Book Review: “Blood on the Marias: The Baker Massacre”

book

(I just read the new book “Blood on the Marias: The Baker Massacre” and reviewed it on Amazon. It’s a tragic story, but I’m sharing my review here because, even at this late date, I think it’s important people know what happened on January 23, 1870)

***

It’s hard to fathom. But there was a time when the U.S. government actively engaged in ethnic cleansing.

And U.S. military and political leaders actually pondered the idea of genocide… on American soil.

American Indian history isn’t taught much in schools today. And it’s easy to understand why. Our treatment of the aboriginals of this country is a dark stain which may never be erased. And one of the most appalling chapters in this sad saga is the story of the Piegan Blackfeet of northwestern Montana. “Blood on the Marias” deals with that chapter.

Most Americans have heard of Little Bighorn, even if they don’t know the details. Colorful cavalryman George A. Custer had his last stand here. But few Americans know about Sand Creek, Washita, Ash Hollow, Bear River, and Wounded Knee, where innocent Cheyenne, Sioux, and Shoshone women and children were slaughtered in the name of Manifest Destiny. And only a precious few historians know of the Marias Massacre, also known as the Baker Massacre. There’s a reason why this abomination has been kept secret: as shocking as the above episodes are, the bloody encounter on the Marias River in 1870 is perhaps the most shocking of all.

Author Paul Wylie came upon this story by accident, while researching for a previous book. But he’s produced the first comprehensive analysis of the Baker Massacre, and his scholarly treatment is long overdue. It evidently took him years to pry details of this massacre from the iron vaults of the National Archives, and from army correspondence papers, personal letters, and obscure newspaper accounts. He frames his examination of the massacre – in truth, a “mass murder” – with a solid history of the Piegan Blackfeet, including their fascinating and fortuitous 1806 encounter with explorer Meriwether Lewis.

We also get the all-too-familiar perfect storm scenario that led to the attack: the inevitable broken treaties, murders (on both sides), settler and newspaper hysterics, and heinous practice of whiskey trading by unscrupulous frontier lowlifes. This all dovetailed with a U.S. Army run by commanders who were hardened by the Civil War, who had a penchant for glory-seeking, and whose brutality was informed by racism at best, and sociopathic tendencies at worst (Sheridan and Sherman receive full treatment here).

Without giving away too much, the Baker Massacre had several things which separated it from similar atrocities against Native Americans: first, the Piegan village that was attacked was, at the time, being ravaged by smallpox; second, most of the Piegan braves had gone hunting, leaving primarily women, children, and elderly; third, the attack occurred at dawn, in sub-zero temperatures, with minimal resistance from the villagers (only one soldier was killed, with a minimum 173 Indians killed, although probably many more); fourth, the commander and many of the troops were drunk; and fifth… it was the wrong village.

Wylie, a retired attorney, must have really struggled to restrain his emotions while writing this book. He slips into subjectivity only once, in his Preface, when he describes what happened to those villagers as being one of the saddest things he’s ever encountered. The rest of the book is entirely objective and buttressed by credible footnotes.

The Baker Massacre is, indeed, incredibly sad. It’s also one of the most shameful incidents in this nation’s history. It’s been kept under wraps because the army wanted it kept under wraps. If you’re a history teacher, please devote class time to the history of Plains Indians and the Baker Massacre. If you’re not a history teacher, but enjoy reading about history… strike a blow for truth and get a copy of this book.

Blackfoot_tipis

Blackfeet tipis, circa 1910.  Photograph by Arthur Rafton-Canning

I’ll Have One Hurricane, One Blonde, and Some Bob Marley, Please

marley

Now that it’s getting warmer, and my wife is threatening another cruise, I’m starting to once again smell coconut oil and think of palm trees and flaming sunsets.

And since I seem to have a soundtrack for everything in my life, I’m also smelling ganja, visioning natty dread, and hearing choppy reggae rhythms.

On our last cruise to the Caribbean, I brought along a book to flip through while sunning at the pool with the other overweight Caucasians. It was “The Encyclopedia of Reggae” by Mike Alleyne. The rebel inside me wanted to stir it up; to flaunt my rock credentials and prove that not every hedonist was reading “Fifty Shades of Grey” or “The Art of the Deal.”book

The only favorable comment I received on my reading material was from the English couple we met. Reggae music has always been very popular in England, and the woman was adamant about expressing her appreciation of Millie Small and her 1964 bubblegum reggae hit “My Boy Lollipop.”

Sweet. But I would’ve preferred a high-five from one of the Jamaican waiters toting trays of pink-orange hurricanes and Bahama mamas. Instead, all I got were shouts of “Sippy-sippy!” and “So nice!”

So many rivers to cross.

tropical drink2

Like a lot of folks my age, I discovered reggae music in the mid-1970s, when Bob Marley and the Wailers were riding high. I already knew the pop-reggae of Johnny Nash, and Eric Clapton’s version of “I Shot the Sheriff.” But the live version of “No Woman, No Cry” by the Wailers was the first pure reggae song I ever heard, on FM radio, while enduring hormonal changes at a boys boarding school outside Pittsburgh.

The song was a minor revelation. My roommate was slightly hipper, musically, and he gave me a 30-second crash course on reggae. Jah music, mon! I was intrigued.

Then in college I got to hear live reggae, which is the best way to hear it. I fondly remember one band in particular: I-Tal. They hailed from Cleveland, but they sounded like they’d blown in from the Government Yards in Trenchtown. The fact that they had a cute blonde percussionist may have added to my admiration.

I also started buying reggae records: Marley and the Wailers’ EXODUS and LIVE!, Peter Tosh’s LEGALIZE IT, Bunny Wailer’s BLACKHEART MAN, and Toots and the Maytals’ FUNKY KINGSTON. I think all of these were on legendary Island Records.funky kingston

There were other records I’d heard about through the grapevine, but they were very hard to obtain. Culture’s TWO SEVENS CLASH and Dr. Alimantado’s BEST DRESSED CHICKEN IN TOWN were two that I craved. Disappointingly, both were on small Jamaican labels and available via import only, so they were hard to get and cost a king’s ransom. Back then most of my expendable cash went toward records or beer. Usually beer. I have many regrets about that (the beer, that is).

All of the records I mentioned are highlighted in that reggae encyclopedia, by the way.

