#walt fowler

[jt1674]

[spilladabalia]

Frank Zappa Jezebel Boy

[postcardaday]

Cruising the River of America

The Majestic Admiral Joe Fowler, an authentic steam-powered sternwheeler, sets sail from Liberty Square on a scenic cruise of the frontier "Rivers of America".

[doormousewhispers]

the Admiral Joe Fowler, served from October 2, 1971, through fall 1980 when it was destroyed in a dry dock accident.

[widowshill]

dark shadows characters as 70's magic kingdom attractions

roger collins: grand prix raceway. (October 1, 1971)

elizabeth collins-stoddard: cinderella's golden carrousel. (October 1, 1971)

burke devlin: pirates of the caribbean. (December 15, 1973)

david collins: tom sawyer's island. (May 20, 1973)

victoria winters: walt disney world railroad. (October 1, 1971)

carolyn stoddard: mad tea party. (October 1, 1971)

barnabas collins: snow white’s scary adventures. (October 1, 1971)

joe haskell: mike fink keel boats. (October 1, 1971)

bill malloy: 20,000 leagues under the sea. (October 14, 1971)

maggie evans: admiral joe fowler riverboat. (October 2, 1971)

pansy faye: the diamond horseshoe saloon revue. (October 1, 1971)

quentin collins: mr. toad's wild ride. (October 1, 1971)

joshua collins: the hall of presidents. (October 1, 1971)

josette dupres collins: swan boats. (May 20, 1973)

and of course. collinwood: the haunted mansion. (October 1, 1971)

[buckets-and-trees]

Game: match the character with the trope & give a little explanation why you paired them/how you would go about writing that type of fic 🩷

Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers, Ransom Drysdale, Ari Levinson & Nick Fowler

Forced proximity, forbidden love, fake dating, hidden identity & arranged marriage

Okay, this was fun, Em! And at least this time I didn't get TOO carried away...

ARI LEVINSON - FORCED PROXIMITY - I don't know... maybe this 2500-imagine-ish pitch that spilled out of my fingers this weekend? Hahaha

BUCKY BARNES - HIDDEN IDENTITY - I think this could happen over many different period of Bucky's life, but I'm especially interested in Bucky on the run after Winter Soldier and before Civil War. I love reading fics that take place during this time, and I've got a fic that I started and need to go back to (and maybe rewrite so I can complete it) that would be him hiding for short periods of time in cabins/rentals/vacation homes as he makes his way out of the DC Metro area those first months after CA:WS and while he's crashed at one particular place, Reader shows up, and they spend a few days or maybe a week together before moving on to the next place (and the next and the next until he eventually ends up in Romania).

RANSOM DRYSDALE - FAKE DATING - When a petition citing some extenuating circumstances/technicalities/the manner in which his confession was coerced/etc, a judge is willing to review it due to Ransom's good behavior (read: MONEY) while he's been serving time, and he gets him out of jail. You are immediately hired to be his Cinderella-image of a girlfriend so he can become the public's wronged and misunderstood Prince Charming because Linda won't have any more bad press - it's affecting all of the family businesses. Why are you willing to take the deal? You came up in an initial pool of suitable eligible females in the local area and it just so happens that one of the editor's at Harlan's publishing house (still overseen by Walt) has been considering one of your novels for publication, and this presents an opportunity for them to sweeten a proposal for this PR relationship by offering you a six-novel publishing deal as long as you maintain the relationship with Ransom for at least 18 months.

NICK FOWLER - FORBIDDEN LOVE - You're a detective working for Interpol. You know the trouble he's caused. Even though he was able to cover up his deeds initially with the CIA, once the Chinese/MSS took him into custody, it all came out. But he's managed to escape. He's managed to find his way to Romania, which is where you just so happen to be stationed now. You worked a case closely with him six years ago in Portugal, and...though you both kept it professional, his charm was undeniable. He had no idea you were in Romania, but he's not mad about that in the slightest now that he's spotted you. He could have some fun with this. Are you ready to play with fire?

