time in their uniform understated signage. The rooftop railings suggest that this partial block was built as a single real-estate effort. From left to right: a luncheonette, Helen’s Beauty Salon (“Under New Management”), a bakery (“Store to Lease”), and a pharmacy/luncheonette, the kind of establishment that Nabokov writes of in Bend Sinister :“one of those fabulous corner stores that have face creams on one side and ice creams on the other.” As well as Mother’s Day cards and what look like Whitman’s Samplers. My guess is that a billboard (notice the lights) fills in the blank area that follows: the tax photographs show no there there.

The name Ex-Lax (“The Ideal Laxative”) seems to have once been present on every drugstore’s window(s). And now this storefront makes me wonder: were earlier generations of Americans constantly taking laxatives? The answer appears to be yes: James Whorton, a professor of medical history and ethics at the University of Washington, calls the first four decades of the twentieth century the “golden age of constipation.” Louis Armstrong was not alone in his devotion to laxative consumption.

But the triad Ex-Lax/Cosmetics/Luncheon seems off to me. Cosmetics first, before you go out to eat; Ex-Lax afterwards, no?

Google Maps shows an enormous CVS that appears to fill the space once occupied by these four establishments. But no Ex-Lax signage.

I would like to think that the WPA photographers placed that MEN WORKING next to their address sign.

[“Children actually enjoy taking Ex-Lax.” Life , March 22, 1937. Click for a larger view.]

Related posts
More photographs from the NYC Municipal Archives (Pinboard)

“Semi-free”

The current occupant has observed that those who cannot afford tickets to the NBA Finals can avail themselves of television: “It’s sort of semi-free to watch it on television.”

“Semi-free” is also an apt description of the so-called “illiberal democracy” promulgated by one of the occupant’s role models, the recently defeated Hungarian autocrat Viktor Orbán.

Today’s Saturday Stumper

Today’s Newsday  Saturday Stumper, by Stan Newman, the puzzle’s editor, is not my favorite kind of Stumper. Too much fact, too much trivia. The toughest part for me: the upper right corner, where 18-A, four letters, “Belgian-based imaging giant” and 32-A, three letters, “Reduced number” left me baffled. I turned to an online version of the puzzle to try letters until I found the ones that fit.

Some clue-and-answer pairs of note:

9-D, three letters, “He’s had 40+ jobs since the ’60s (surfer, boxer, barista,...).” Yes, him.

17-A, ten letters, “ ‘This Land Is Your Land’ to ‘God Bless America.’”  I think I should have known.

21-A, six letters, “Foreign Legion wear.” What’s the name for those hats? Never mind; it doesn’t matter.

22-A, seven letters, “Type of terrarium.” Amusing, at least if you’re outside the terrarium.

26-D, four letters, “Eight-time Burton collaborator.” But which Burton?

28-A, five letters, “Seat’s proof of purchase.” Pretty obscure.

30-A, five letters, “First synthetic detergent (still widely sold).” I guessed correctly, but still pretty obscure.

40-D, eight letters, “Whom Khrushchev’s son-in-law wrote for.” I knew the answer because I know the word, but to my mind, it’s a ridiculous clue, and it did a lot to spoil my enjoyment of the puzzle. Too much fact, too much trivia.

56-A, four letters, “Collector’s item.” A bit of a stretch, but okay.

65-D, three letters, “Coverage from Calvin Klein.” I caught on.

My favorite in this puzzle: 67-A, ten letters, “Sort of a small saw.” Because it reminds me of younger days.

No spoilers; the answers are in the comments.

“The presence of a mechanical medium”

Paduk is the dictator of an unnamed Eastern European country. He leads the Ekwilist Party, the Party of the Average Man. Paduk’s father, an inventor, was the creator of the padograph.

Vladimir Nabokov, Bend Sinister (1947).

A mechanical device that reproduces personality: Nabokov was eerily prescient here.

Related reading
All OCA Nabokov posts (Pinboard)

Morley’s ghost

In The Guardian , Sarah Safer, daughter of Morley Safer, writes about the destruction of a television show :

My dad wasn’t sure about an afterlife and neither am I, but after the decimation of 60 Minutes, I like to imagine that he is still hanging around. To his colleagues’ dismay, he was famous for flouting the rules around smoking. If anyone at CBS News smells smoke in an edit room, or another place they shouldn’t, my dad is surely haunting it, encouraging those who carry on his legacy and, let’s hope, making trouble for the brass.

Bari Weiss and Nick Bilton are hereby on notice that our household has removed CBS from our televison universe.

A related post
Oh, that guy

No Soup

[From Big City (dir. Frank Borzage, 1937). Click for a larger view.]

The signage is one odd bit in a movie filled with odd bits. Talk about odd: what follows this scene is the cabbie drinking that entire bottle of milk. Why? Because someone thought it funny.

Is “No Soup Served During Radio Concerts” a joke about the pretensions of this lunch stand’s proprietor? Because slurps, like coughs and the crackling of candy wrappers, would interfere with the appreciation of good music? Or perhaps the words are a joke on “No soap, radio.” But that anti-joke didn’t become well-known until the 1950s. I tried to figure this one out, but — that’s right, no soap.

Spontaneous generation

Vladimir Nabokov, Bend Sinister (1947).

Related reading
All OCA Nabokov posts (Pinboard) : On paper clips (An informal essay) : Paper clips (A prose poem)

Orange kiddo list

[Click for a larger list.]

This list, the work of a six-year-old, joins the list of supplies for an imaginary camping trip that my daughter Rachel made at the age of six or seven, many years ago. Two generations of youthful lists on Orange Crate Art.

Related reading
All OCA list posts (Pinboard)