Reggae followed me after college, too. I remember playing a CD of Jimmy Cliff’s classic THE HARDER THEY COME in the car one day. My then-nine-year-old son Nick was in the back seat with his friend, Derek. Suddenly, a spate of Rastafari gibberish exploded from the speakers. toshNick and Derek broke out laughing and asked to hear it again and again. Next thing I knew, Nick was sporting a t-shirt of Bob Marley.

Kids do the darndest things.

As I’m writing this, I’m listening to Burning Spear’s anthemic album MARCUS GARVEY. So reggae must still be following me. In case you’re curious, though, I’m not Rastafari, and my messiah isn’t the Emperor Haile Selassie I. My messiah is actually John Quincy Adams.

And I don’t catch a fire with collie herb. Well… at least… not in a while.

But reggae music is still a soundtrack in my life. And if anyone has a clean, affordable, vinyl copy of BEST DRESSED CHICKEN IN TOWN let’s do business. I and I will seal deal with soul shake down party.

Mon, ‘twill be so nice !!

A Wrong Turn: The Haunting Disappearance of Inchworm

Trail leading to Winding Stair Gap2

On Monday morning, July 22, 2013, a woman named Geraldine Largay vanished while hiking the Appalachian Trail in southern Maine.

To this day, the details of her disappearance are a mystery.

Largay, whose trail nickname was “Inchworm” due to her slow hiking pace, was an intrepid 66-year-old grandmother from Tennessee.  She was also a veteran backpacker. She and a friend had started their hike at the AT halfway point at Harpers Ferry, WV.  But her friend had a family issue arise and had to bow out in New Hampshire.  She tried to talk Gerry into also quitting, but Largay insisted on continuing solo to the endpoint of Mt. Katahdin in eastern Maine. Her husband had driven their car and was periodically rendezvousing with her at road crossings.

The Maine section of the AT is known for having long stretches of isolated, rugged, and densely forested country.Print

On the night of July 22, Largay shared a lean-to just east of Saddleback Mountain with five other hikers. The following morning, one of them took her photograph. The photo shows a lean, muscular woman with a beaming smile almost as big as her backpack.

Largay was to meet her husband at a road crossing the next day. She was looking forward to a hearty meal and a soft bed. But she never arrived.

________________

After George Largay reported his wife missing late on July 24, the story spread like a brush fire. Hundreds of volunteers and search and rescue workers fanned out to search for her. The Largay family posted a large reward. But for over two years, there was no trace of Inchworm. Authorities were baffled. Although they publicly denied foul play, this was only because they had no tangible evidence. It was as if Largay had been swallowed by the earth.

Then, on October 14, 2015, an environmental impact researcher found human remains inside a tent in a thicket of woods near an overgrown logging road. The site was only a half mile from the AT. It was a hundred yards inside a restricted area of forest owned by the U.S. Navy. The navy uses this area for P.O.W. simulation training (and, according to the alternative Maine publication The Bollard, some of this training involves torture).

navy sign

(photo courtesy Hutch Brown and “The Bollard”)

Medical analysts eventually confirmed that… yes… the remains were that of Inchworm. Police say there was no evidence of crime (but after two years in the forest, how much evidence would there be!). Her death was officially ruled as “inanition.” It’s a rarely used term that means “a state of being empty.” Empty of food… or, perhaps, empty of will.

How could a woman totally disappear for over two years despite the largest manhunt in Maine history??

I ask this question because it makes no sense why Maine authorities could not rescue her in time, and her family should have to suffer so long without knowing anything. Their grief at her disappearance was bad enough without having a huge question mark hovering over it.

But I guess I’m also asking for selfish reasons. One is, I hate to admit it, morbid curiosity. But the other is that I plan to soon hike the White Mountains in New Hampshire, very close to where Inchworm disappeared. If (heaven forbid) something happens to me, I would want my family to immediately know the whys and the wherefores.   One of the appeals of solo hiking in the mountains is the challenge. Although not considered an “extreme” sport, there is an element of danger. But at the same time, I don’t want my family being interviewed by “Inside Edition.”

________________

Gerry Largay disappeared on a sunny day only three miles from the lean-to where she was last seen. The Maine Warden Service now believes she descended Poplar Ridge, crossed Orbeton Stream, then strayed from the main trail on either an old railroad road or logging path.

The AT guide that I own calls either the railroad road or logging path a “Woods road.”  It’s at the 1982.3 mile mark (northbound) on the AT.  The guide also has an instruction to follow this road a short distance east.  It’s not uncommon for the trail to coincide with a road like this.  But the Woods road soon veers north.  It’s possible Inchworm wasn’t paying attention, missed the sign to continue east on the AT, and followed the Woods road north a great distance.  Then when she realized there were no white diamonds painted on the trees, instead of backtracking she panicked and headed into the brush in hopes of a shortcut.  When a person does this in the unforgiving Maine woods, unless he or she is proficient with a compass, well…

The following day, Tuesday, July 23, it poured rain all day.

railroad road

Old railroad road that Inchworm may have mistakenly taken (photo courtesy Hutch Brown and “The Bollard”)

If it’s true Gerry got lost, God knows the terrors she experienced while awaiting the end. She undoubtedly heard the helicopters whirring overhead. Maybe she also heard distant bloodhounds. Hopefully her final hours were peaceful.

But there are many gnawing unknowns. The Appalachian Trail is well-marked, and Inchworm was an experienced hiker, having trod the southern half of the AT and most of the northern half.  If she chose the wrong trail at some point, why didn’t she backtrack?  Didn’t she have a GPS, or compass and map to use once she got lost? Why did she pitch her tent in such a thick, inaccessible patch of forest? Didn’t she have enough food and water to last for at least several days, more than enough time to relocate the main trail? Didn’t she have dry matches to create a smoke fire? Was she able to write a last message? Have authorities kept this under wraps? Why didn’t they gain permission to search the military grounds?

Another mystery: at the beginning of the investigation, police reported a strange phone call to the Stratton Motel, where George Largay was staying. The receptionist claimed an unidentified person called saying that Gerry was delayed and would be arriving late. This call came on Wednesday, when only her husband knew she was missing.

map

And there was a police report of a man leaving threatening messages in AT shelter logbooks in Wyman Township, directly adjacent to where Largay disappeared. The police report was dated July 6… only twelve days before Largay went missing.

But most annoying is why the Maine Warden Service was unable to locate her in time. Largay’s remains were only thirty yards from the logging path. It beggars the imagination why search parties weren’t instructed to flare out from this path.