STEVE ROGERS - ARRANGED MARRIAGE - In a Steve Stays scenario, if he's going to refuse to be Cap, he's being lobbied to still use his influence and power to help bring some order to this post-Blip society. He went tried to retreat and fade into the background, but things are escalating, and Pepper - who had also tried to stay in the background - is concerned that there are things happening maybe because of their inaction. She's got an idea. She wants to get Steve into political office, and she's going to appeal to his sense of duty (which she can do because it's the guilt she's also feeling). He'll agree because he trusts her judgement. For the best image, he's going to need a wife - this is a harder sell, but - again - he trusts Pepper Potts, he doesn't even need to vet the candidates, because if he's all in on this idea, he'll be all in, and he knows Pepper will pick someone who will fit the bill as his suitable trophy wife. You.

would... well would anyone be interested in any of these if I thought about actually writing them?

[projazznet]

Steve Gadd Band – Steve Gadd Band

Steve Gadd Band is the eponymous follow up album to the 2016 Grammy-nominated ‘Way Back Home’. Contains mostly original, groove-oriented tracks written by the band and produced by the legendary drummer, Steve Gadd. Steve Gadd Band is Walt Fowler (trumpet/flugelhorn), Kevin Hays (keyboard), Jimmy Johnson (bass), Michael Landau (guitar) and of course, Steve Gadd (drums).

[somethingvinyl]

Roxy & Elsewhere is the first live album by this iteration of the Mothers, but of course the distinction between live albums and studio ones is considerably more porous when it comes to Zappa. This is another of my absolute favorite FZ records. Each side starts with Frank talking for a bit, then launches into some of the most amazing, batshit crazy music he ever recorded. The lyrics are more absurdist fun—monster movies in Cheepnis, a disgusting bus in Pygmy Twylyte (often the song I reach for to show an uninitiated listener what Zappa is like), nostalgia in Village of the Sun, and the obvious in Penguin in Bondage. But it’s the instrumentals that are the star of the show on this one. We’ve got the vital core group: George Duke, Ruth Underwood, Tom Fowler on bass, the double attack of Chester Thompson and Ralph Humphrey on drums. (As if that isn’t enough, on some later-released tracks from these shows, Zappa goes and plays percussion in the back for a stretch, meaning four percussionists playing at a time—he was best when writing for percussion!) For extra flavor, you’ve got more Fowler brothers on horns, and the incredible Napoleon Murphy Brock on lead vocals and woodwinds. Truly the best of Zappa’s lineups.

The “Roxy” portion of the album is from the band’s December 1973 residency at the Roxy between releasing Over-Nite Sensation and Apostrophe. The “Elsewhere” portion is from early 1974–FZ had prepped a bunch of songs from the original Mothers of Invention to play a concert in honor of the first anniversary of that band forming, and he liked a couple of the renditions so much he added them to the regular set—that’s the back half of side 3.

In the very first monologue of the album, FZ says something about getting this concert on television. Of course my ears perked up hearing this for the first time 15 years ago—this was FILMED! I went searching immediately, but was disappointed: something had gone wrong with the footage and it was unusable. Zappa tried again about a year later, resulting in the television special now known as A Token of His Extreme (also worth watching). Then just a few years ago, incredible news: after years of work, they’d managed to sync the disastrously variably-speeded Roxy video with the audio, and it was released as Roxy the Movie. It’s an incredible show, but also one that left me lightly scandalized by how much studio overdubbing Zappa had done on the original album. Bruce Fowler (trumpet) WASN’T EVEN AT THE CONCERT—the only horn on the stage was Walt on trombone! But now there’s a wealth of Roxy material out there: if you like the original album, you’ve got to hear Roxy by Proxy, which collects a lot of the most essential Roxy material that wasn’t on R&E. And if you’re an obsessive like me, you can now stream the complete Roxy shows—all the nights, early set and late set, and some rehearsals. An absolute embarrassment of riches. That plus The Helsinki Concert that I mentioned in the Apostrophe post, which is from a slightly stripped down version of this ensemble and might be FZ’s single greatest recorded set…

If you’re thinking the live album is going to be the weak link in this band’s output, you haven’t heard this album. I think the stretch from Over-Nite Sensation to One Size Fits All is probably the best four-album stretch in his career, and Roxy & Elsewhere more than pulls its weight!

