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Word of the Every So Often
aspergillum: (noun) (pronounced: ass-per-gil-lum) a device for sprinkling holy water. I always keep an aspergillum handy and loaded... just in case.
Everyday History
On November 15, 1956, Elvis Presley’s first movie, Love Me Tender, opened in New York City. It would be released to the rest of the world on the 21st. Elvis, of course, was already famous. His first single, “That’s Alright,” was released in 1954. Then, in 1955, he released his first big hit, “Heart Break Hotel,” and appeared on the Milton Berle Show, the Dorsey Brothers, and, of course, The Ed Sullivan Show.
Love Me Tender, for you lucky folks who have never seen it, is set in the aftermath of the Civil War when four brothers return from the war only to find that the youngest brother, played by Elvis, has married the oldest brother’s wife, thinking he’d died in the war. Not to spoil the end, if that is even possible, but it is the only one of two movies where Elvis dies in the end. I won’t tell you the other. You’ll have to watch them all to find out. Or just Google it.
Love Me Tender was not the movie’s original title, but when Elvis’ single became the firs record to become a million seller before it was even released, they wisely changed the name. It was also the only movie where Elvis did not receive top billing.
In all, Elvis made 31 movies, and I probably saw them all at the drive-in when I was a kid. My mother loved Elvis, and drive-in movies were cheap. But then, so were all of Elvis’ movies. Almost all of them were certifiably awful. The only Elvis movies that were critically acclaimed are King Creole (1958), Jailhouse Rock (1957), and Flaming Star (1960). And I’m willing to bet they have not done well over time. All the other Elvis movies were just an excuse to sell albums. Elvis personally thought Clambake (1967) was his worst, right up there with Harum Scarum (1965), and Stay Away, Joe (1968).
Truly, most of his movies are the same thing, silly musical comedies. Elvis, though, wanted to do serious stuff. Real drama. But his manager, Colonel Tom Parker, refused. After all, he had found a formula for pure profit. Why mess with a good thing? And here’s the thing. Every last Elvis movie, without exception, without an asterisk, was financially successful. That’s probably something no other major “star” can claim. But then, Elvis’ movies were incredibly cheap to make. Just watch one. I dare you. They weren’t spending money on dialogue or acting lessons. Or the sets. Or, really, anything, except maybe the hair. They were all low budget films made as quickly as possible. They put out 31 movies in 13 years. You do the math. And each movie came with a guaranteed soundtrack. After all, nobody really wanted to see Elvis act. They wanted to see him sing.
Elvis’ last movie was Change of Habit, which was released in 1969 and featured Mary Tyler Moore playing an undercover nun. Yeah. That’s probably all you need to know about that one. Then in December, 1968, what became known as Elvis’ Comeback Special was broadcast on NBC. Following that success, Elvis quit doing movies and moved his show to Las Vegas. Elvis had some truly great songs, like “Kentucky Rain,” “Suspicious Minds,” and “Viva Las Vegas” – just the song, not the movie. Watching any of Elvis’ movies is like visiting Graceland. You go there once so you never have to do it again.
Cartoon of the Week
“The point of it?! There is no bloody point of it! That’s what I’ve been telling you all along.”
Stuff
Black’s Beach
That was the night I was driving Duckworth’s Volkswagen. The one without brakes. Well, brakes that would work on the first try without being pumped.
“Oh, yeah. I forgot to tell you...” This after I’d blown through a red light.
I don’t know why I was driving Duck’s car. I don’t think I understood it then. It wasn’t like either of us had been drinking, or even had anything to smoke. That’s why we were trying to find Swartout’s apartment.
Mind you, had we stayed on the base we could’ve drank all we wanted at the Club. They didn’t care that we weren’t 21, as long as we had a military ID. But nobody drank on base. I mean, not when you didn’t have to. And there were never any women drinking at the Club. Not on a Tuesday night. Of course, there probably wouldn’t be any women at Swartout’s. But at least we’d get off the ship for a while.
There was always a party at Swartout’s. I’d been there maybe half a dozen times, and every time there was beer and weed and the stereo cranked. A party. But not tonight. When we got there the place was dark and quiet. If Swartout was there, he didn’t want us knocking on his door. So we left.
We were headed back to the base, since we couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. On the way back to the ship, that’s when we found Black’s Beach. We weren’t looking for it. It was just there. There was a sign. It announced that somewhere at the bottom of the hill, somewhere down there in the dark, was the only nude beach beach in that part of the world. Look it up. It was the first legal nude beach in all of America. And we had found it. There was nothing to it. We had to go.
Only there was no way to get there. No sane way. 300 feet down. Mind you, it wasn’t straight down. More of a steep incline. What is known as a “slide zone.” Once you start sliding, you’re probably not going to stop until you hit the bottom. It probably wouldn’t kill us, but we wouldn’t like it. So there in the dark we scaled down that hill, holding on to the scrubby groundcover the best we could, hoping our feet could find something more solid. Inch by inch, all the way to the bottom.
Dirty, scraped, and sore we finally were there. Where one guy – a dude – who had built a pathetic campfire was running around naked. Butt naked. Not a stitch. Happy as he could be.
“Hey guys!” he said, way too happily for a Tuesday night, “You ought to take your clothes off!”
“Why?” I wondered.
“Because we can!” And then as an afterthought, while holding his arms out to the night, “Ain’t it great?”
“Are you it?” Duck asked. “Are you the only one down here?”
“Yeah. Maybe. But others will show up. You did!”
And then with a “Whoop!” he ran toward the breaking waves. He didn’t get in, but he did a lot of splashing. And a lot of whooping. And he continued to “whoop” as he continued to splash around in that cold water on a cold evening. I mean, yeah, sure, it was Southern California, but it was nighttime... and January. And this guy’s running around naked.
So we decided to go. Before we did, we asked him how to get back to the top, and he showed us the stairway that was maybe 10 feet from were we had struggled all the way down that hill. I don’t remember having anything to say on the walk back up, or on the ride back to the base.
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