Mysteries have intrigued us for centuries. But some mysteries are more unsettling than others. Such is the case with Inchworm’s disappearance.  From all accounts, she was a wonderful person.  What happened just makes no sense.

largay_site

Location of Gerry Largay’s final campsite. The white cross was placed by her family (photo courtesy Hutch Brown and “The Bollard”)

 

A Yellow Dream

Vincent_Willem_van_Gogh_041

 

(NOTE: This “short story” was inspired by a dream I recently had.  I usually stick with nonfiction, but the dream was so vivid that I had a crazy urge to be creative.  Constructive criticism is welcomed!)

The orange glow on the table next to me shows 4:21 a.m. Another night of twisting and turning.

What a weird dream. What was it all about? Thick, liquid, yellow gobs of paint on a shifting canvas.

Can I reconstruct my dream painting?

I’m standing on the side of a country road, out in the middle of what looks like a field of golden yarrow. A vehicle slowly pulls up alongside me. Not so much a car, though. It’s more like an old wooden stagecoach contraption. Maybe I’m in the Old West.

The door swings open. The events play out like a scene from “The Twilight Zone.” I expect to hear “Come inside, Mr. Kurtz, we have something for you.” I push aside a creaky wooden door and step inside.

Smells like cedar. Who’s the guy sitting there with the beat-up guitar? A wizened little gnome, he looks a bit like Willie Nelson. There’s a pretty song humming in my head. It’s a song that I’ve always liked, but I don’t know the title.

stagecoach

(Photo courtesy Grainne Rhuad, 2013)

“That’s always been one of my favorite songs of yours,” I blurt out.

I recall the subject matter: a torrid love affair, like something from an old, tangled, Scottish folk ballad. It concerns an intense relationship between a man and a woman. The end of the affair really messes up the man, and nearly kills him… or maybe does kill him, I can’t remember.

My impression – in the dream – was that the song was also a metaphor about living a full life. A life that has lots of experiences.

“Yeah,” the Willie Nelson-type guy responds with a crooked grin. “If that song doesn’t strike a chord, then you got a lifetime of empty floor plank under you.”

Empty floor plank.

He talks as if he hadn’t written the song, but that the song had only channeled through him. That he was just the song’s messenger.

Then I wake up. What startles me awake is his comment about the empty plank. I have a hollow feeling, like a vacuum has sucked out my guts. A feeling that, maybe, my own life so far has been nothing but an empty floor plank. I rub my eyes, then tell myself I have a full life, and a family that loves me. But the hollow feeling lingers.

Then I remember the melody of the song. It’s a tune called “The Old Laughing Lady” by singer-songwriter Neil Young. It’s a sleeper song off Young’s first sleeper solo album from way back in 1968.

The song melody starts with the sound of low, rolling thunder, then segues into a slow, jerky arrangement, a jingling keyboard, and a minor string accompaniment. There’s some acoustic guitar, but the guitar is more of an afterthought, as if Young is just toying with the strings. One middle section has a chorus of female moans that rise to a small crescendo, relax a little, then rise to a second crescendo, then abruptly halt.

It’s a strange musical arrangement. Perfect accompaniment to an equally strange dream.

The words of the song are intangible. As far as I know Young’s never elaborated on the song’s meaning, so maybe even he doesn’t know. I’ve always interpreted the song as being about obsession, or self-destruction, or even the grim reaper himself.

One of the verses goes like this:young_sleeve

Don’t call pretty Peggy, she can’t hear you no more
Don’t leave no message ’round her back door
They say the old laughing lady been here before
She don’t keep time, she don’t count score

Yellow lyrics for a yellow song.

At the end of the song, Young sings of “a rumbling in the bedroom and a flashing of light… There’s the old laughing lady, everything is alright.”

One last time, I sweep the bed sheets aside. Then I sit upright with my head dangling, and rub my eyes.

I start my daily routine. But the “old laughing lady” and the old stagecoach stay with me all day.

What else can I do but write it down?

 ***

(Painting at top “Wheat Field Under Clouded Sky” by Vincent Van Gogh, located in Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam.  Image in Public Domain)

(Cover painting of album “Neil Young” by Roland Diehl)

Rattling the Cage: George Wallace, John B. Anderson, and the Third Party

bloomberg

 

Ex-New York mayor and business tycoon Michael Bloomberg just cancelled his short-lived campaign to run as an independent candidate in the 2016 presidential election.

Bloomberg’s reason for bowing out was that a three-way race might have resulted in a stalemate in the Electoral College, in which case a Republican-dominated House of Representatives would have selected Donald Trump or Ted Cruz.

Bloomberg and Trump are both New Yorkers, and casual friends. But Bloomberg, a fiscal conservative and social liberal, was blunt in his fear of a possible Trump presidency, calling him both “divisive and demagogic.” He also cited Cruz’s “extreme” and “divisive” views on immigration.

(Thank you, Mr. Bloomberg).

After hearing the news, I drifted back in time to remember two notable “outsiders” who made noise in presidential elections.

_________________

George Wallace was a Southern Democrat and governor of Alabama for an astonishing 16 years at various times between 1963 and 1989.   He ran for the presidency in 1968 on the American Independent Party ticket.

Wallace was an unapologetic racist. His most famous quote was from his 1963 gubernatorial inaugural speech:

In the name of the greatest people that have ever trod this earth, I draw the line in the dust and toss the gauntlet before the feet of tyranny, and I say segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever!

In 1968, Wallace ran for president against Richard M. Nixon and Hubert Humphrey. He lost the election, but he’s the last third party candidate to get a state’s Electoral College votes (five states, all Southern).

George_C_Wallace_cropped

George Wallace

Some historians consider his contentious and polarizing politics, which have enormous appeal to many lower-income whites, to be the model for contemporary politicos like Trump and Sarah Palin.

In his final years, Wallace, a paraplegic after an assassination attempt in 1972, became a born-again Christian and moved away from his earlier harsh views on race. He apologized to civil rights leaders, and he appointed numerous blacks to various political offices.

John B. Anderson was a Republican Congressman from Illinois. Until 1980, he was little known outside his home state, conspicuous mainly for being a vocal critic of fellow Republican Richard M. Nixon during the Watergate scandal.

By 1980, though, Anderson was feeling alienation from fellow conservatives, who had disliked his opposition to the Vietnam War, and his more recent support of a grain embargo against the Soviet Union (other Republicans feared it would hurt their standing with U.S. farmers) . He decided to run in the Republican presidential primaries.