[t4t4t]

Fowler was the second publisher of Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass in 1856. The Wikipedia page for LoG doesn't list Fowler's name next to the 1856 edition for some reason but mentions it on the page for Fowler, but miscredits him as publishing the original not the second there. Here's a quote about it:

"Walt Whitman's interest in phrenology led him on 16 July 1849 to the Phrenological Cabinet of Fowlers and Wells in New York City's Clinton Hall, where he sat for a phrenological examination. The Fowler brothers from Cohocton, New York, were practitioners of the science of mind which held that mental faculties are indicated by the skull's conformation and can be analyzed and improved. The Phrenological Depot established by O.S. and L.N. Fowler in 1842 offered casts of skulls, phrenological busts, and books, as well as phrenological examinations. With the admission of their brother-in-law, Samuel R. Wells, in 1844 the firm was restyled Fowlers and Wells. 

Whitman's examination was made by Lorenzo Fowler, a skilled practitioner, and the written analysis, followed by a listing of faculties with their sizes, made a strong impression upon the subject. It was a perceptive reading that appraised Whitman as strong in "animal will" with large Amativeness, Self-Esteem, and Individuality. Whitman quoted from the analysis and published it several times. Phrenological themes and language appeared in his poetry. 

In 1855 Fowlers and Wells advertised Leaves of Grass as for sale at their new Phrenological Depot at 308 Broadway. With the departure from the firm of Orson S. Fowler, occupied now with the octagonal house he had built in Fishkill, New York, and with his writings on phrenological subjects, the firm became Fowler and Wells. Its London agent, William Horsell, would play a part in establishing Whitman's English reputation. In October 1855 the American Phrenological Journal, published by Fowler and Wells, carried Whitman's unsigned review of Leaves of Grass. By November, Whitman became a staff writer for another Fowler and Wells periodical, Life Illustrated, his contributions including the series "New York Dissected." 

The expanded second edition of Leaves of Grass was published anonymously by Fowler and Wells in August 1856. Stamped in gold on the spine of each volume appeared, without authorization, Emerson's words, "I Greet You at the Beginning of a Great Career." 

The book's unfavorable reception led the firm to withdraw their support of and relationship with the poet who, in turn, became disenchanted with the phrenologist-publishers. As for the Fowler brothers, through lectures, publications, and phrenological examinations during the decades that followed, each continued to popularize the belief that self-knowledge through phrenological analysis could lead to self-improvement. This they did without reference to Walt Whitman, the poet they had once perceptively analyzed and published without an imprimatur."

https://whitmanarchive.org/criticism/current/encyclopedia/entry_82.html

[applb7]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Vintage Treasure Craft Walt Disney World Souvenir Dish.

[hjtheroofer]

Frank Zappa - Live in Barcelona 1988 (Full Show - Remastered - Stereo)  

Frank Zappa – sintetizador, guitarra, teclados, voz 

Ike Willis – sintetizador, guitarra, guitarra rítmica, voz

 Scott Thunes – sintetizador, bajo, voz, minimoog

 Bobby Martin – teclados, saxofón, voz

 Chad Wackerman – batería, voz, percusión

 Ed Mann – percusión, marimba, vibráfono, percusión

 Mike Keneally – sintetizador, guitarra, guitarra rítmica, voz

 Bruce Fowler – trombón

 Walt Fowler – sintetizador, trompeta, fliscorno

 Kurt McGettrick – saxofón, saxofón barítono, clarinete

 Albert Wing – saxofón tenor

 Paul Carman – saxofón alto, saxofón barítono, saxofón soprano

[hellsitesonlybookclub]

It Can't Happen Here, Sinclair Lewis

Chapter 27-28

CHAPTER XXVII

MARY GREENHILL, revenging the murdered Fowler, was the only one of the conspirators who seemed moved more by homicidal hate than by a certain incredulous feeling that it was all a good but slightly absurd game. But to her, hate and the determination to kill were tonic. She soared up from the shadowed pit of grief, and her eyes lighted, her voice had a trembling gayety. She threw away her weeds and came out in defiant colors—oh, they had to economize, these days, to put every available penny into the missionary fund of the New Underground, but Mary had become so fire-drawn that she could wear Sissy's giddiest old frocks.

She had more daring than Julian, or even Buck—indeed led Buck into his riskiest expeditions.