One early appearance in New Hampshire, in front of an NRA forum, brought Anderson favorable media attention. While other Republicans pandered to the pro-gun audience, Anderson talked about reducing handgun purchases by criminals through mandatory firearm licensing. He was booed offstage. But the event played to a national audience, and reporters portrayed him as a man of courage and integrity.

Anderson did well in the New England primaries, just barely coming in second in Massachusetts and Vermont. But he could not carry the later states, and his poll numbers started to decline. He declared himself an independent in the spring, running against President Jimmy Carter and eventual Republican nominee, Ronald Reagan.

John_Bayard_Anderson

John Anderson

Anderson’s intellect, candor, political moderation, and image as an outsider appealed to a broad cross-section of voters: Republicans less conservative than Reagan, Democrats disenchanted with Carter, independents, college students, activists, intellectuals, and celebrities. But the well-oiled Democratic and Republican machines proved too strong: Anderson won merely 7% of the vote on Election Day.

Despite this, Anderson is remembered as the first “reasonable” third-party presidential candidate, and one who challenged the notion that a candidate had to give his audience what they want. Anderson argued that Reagan’s proposal to combine tax cuts with defense spending, although popular, was a recipe for disaster. Carter refused to debate him, which, along with the ongoing Iran hostage crisis, rendered Carter a weak leader in the eyes of voters.

After the 1980 election, Anderson remained active in political foundations and third-party politics. Today, he’s 94 and a visiting university professor.

 _________________

Getting back to Michael Bloomberg… I don’t know a whole lot about him. But what little I’ve heard I like. It’s a shame he couldn’t have started his campaign earlier, and maybe run for one of the two major parties. Third party candidates are certainly interesting. But America has always been a two-party nation. Each party swims in wealth, and each also possesses a rich legacy, with loyal members passing their torch to children and grandchildren.

The Bloomberg-Trump scenario has continued a standard: Trump is criticized, reporters rush to get his reaction, Trump scowls then points to the fawning throngs that rally around him.  Then his poll numbers inch higher.

But – without mentioning names – such has been the case throughout history (and empires have also toppled). This hasn’t deterred Trump supporters. Maybe it’s the old Sam Cooke song lyric: “Don’t know much about history.”

Or, even more disturbing: maybe it’s because Americans just can’t resist a good song and dance man.

james cagney yankee doodle dandy.png

(Photo of Michael Bloomberg courtesy Metropolitan Transportation Authority / Patrick Cashen)

(Photos of George Wallace and John B. Anderson in Public Domain)

(Photo of Jimmy Cagney from Warner Brothers film “Yankee Doodle Dandy”)

When You Have to Shoot, SHOOT (Don’t Talk): The Revisionist Western

fonda

A man lies in a wooden bathtub filled with soap suds. His face is dotted with beard stubble and beads of sweat. There are pockmarks punched into his left cheek and a bloody gash above his right eyebrow. A leather, string necklace dangles from his neck. He licks his dirty finger then digs inside his ear.

Suddenly, the wooden, saloon-style doors swing open and a one-armed man brandishing a six-shooter bursts into the room.

“I been lookin’ for you for eight months,” he croaks. “Whenever I SHOULDA had a gun in my RIGHT hand, I thought of you. Now I find you exactly in the position that suits me. I had lotsa time to learn how to shoot with my LEFT.”

There’s the sound of a click, then four bursts of gunfire, as suds spray from the tub. The one-armed man spins back through the door, topples over a table, and lands on a broken bed. He groans and struggles to get upright. The bathtub guy rests his gun barrel on the swinging door, and fires one final shot.

In a gruff Mexican accent, he says “When you have to shoot, SHOOT. Don’t talk.”

The entire scene lasts almost two minutes. But only twenty seconds is dialog.

If you’re a fan of Clint Eastwood, you probably know this scene. It’s one of many memorable moments from the Sergio Leone-directed “Spaghetti Western” entitled “The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.” Although Eastwood’s the star, Eli Wallach (the Mexican in the bathtub, named “Tuco”) and bad guy Lee Van Cleef help make this film one of the great “revisionist” Westerns. Even if you’ve never seen it, you’re surely familiar with the title and the music, which are now part of popular culture.

eastwood_wallach

Clint Eastwood and Eli Wallach set the standard for “buddy” movies

It’s Oscar time again, and, surprisingly, two movies nominated this year for awards are Westerns (The Revenant and The Hateful Eight). It gives me an opportunity to talk about some of my favorite Westerns, with “The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly” at the top of the list.

One hears the term “revisionist” a lot, but it’s usually negative. Revisionist history often implies embellishing or altering historical fact to suit an agenda. But Revisionist Westerns were intended to bring more realism to a film genre, and (in my opinion) they improved the genre. Nothing against John Ford, John Wayne, or Gary Cooper, who made some of the most noteworthy Westerns in Tinseltown. But I prefer cowboys who have a little tobacco juice on their whiskers (if you know what I mean).

Before the 1960s, and dating to the silent film era of the 1920s, movie and television Westerns were extraordinarily popular, but very formulaic. With only a few exceptions, there were good guys and bad guys, and nothing in-between. The actors looked like they’d just stepped from the fitting room at J.C. Penny. The dialog was clean and predictable. Even the violence was clean, with maybe a spot of grey, at most, to reveal blood. If a good guy was shot, he always managed to take a few moments to gasp some poignant last words.

Women were limited to secondary roles as wives or sweethearts. American Indians were always portrayed by white actors, and they were always the evil aggressor. If Mexicans were depicted at all, they were generally lazy and subservient (a notable exception being in the Marlon Brando vehicle, Viva Zapata).

holden

William Holden in “The Wild Bunch”

But in the 1960s and early ‘70s, America went through many changes, and these changes affected how movies were made, including Westerns. Realism began to displace romanticism, and Westerns became more cynical and critical of the motives and actions of frontier lawmen, settlers, Christian missionaries, government agents, and the U.S. Army. Westerns reflected the times in which they were made.

In addition to theme and tone, style changed as well. European directors like Leone had a lot to do with this. I already devoted a whole blog post to Spaghetti Westerns (Spaghetti Western Feast), so I won’t reiterate here. But these foreign-made Revisionist Westerns greatly influenced Hollywood. They emphasized realistic cinematography, action and atmosphere over dialog, authentic costuming and makeup, and, for good or bad (or ugly)… a much harder edge to the violence.

And – finally – Hollywood woke up and began employing Native Americans, instead of Caucasians who wore wigs and brown skin cream.

I’ve once again blathered on far too long. Let’s get to the good stuff. As promised, here are my top ten favorite Westerns. All of them can be considered Revisionist Westerns:

10. THEY CALL ME TRINITY (1970): An unusual Spaghetti Western that spoofs the genre, it’s the first in a series of “Trinity” movies starring blond, blue-eyed Terence Hill. trinityHe plays a lazy, happy-go-lucky cowboy who teams with his brooding brother to protect a town of pacifist Mormons from a ruthless land baron. Lighthearted fare with lots of funny moments (including hilarious overdubs).

9. THE APPALOOSA (1966): Marlon Brando portrays a Mexican-American buffalo hunter trying to recapture a beloved, stolen horse. scorpionsI haven’t seen it in years, but I remember it as a minor gem with lots of atmosphere (it still hasn’t been released on DVD, for some dumb reason). A highlight is a great arm wrestling scene with live scorpions on the table. Unrelated to Appaloosa (2008) with Ed Harris.

8. WILL PENNY (1968): Charlton Heston called this his favorite film. He plays a loner cowboy whose mountain cabin has been “borrowed” by a young widow and her son. Beautiful scenery, with excellent supporting cast, especially bad guys Donald Pleasance and Bruce Dern. A little old-fashioned, but revisionist due to an unusual ending.

heston

7. THE WILD BUNCH (1969): This might be director Sam Peckinpah’s greatest film. wildbunchposeIt stars William Holden, Robert Ryan, Ernest Borgnine, and other great actors too numerous to list. The Old West is changing, and a team of aging outlaws go south of the border after one last heist. Raw, bawdy, THE WILD BUNCH makes John Ford Westerns look like chick flicks. “Let’s go!”

6. ONE-EYED JACKS (1961): one eyed jacksAnother Brando flick, this was his only directorial attempt and is maybe the first Revisionist Western. He plays Rio, a robber who is double-crossed by his older partner, Dad Longworth (Karl Malden), and who years later tracks him down. His plans to kill Dad are complicated when he falls in love with Dad’s virginal daughter. Rio’s nasty, but the audience sympathizes with his plight. Malden, who had appeared with Brando in both On the Waterfront and A Streetcar Named Desire, called him “a genius in our time” after this film.

5. ONCE UPON A TIME IN THE WEST (1968): This is an epic Spaghetti Western by Sergio Leone and stars Henry Fonda, Jason Robards, and Charles Bronson. Like THE WILD BUNCH, it concerns the encroachment of civilization (the railroad) on the Old West. bronsonFonda is chilling as the villain, Bronson is moody and mysterious, and Robards adds class. Claudia Cardinale plays a struggling widow, but she’s also sexy and independent. Her “rape” by Fonda is very unsettling.

4. HOMBRE (1967): Based on an early Elmore Leonard novel about a white man raised by Apaches, Paul Newman portrays the stoic and taciturn John Russell, who, reluctantly, has to protect a group of bigoted whites from a band of outlaws. One of the bigots is a corrupt Apache Indian agent (excellently played by the great Fredric March). After 40 years of vanilla Westerns, here’s one that honestly depicts racism against Indians.

hombre

3. JEREMIAH JOHNSON (1972): Beautifully shot in the mountains of Utah, with some of the most breathtaking cinematography of any Western, Robert Redford plays an alienated Mexican War veteran who disappears into the Rocky Mountains to become a trapper. crow indianHe meets an eccentric grizzly hunter, is forced into leading a group of pioneers through hostile Crow country, and soon has to defend himself from isolated attacks by Crow warriors. Atmospheric, with sparse dialog, it’s (literally) great escapism.

2. LITTLE BIG MAN (1970): little big manThis movie is perfect on every level. It’s tragic, funny, dramatic, has great acting (Chief Dan George was nominated for an Oscar), and it depicts Plains Indian cultural and spiritual life with sensitivity, humor, and truth. Richard Mulligan makes a more enjoyable Gen. George A. Custer than Custer himself. See this movie at least once before you die!

1. THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE UGLY (1966): Six reasons to watch this film: clintSergio Leone, Clint Eastwood, Eli Wallach, Lee Van Cleef, soundtrack composer Ennio Morricone, and the stark Andalusia landscape. What this movie lacks in substance it makes up in style. What else can I say?  Only that I’ve seen this movie well over a dozen times and I keep going back for more.

Whew! I apologize for not heeding Tuco’s advice, and talking too long. I guess my only excuse is that I love movies, particularly Westerns, and I also love lists. And I’d love to see your own lists, so please tell me your own favorites (revisionist or otherwise).

Until then, I wish you happy trails and beautiful sunsets!

andalusia

This Land is Your Land: Domestic Terrorism in Oregon

Anti-Government Protestors Occupy National Wildlife Refuge In Oregon

There’s been a lot in the news lately: a record blizzard in the eastern U.S.; President Obama’s controversial executive action on guns; Vladimir Putin’s reputed involvement in the assassination of a former Russian spy; the Middle East; the death of David Bowie; and the whacked 2016 presidential horserace, which the U.S. news continually obsesses over.

But there’s also an ongoing, “B-grade” story playing out in rural eastern Oregon at Malheur National Wildlife Refuge. Like a shy prairie dog, the story keeps poking its head out of its hole. On the surface, it doesn’t seem all that significant (thus far, nobody’s been killed). But it’s a tinderbox loaded with the stuff that makes many Americans salivate: domestic terrorism, the potential for violence, land rights, and (supposedly) the U.S. Constitution.

First, some background:

Theodore_Roosevelt_laughing

Teddy Roosevelt established the Malheur National Wildlife Refuge. Did he violate the U.S. Constitution?

The Malheur National Wildlife Refuge is a 293 square mile area located in Harney Basin in southeastern Oregon. It was created in 1908 by President Theodore Roosevelt to protect habitat for waterfowl and other migratory birds. For thousands of years, the land had been occupied by Northern Paiute Indians.

White settlers began farming and ranching this land in the late 19th century. In 1872, President Grant issued a presidential order that all Paiutes in southeastern Oregon be herded onto a reservation there. But the farmers and ranchers insisted the reservation boundaries be shrunk, and after the Bannock War of 1878, most Paiute were exiled to land in Washington State.

During the Great Depression, the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) built roads and buildings on the refuge. Over time, federal purchases increased the size of the refuge. Since 1935, cattle grazing has been allowed on portions of the land. But such grazing has potential for doing harm to sensitive wildlife, and for decades a low-grade tension has existed between cattle ranchers and wildlife managers.