In mid-afternoon, Buck and Mary, looking very matrimonial, domestically accompanied by David and the rather doubtful Foolish, ambled through the center of Burlington, where none of them were known—though a number of dogs, city slickers and probably con-dogs, insisted to the rustic and embarrassed Foolish that they had met him somewhere.

It was Buck who muttered "Right!" from time to time, when they were free from being observed, but it was Mary who calmly, a yard or two from M.M.'s or policemen, distributed crumpled-up copies of:

A Little Sunday-school Life of

JOHN SULLIVAN REEK

Second-class Political Crook, & Certain Entertaining Pictures of Col. Dewey Haik, Torturer.

These crumpled pamphlets she took from a specially made inside pocket of her mink coat; one reaching from shoulder to waist. It had been recommended by John Pollikop, whose helpful lady had aforetime used just such a pocket for illicit booze. The crumpling had been done carefully. Seen from two yards away, the pamphlets looked like any waste paper, but each was systematically so wadded up that the words, printed in bold red type, "Haik himself kicked an old man to death" caught the eye. And, lying in corner trash baskets, in innocent toy wagons before hardware stores, among oranges in a fruit store where they had gone to buy David a bar of chocolate, they caught some hundreds of eyes in Burlington that day.

On their way home, with David sitting in front beside Buck and Mary in the back, she cried, "That will stir 'em up! But oh, when Daddy has finished his booklet on Swan—God!"

David peeped back at her. She sat with eyes closed, with hands clenched.

He whispered to Buck, "I wish Mother wouldn't get so excited."

"She's the finest woman living, Dave."

"I know it, but—She scares me so!"

One scheme Mary devised and carried out by herself. From the magazine counter in Tyson's drugstore, she stole a dozen copies of the Readers' Digest and a dozen larger magazines. When she returned them, they looked untouched, but each of the larger magazines contained a leaflet, "Get Ready to Join Walt Trowbridge," and each Digest had become the cover for a pamphlet: "Lies of the Corpo Press."

To serve as center of their plot, to be able to answer the telephone and receive fugitives and put off suspicious snoopers twenty-four hours a day, when Buck and the rest might be gone, Lorinda chucked her small remaining interest in the Beulah Valley Tavern and became Buck's housekeeper, living in the place. There was scandal. But in a day when it was increasingly hard to get enough bread and meat, the town folk had little time to suck scandal like lollipops, and anyway, who could much suspect this nagging uplifter who so obviously preferred tuberculin tests to toying with Corydon in the glade? And as Doremus was always about, as sometimes he stayed overnight, for the first time these timid lovers had space for passion.

It had never been their loyalty to the good Emma—since she was too contented to be pitied, too sure of her necessary position in life to be jealous—so much as hatred of a shabby hole-and-corner intrigue which had made their love cautious and grudging. Neither of them was so simple as to suppose that, even with quite decent people, love is always as monogamic as bread and butter, yet neither of them liked sneaking.

Her room at Buck's, large and square and light, with old landscape paper showing an endlessness of little mandarins daintily stepping out of sedan chairs beside pools laced with willows, with a four-poster, a colonial highboy, and a crazy-colored rag carpet, became in two days, so fast did one live now in time of revolution, the best-loved home Doremus had ever known. As eagerly as a young bridegroom he popped into and out of her room, and he was not overly particular about the state of her toilet. And Buck knew all about it and just laughed.

Released now, Doremus saw her as physically more alluring. With parochial superiority, he had noted, during vacations on Cape Cod, how often the fluffy women of fashion when they stripped to bathing suits were skinny, to him unwomanly, with thin shoulder blades and with backbones as apparent as though they were chains fastened down their backs. They seemed passionate to him and a little devilish, with their thin restless legs and avid lips, but he chuckled as he considered that the Lorinda whose prim gray suits and blouses seemed so much more virginal than the gay, flaunting summer cottons of the Bright Young Things was softer of skin to the touch, much richer in the curve from shoulder to breast.

He rejoiced to know that she was always there in the house, that he could interrupt the high seriousness of a tract on bond issues to dash out to the kitchen and brazenly let his arm slide round her waist.