In addition to providing a haven for 320 species of birds and 58 species of mammals, the Malheur National Wildlife Refuge also encompasses volcanic fields and geologic strata containing Pleistocene-era fossils.

Malheur_Wildlife_Refuge_(Harney_County,_Oregon_scenic_images)_(harDA0014)

The Malheur National Wildlife Refuge: a diverse habitat (photo courtesy Gary Halvorson, Oregon State Archives).

In 2013, a compromise was reached between the cattle ranchers and refuge managers, where limited grazing is allowed in certain areas that do not threaten wildlife.

Then came Ammon Bundy and a group of armed militants. On January 2, they seized the refuge headquarters at Burns, Oregon, to protest the sentences of two ranchers who were convicted of arson on public property in an attempt to hide their poaching activities. But Bundy and his sycophants have a higher calling:

We warn federal agencies, federal judges and all government officials that follow federal oppressive examples that the people are in unrest because of these types of actions.

fdr

Franklin Roosevelt established the CCC, which created jobs at the refuge. Did he violate the Constitution?

Bundy obviously likes – or doesn’t like – the word “federal.” He’s also used the word “Constitution” a number of times. But it’s unclear to what part of the Constitution he’s referring to at any given moment.

Bundy is the son of 67-year-old Nevadan Cliven Bundy, who made news in 2014 when he took up arms against the U.S. government over $1.1 million in unpaid grazing fees. Bundy Sr. became a hero to conservatives who are opposed to what they perceive as federal overreach (though, like frightened rabbits, many quickly scurried after he made a remark that “the Negro” may have been “better off as slaves, picking cotton…”).

Ammon Bundy is a Mormon, and occasionally invokes his religion to defend his militant actions: “I ask you now to come participate in this wonderful thing in Harney County that the Lord is about to accomplish.”

If the Lord is supposed to accomplish “this wonderful thing,” why do Bundy and his bunch feel the need to wrap themselves in artillery? Bundy’s Lord evidently approves of armed insurrection.

The Bundy occupation began three weeks ago and is ongoing. The initial protesters have been joined by other militant groups who are drawn to the spectacle like wolves tearing into red meat. The FBI has been reluctant to use force on the several dozen still remaining because it understandably doesn’t want outright violence, like that which occurred at Ruby Ridge (1992) and Waco (1993). But Oregon Governor Kate Brown, after initially keeping mum at the FBI’s behest, finally went public with a plea for an end to the occupation:

3% gunman

Have gun, will travel.

“The very fabric of the Burns community is being ripped apart by this occupation…the situation is absolutely intolerable.” Brown also plans to demand that feds reimburse the state of Oregon for the costs being incurred, which currently hover around a half million dollars.

The fact that the occupiers – and let’s be honest, they are domestic terrorists – have been allowed to come and go as they please, including making uninvited and unconcealed-carry appearances at a town meeting at the high school gymnasium… well, it’s surreal to the point of nausea. Kind of like “Twin Peaks”  meets “A Clockwork Orange.”

burns residents

Many Burns residents agree with the terrorists’ anti-government politics, if not their tactics. But they now want the feds to intervene and kick them out.

The confrontation in Oregon is an example of right-wing extremism gone awry. Angry, under-educated white males who are caught in the crevasses of a changing American demographic and its values, and who stubbornly cling to a warped idea of what constitutes “individual freedom” and invoke the Constitution (and sometimes God) to defend their often violent actions.

At its ugliest, it’s Timothy McVeigh. At its more genteel, it’s opportunistic politicians like Matt Shea (R-Wash), who sympathize with the militants and, over objections from local officials, actually meet with them.

Maybe we should just turn Harney Basin back over to the people who knew best how to manage it, and who did so for thousands of years without either wrecking the environment or once uttering the word “Constitution”: the Paiute Indians.

Recurvirostra_americana_-_Malheur_National_Wildlife_Refuge,_Oregon,_USA_-adult_and_chicks-8

American avocet and chicks at the refuge (photo courtesy Gary Halvorson, Oregon State Archives).

1966: A Very Good Musical Year

50 years

Louie-Louie

Listening to Spotify the other day, I landed on a band whose songs never fail to make me feel good: the Turtles. Remember them? Their No. 1 hit “Happy Together” is one of the most beloved anthems of the 1960s. Grade school lyrics, for sure, but absolutely luscious choral harmonies.

Years ago, when I began buying their records, I discovered the Turtles were not just a one-hit wonder. From 1965 to 1970 (in addition to their biggest song) they strung together a glittering necklace of golden tunes: “It Ain’t Me, Babe,” “Let Me Be,” “You Baby,” “She’d Rather Be With Me,” “She’s My Girl,” “Can I Get to Know You Better,” “Outside Chance,” “Is It Any Wonder,” “You Showed Me,” “Lady-O,” and many others.

The Turtles even recorded a version of the Kingston Trio’s “It Was a Very Good Year” that Frank Sinatra heard. He loved it so much did his own version… in inimitable Sinatra style, of course.

turtles

The Turtles in 1966. L-R: Al Nichol, Chuck Portz, Howard Kaylan, Jim Tucker, Mark Volman, Don Murray.

The Turtles were one of the few groups able to combine the best genres of ‘60s pop music – British Invasion, folk-rock, baroque pop, and flower power – and they did it with a warm, southern California smile. They flirted with weighty themes during their five-year existence, but they never took themselves too seriously. For me, the Turtles typified the sunny side of the ‘60s. And the sun was never brighter than in the year 1966.

It was a very peculiar and particular time in American history, when the music was ruling the world.

– Howard Kaylan, lead singer of the Turtles

Fifty years ago was a transitional time in popular music. The rock songs of 1966 bridged the folk, garage, and surf rock of the early ‘60s with the hard rock that came later on. It was also still an innocent time. The pied piper of the era – the Beatles – were still writing love songs and had only recently started experimenting with more exotic arrangements, instruments, and lyrics, like in “Rain,” “Norwegian Wood” and “Eleanor Rigby.” They’d also taken the hallucinogen LSD (at least, John and George had). But they’d yet to alter minds with their psychedelic masterwork, the LP “Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” (which arrived the following year).

barbarians

The Barbarians, with hook-handed drummer Moulty, had a minor hit with “Are You a Boy or Are You a Girl?” This was a crucial question in 1966.