She, the theoretically independent feminist, became flatteringly demanding about every attention. Why hadn't he brought her some candy from town? Would he mind awfully calling up Julian for her? Why hadn't he remembered to bring her the book he had promised— well, would have promised if she had only remembered to ask him for it? He trotted on her errands, idiotically happy. Long ago Emma had reached the limit of her imagination in regard to demands. He was discovering that in love it is really more blessed to give than to receive, a proverb about which, as an employer and as a steady fellow whom forgotten classmates regularly tried to touch for loans, he had been very suspicious.

He lay beside her, in the wide four-poster, at dawn, March dawn with the elm branches outside the window ugly and writhing in the wind, but with the last coals still snapping in the fireplace, and he was utterly content. He glanced at Lorinda, who had on her sleeping face a frown that made her look not older but schoolgirlish, a schoolgirl who was frowning comically over some small woe, and who defiantly clutched her old-fashioned lace-bordered pillow. He laughed. They were going to be so adventurous together! This little printing of pamphlets was only the beginning of their revolutionary activities. They would penetrate into press circles in Washington and get secret information (he was drowsily vague about what information they were going to get and how they would ever get it) which would explode the Corpo state. And with the revolution over, they would go to Bermuda, to Martinique—lovers on purple peaks, by a purple sea—everything purple and grand. Or (and he sighed and became heroic as he exquisitely stretched and yawned in the wide warm bed) if they were defeated, if they were arrested and condemned by the M.M.'s, they would die together, sneering at the firing-squad, refusing to have their eyes bandaged, and their fame, like that of Servetus and Matteotti and Professor Ferrer and the Haymarket martyrs, would roll on forever, acclaimed by children waving little flags—

"Gimme a cigarette, darling!"

Lorinda was regarding him with a beady and skeptical eye.

"You oughtn't to smoke so much!"

"You oughtn't to boss so much! Oh, my darling!" She sat up, kissed his eyes and temples, and sturdily climbed out of bed, seeking her own cigarette.

"Doremus! It's been marvelous to have this companionship with you. But—" She looked a little timid, sitting cross-legged on the rattan-topped stool before the old mahogany dressing table—no silver or lace or crystal was there, but only plain wooden hairbrush and scant luxury of small drugstore bottles. "But darling, this cause—oh, curse that word 'cause'—can't I ever get free of it?—but anyway, this New Underground business seems to me so important, and I know you feel that way too, but I've noticed that since we've settled down together, two awful sentimentalists, you aren't so excited about writing your nice venomous attacks, and I'm getting more cautious about going out distributing tracts. I have a foolish idea I have to save my life, for your sake. And I ought to be only thinking about saving my life for the revolution. Don't you feel that way? Don't you? Don't you?"

Doremus swung his legs out of bed, also lighted an unhygienic cigarette, and said grumpily, "Oh, I suppose so! But—tracts! Your attitude is simply a hold-over of your religious training. That you have a DUTY toward the dull human race—which probably enjoys being bullied by Windrip and getting bread and circuses— except for the bread!"

"Of course it's religious, a revolutionary loyalty! Why not? It's one of the few real religious feelings. A rational, unsentimental Stalin is still kind of a priest. No wonder most preachers hate the Reds and preach against 'em! They're jealous of their religious power. But—Oh, we can't unfold the world, this morning, even over breakfast coffee, Doremus! When Mr. Dimick came back here yesterday, he ordered me to Beecher Falls—you know, on the Canadian border—to take charge of the N.U. cell there—ostensibly to open up a tea room for this summer. So, hang it, I've got to leave you, and leave Buck and Sis, and go. Hang it!"

"Linda!"

She would not look at him. She made much, too much, of grinding out her cigarette.

"Linda!"

"Yes?"

"You suggested this to Dimick! He never gave any orders till you suggested it!"

"Well—"

"Linda! Linda! Do you want to get away from me so much? You—my life!"

She came slowly to the bed, slowly sat down beside him. "Yes. Get away from you and get away from myself. The world's in chains, and I can't be free to love till I help tear them off."

"It will never be out of chains!"