On the radio, AM was still king in 1966. And AM radio played singles (45 rpm records), not album cuts. So the songs had to be brief but catchy. This format required artists to squeeze in their ideas in under three minutes. At minimum, you needed a verse, chorus, and bridge. Lyrics didn’t matter, but you had to have a catchy melody. Harmonica might provide a slight blues or folk feel, and guitars had to ring and chime. In 1966, most bands copped either the cheery, up-tempo Beatles or the bad-boy Rolling Stones. Some of the more adventurous tried covering Dylan (other than the Byrds, these attempts usually failed).

But the icing on the cake was multi-part vocal harmony. Great harmonies separated the men from the boys. They transformed modest two-and-a-half minute melodies into miniature symphonies. Not surprisingly, the best harmonizers had a big year in 1966: the Beatles, Mamas and Papas, Turtles, Beach Boys, Byrds, Hollies, Association, and anything Motown.

Also, in 1966 you didn’t have to be a virtuoso or author your own songs to ride the carousel of success. The Turtles used crack outside songwriters for most of their singles. Many of the biggest hits of ’66 were by teens who’d only recently purchased their first guitar. Tommy James was only 16 when he and the Shondells recorded the smash “Hanky Panky,” which went No. 1 in ’66. The members of the band Question Mark and the Mysterians, who had a No. 1 with the organ-driven “96 Tears,” had parents who were migrant farmers.

leaves

The Leaves were the first of many groups to record the song “Hey Joe.” Leader Jim Pons is in the middle.

One of my favorite rock ’n’ roll rags-to-riches stories involves Jim Pons of the Leaves. Pons had never touched an instrument. But he formed a band to entertain his college fraternity brothers.

In ’66, the Leaves recorded the very first version of the four-chord song “Hey Joe.” It became a surprise hit in Los Angeles. Pons was then asked to join the Turtles on bass, right when “Happy Together” was riding the charts. When the Turtles disbanded, he joined Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention, touring the world and appearing in Zappa’s film “200 Motels.” He parlayed his film experience into a job as video director for the New York Jets football team, which lasted till his retirement over 20 years later.

And it all started with an itch to play “Louie Louie” at frat parties!

Won’t you tell your dad get off my back / Tell him what we said ‘bout ‘Paint it Black.’

– from the song “Thirteen” by Big Star

Looking at the year-end Billboard chart reveals that rock artists weren’t the only players in 1966. Soul music (the Supremes, Miracles), crooners (Sinatra, Jack Jones), and even novelty songs (“Winchester Cathedral”) were also represented. This diversity of styles was good, since the local swimming club didn’t have to change the radio dial to appease both parents and kids. Chuck and Susie could dig the Kinks, Standells, or Monkees while slurping their ice cream, and Mom and Dad could sneak sips of gin while humming Sergio Mendes and the Brasil ’66.

But this heterogeneous programming could also be frustrating. Imagine hearing a Four Tops song one minute, then a few minutes later the year’s No. 1 hit, the jingoistic “The Ballad of the Green Berets,” sung by an army sergeant. No wonder people rioted in Detroit!

the-hollies-bus-stop-odeon

The Hollies were from Manchester, England. They broke the U.S. Top 10 in ’66 with “Bus Stop.” Graham Nash, top right, later teamed with David Crosby and Stephen Stills.

Things changed in 1967, after another sergeant came along (Sgt. Pepper). Then came large, outdoor rock concerts, spearheaded by the Monterey Pop Festival. Albums replaced 45s as the medium of choice, rock lyrics became deeper and darker, the Vietnam War crept into songs, and free-form FM radio – pioneered by an underground rock DJ in San Francisco named Tom Donahue – began compartmentalizing musical genres. Rock was finally able to rid itself of the likes of Frank, Jack, Sergio, and Sgt. Sadler.

Also, hard drugs entered the picture, which had a profound effect on the musicians and their music. The chiming guitars were becoming distorted.

In 1966, though, Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix, and Janis Joplin were little known outside L.A., London, and Haight-Ashbury. Drug use was generally limited to a little pot or “a couple ‘o quarts ‘o beer” in Joe’s garage. And kids were still learning the chords to “Louie Louie.”

We were happy together, and it was a very good year.

harrison

Waiting for Dr. Godot

clip art

I received the phone call at work. It was a notification from my mom’s Life Alert system. She was at the hospital. I later learned she’d experienced a sudden and intense tightening in her chest. The EMTs had whisked her to the hospital emergency room.

Fortunately, it wasn’t a heart attack. It was “aortic stenosis,” and Mom needed a TAVR (Transcatheter Aortic Valve Replacement). She’s now safe at home, on the path to recovery. But her ordeal brought me face to face with two 21st century medical phenomenons. First, doctors and hospitals these days are “fantastic.” And second – like the mysterious title character in Samuel Beckett’s “Waiting for Godot” – your doctor may not even exist.

_____________

When Mom arrived at Med-Central, she met with Dr. Ahmed. He explained that she probably had aortic stenosis, a narrowing of her aortic valve. But before he could replace the valve, he needed to verify by doing a cardiac catheterization.

infusionWe looked up Dr. Ahmed on the internet. Wow… fantastic reviews! And even better, Betsy Babcock, Mom’s bridge partner who “knows everything,” verified that Ahmed was, indeed, “fantastic.” Nothing to worry about.

So it was a shock when I learned that the catheterization was done by Dr. Evans.

“Dr. Evans is on the same team as Ahmed,” explained Mom. I looked up Evans on the internet. Wow… no reviews.

But the catheterization did show that Mom had aortic stenosis, and a TAVR was scheduled. “They’re going to do the TAVR at Rivercliff Hospital in Columbus, not Med-Central,” she said. “Dr. Evans said that the surgeon will be Dr. Rabokov.” I asked her why Dr. Evans wasn’t going to do it at Med-Central, but she didn’t know.

Betsy Babcock lit up when we mentioned Dr. Rabokov’s name. “Oh, he’s fantastic! His team did Bob’s TAVR!” This made me feel a lot better.

Then my wife, an Ohio State graduate, offered her two cents. “It’s a shame she can’t have it done at Ohio State Med Center. They did fantastic things for my dad.”

I hesitatingly looked up Rivercliff Hospital on the internet. Wow, fantastic reviews!

“Look at this, Buckeye nut,” I countered. “Fantastic reviews for Rivercliff.”rod and snake

“That’s fantastic!” said my wife. “Yeah, they’re probably just as good as Ohio State.”