"Then I shall never be free to love! Oh, if we could only have run away together for one sweet year, when I was eighteen! Then I would have lived two whole lives. Well, nobody seems to be very lucky at turning the clock back—almost twenty-five years back, too. I'm afraid Now is a fact you can't dodge. And I've been getting so—just this last two weeks, with April coming in—that I can't think of anything but you. Kiss me. I'm going. Today."

CHAPTER XXVIII

AS usually happens in secret service, no one detail that Sissy ferreted out of Shad Ledue was drastically important to the N.U., but, like necessary bits of a picture puzzle, when added to other details picked up by Doremus and Buck and Mary and Father Perefixe, that trained extractor of confessions, they showed up the rather simple schemes of this gang of Corpo racketeers who were so touchingly accepted by the People as patriotic shepherds.

Sissy lounged with Julian on the porch, on a deceptively mild April day.

"Golly, like to take you off camping, couple months from now, Sis. Just the two of us. Canoe and sleep in a pup tent. Oh, Sis, do you HAVE to have supper with Ledue and Staubmeyer tonight? I hate it. God, how I hate it! I warn you, I'll kill Shad! I mean it!"

"Yes, I do have to, dear. I think I've got Shad crazy enough about me so that tonight, when he chases good old Emil, and whatever foul female Emil may bring, out of the place, I'll get him to tell me something about who they're planning to pinch next. I'm not scared of Shad, my Julian of jewelians."

He did not smile. He said, with a gravity that had been unknown to the lively college youth, "Do you realize, with your kidding yourself about being able to handle Comrade Shad so well, that he's husky as a gorilla and just about as primitive? One of these nights—God! think of it! maybe tonight!—he'll go right off the deep end and grab you and—bing!"

She was as grave. "Julian, just what do you think could happen to me? The worst that could happen would be that I'd get raped."

"Good Lord—"

"Do you honestly suppose that since the New Civilization began, say in 1914, anyone believes that kind of thing is more serious than busting an ankle? 'A fate worse than death'! What nasty old side-whiskered deacon ever invented that phrase? And how he must have rolled it on his chapped old lips! I can think of plenty worse fates—say, years of running an elevator. No—wait! I'm not really flippant. I haven't any desire, beyond maybe a slight curiosity, to be raped—at least, not by Shad; he's a little too strong on the Bodily Odor when he gets excited. (Oh God, darling, what a nasty swine that man is! I hate him fifty times as much as you do. Ugh!) But I'd be willing to have even that happen if I could save one decent person from his bloody blackjack. I'm not the playgirl of Pleasant Hill any more; I'm a frightened woman from Mount Terror!"

It seemed, the whole thing, rather unreal to Sissy; a burlesqued version of the old melodramas in which the City Villain tries to ruin Our Nell, apropos of a bottle of Champagne Wine. Shad, even in a belted tweed jacket, a kaleidoscopic Scotch sweater (from Minnesota), and white linen plus-fours, hadn't the absent-minded seductiveness that becomes a City Slicker.

Ensign Emil Staubmeyer had showed up at Shad's new private suite at the Star Hotel with a grass widow who betrayed her gold teeth and who had tried to repair the erosions in the fair field of her neck with overmuch topsoil of brick-tinted powder. She was pretty dreadful. She was harder to tolerate than the rumbling Shad—a man for whom the chaplain might even have been a little sorry, after he was safely hanged. The synthetic widow was always nudging herself at Emil and when, rather wearily, he obliged by poking her shoulder, she giggled, "Now you SSSSTOP!"

Shad's suite was clean, and had some air. Beyond that there was nothing much to say. The "parlor" was firmly furnished in oak chairs and settee with leather upholstery, and four pictures of marquises not doing anything interesting. The freshness of the linen spread on the brass bedstead in the other room fascinated Sissy uncomfortably.

Shad served them rye highballs with ginger ale from a quart bottle that had first been opened at least a day ago, sandwiches with chicken and ham that tasted of niter, and ice cream with six colors but only two flavors—both strawberry. Then he waited, not too patiently, looking as much like General Göring as possible, for Emil and his woman to get the devil out of here, and for Sissy to acknowledge his virile charms. He only grunted at Emil's pedagogic little jokes, and the man of culture abruptly got up and removed his lady, whinnying in farewell, "Now, Captain, don't you and your girl-friend do anything Papa wouldn't do!"