We arrived at Rivercliff for testing and initial consultation. We looked forward to meeting with Dr. Rabokov afterwards.

But the nurse said that Rabokov was in surgery. Instead, Dr. Wilson would be meeting with us.

“Who’s he?” I asked.

“Oh, he’s on the same team as Dr. Rabokov,” she explained. “Don’t worry, though, he’s fantastic!”

After the testing was finished, Dr. Wilson met us in the waiting room. He seemed very knowledgeable. Mom later asked Betsy Babcock about Wilson.

“Don’t know him,” she said. Uh-oh.

I didn’t look up Dr. Wilson on the internet. I figured since he was on the same team as the “fantastic” Rabokov, then he was fantastic, too.

When surgery time approached, my brother drove Mom to her preliminaries and blood work. Dr. Rabokov was in surgery all day, so they met with the Rivercliff nurses instead. Mom has nothing to worry about, they said. Rabokov’s team is the best there is for TAVRs.

The operation itself lasted just a couple hours (it’s hard to believe how far we’ve progressed with cardiac surgery. They’re becoming so smooth, and routine, it’s unbelievable).

doctorAlso unbelievable was the guy who came out to meet us in the post-surgery consultation room. It wasn’t Rabokov. It was a Dr. Vasquez. And he looked like he was 17 years old. He was so young-looking, a couple times I almost called him “dude.”

Dr. Vasquez said the surgery went fine. I wanted to ask him if Dr. Rabokov was guiding his training. But I held off.

While Mom was in recovery, I noticed a line of portraits on the wall. They were all Rivercliff cardiac doctors. Wilson was front and center. His academic and training credentials were boldly displayed. There was no portrait of Rabokov.  I didn’t see Vasquez, either, but I assumed he was still in medical school when the photos were taken. Or perhaps grammar school.

The nurses said that Dr. Rabokov would be making rounds the next morning, and I could then ask questions about things like pacemakers and day of release. But the following morning, when I asked how soon Rabokov would arrive, the RN said “Who? Ahh. Well, Dr. Rabokov’s in surgery. Dr. Vasquez will be here, though.”

I finally realized that there is no Dr. Rabokov. Like the Wizard of Oz, he’s a mythical creature, a chimera composed of pieces of all the cardiac M.D.s associated with the hospital, and intended to dazzle us plebeians with his brilliance.

I figured that Messrs. Ahmed, Evans, Wilson, and Vasquez had cooked up Rabokov over a few martinis at the country club. The periodic intercom announcements of “Dr. Rabokov to recovery, Dr. Rabokov to recovery” were designed to keep the patients in suspense, and to provide entertainment for the overworked nursing staff.

Rabokov was also a convenient foil. If anything went wrong during surgery, the staff could always blame fictitious Rabokov.

Yep, Dr. Rabokov was, indeed, “fantastic.”

_____________

NOTE: the names in this story have been changed to protect the innocent, and also to protect me.

heart

Nerdspeak and the Word “So”… What??

words

I’m driving home and listening to my favorite radio station. Here’s how the radio conversation goes:

Interviewer: Can you tell us the current state of affairs in Syria?

Guest: So what we’re seeing is people now returning to Syria. One of the factors is because…

Interviewer: Have you been talking with those that have fled Jordan?

Guest: So they tell me they moved back into houses due to fear. If you have no choice…

Interviewer: What’s to account for the funding shortfall, where refugees can’t get enough food?

Guest: So it’s a political problem with humanitarian solutions, and…

___________

Maybe you’ve noticed it too: people putting the conjunction “So” at the beginning of their sentences. It happens during interviews, and occasionally in prose writing. “So I was in the store yesterday, and…”

The first time I heard it, I said to myself “How rude.” It sounds like the person being interviewed wants to bypass the question being posed. Instead, they continue an earlier thought. To me, it seems like an utter lack of courtesy. Maybe it is.

Although most common with young adults, this phenomenon also affects older folks. According to Business Insider magazine, it has its roots in Silicon Valley. In 2014, Facebook CEO Mark Zuckerberg dropped the “So” bomb four times in a row while sitting for an interview.

Facebook CEO Mark Zuckerberg

Facebook CEO Mark Zuckerberg

So… it’s not enough that Facebook wants to dig into our personal lives. Silicon Valley has also affected the way we communicate. Talk about Revenge of the Nerds.

Maybe the techies in Silicon Valley have their own nerdspeak, and this odd syntax is only now seeping into “normal” society. Maybe their world is so cluttered with numbers, symbols, and acronyms that correct syntax can’t find room.

I have nothing against nerds. As an adolescent, I was probably one myself (and with this essay, maybe I’ve returned to being one). But their language sometimes reminds me of the robotic “duckspeak” of George Orwell’s “1984,” where nouns are linked with verbs to create a machine-like, Big Brother-approved vocabulary. In the business world, one hears the word “leverage” all the time. Isn’t there a less pretentious and less vague word than “leverage?”  Or is the idea to be pretentious and vague??

In nerdspeak, though, it’s not about Big Brother. It’s about consciously or sub-consciously conforming to sub-cultural fad. Kind of like attending prep school and feeling the urge to wear corduroy and Docksides.

I can handle fad in small doses. But lately I’ve been hearing the So-fad everywhere. On radio, television, and even during an interview with a supposed English language scholar.

Interviewer: Can a dangling participle be used as an adjunct without modifying the noun?

Supposed English Scholar: So the dangling participle is intended to…

Gosh and golly.

One would expect a grammar egghead to know that the conjunction “So” is frowned on at the beginning of a sentence. It’s like starting a sentence with “But” (something I admittedly do all the time). When “So” is used as a conjunction, it should arrive in the middle of a sentence, since it follows a statement and introduces a consequence (“The NPR interview made no sense, so I turned off the radio.”). But it’s even more irritating when “So” is used, not only at the beginning of a sentence, but also at the beginning of an entirely new thought.

In addition to being used as a conjunction, the word “So” can also be an adverb, as in “That egghead is SO wrong,” or “Zuckerberg is SO nerdy.” These uses of “So” are acceptable.

___________

I’m tempted to call the radio station every time I hear one of these So-people abusing English syntax. But I know how the conversation will go:

Me: Why do you always start your response with the word “So”?

So-person: So what’s wrong with that?

Me: It’s not proper English. It’s almost as bad as pronouncing “ask” as “axe.” You’re chopping up the English language.

So-person: So sue me, ok??!!

It’s a losing battle.  Quack-quack.

duck5