"Come on now, baby—come over here and give us a kiss," Shad roared, as he flopped into the corner of the leather settee.

"Now I don't know whether I will or not!" It nauseated her a good deal, but she made herself as pertly provocative as she could. She minced to the settee, and sat just far enough from his hulking side for him to reach over and draw her toward him. She observed him cynically, recalling her experience with most of the Boys... though not with Julian... well, not so much with Julian. They always, all of them, went through the same procedure, heavily pretending that there was no system in their manual proposals; and to a girl of spirit, the chief diversion in the whole business was watching their smirking pride in their technique. The only variation, ever, was whether they started in at the top or the bottom.

Yes. She thought so. Shad, not being so delicately fanciful as, say, Malcolm Tasbrough, started with an apparently careless hand on her knee.

She shivered. His sinewy paw was to her like the slime and writhing of an eel. She moved away with a maidenly alarm which mocked the rôle of Mata Hari she had felt herself to be gracing.

"Like me?" he demanded.

"Oh—well—sort of."

"Oh, shucks! You think I'm still just a hired man! Even though I am a County Commissioner now! and a Battalion-Leader! and prob'ly pretty soon I'll be a Commander!" He spoke the sacred names with awe. It was the twentieth time he had made the same plaint to her in the same words. "And you still think I ain't good for anything except lugging in kindling!"

"Oh, Shad dear! Why, I always think of you as being just about my oldest playmate! The way I used to tag after you and ask you could I run the lawnmower! My! I always remember that!"

"Do you, honest?" He yearned at her like a lumpish farm dog.

"Of course! And honest, it makes me tired, your acting as if you were ashamed of having worked for us! Why, don't you know that, when he was a boy, Daddy used to work as a farm hand, and split wood and tend lawn for the neighbors and all that, and he was awful glad to get the money?" She reflected that this thumping and entirely impromptu lie was beautiful.... That it happened not to be a lie, she did not know.

"That a fact? Well! Honest? Well! So the old man used to hustle the rake too! Never knew that! You know, he ain't such a bad old coot—just awful stubborn."

"You do like him, DON'T you, Shad! Nobody knows how sweet he is—I mean, in these sort of complicated days, we've got to protect him against people that might not understand him, against outsiders, don't you think so, Shad? You will protect him!"

"Well, I'll do what I can," said the Battalion-Leader with such fat complacency that Sissy almost slapped him. "That is, as long as he behaves himself, baby, and don't get mixed up with any of these Red rebels... and as long as you feel like being nice to a fella!" He pulled her toward him as though he were hauling a bag of grain out of a wagon.

"Oh! Shad! You frighten me! Oh, you must be gentle! A big, strong man like you can afford to be gentle. It's only the sissies that have to get rough. And you're so strong!"

"Well, I guess I can still feed myself! Say, talking about sissies, what do you see in a light-waisted mollycoddle like Julian? You don't really like him, do you?"

"Oh, you know how it is," she said, trying without too much obviousness to ease her head away from his shoulder. "We've always been playmates, since we were kids."

"Well, you just said I was, too!"

"Yes, that's so."

Now in her effort to give all the famous pleasures of seduction without taking any of the risk, the amateur secret-service operative, Sissy, had a slightly confused aim. She was going to get from Shad information valuable to the N.U. Rapidly rehearsing it in her imagination, the while she was supposed to be weakened by the charm of leaning against Shad's meaty shoulder, she heard herself teasing him into giving her the name of some citizen whom the M.M.'s were about to arrest, slickly freeing herself from him, dashing out to find Julian—oh, hang it, why hadn't she made an engagement with Julian for that night?—well, he'd either be at home or out driving Dr. Olmsted—Julian's melodramatically dashing to the home of the destined victim and starting him for the Canadian border before dawn.... And it might be a good idea for the refugee to tack on his door a note dated two days ago, saying that he was off on a trip, so that Shad would never suspect her.... All this in a second of hectic story-telling, neatly illustrated in color by her fancy, while she pretended that she had to blow her nose and thus had an excuse to sit straight. Edging another inch or two away, she purred, "But of course it isn't just physical strength, Shad. You have so much power politically. My! I imagine you could send almost anybody in Fort Beulah off to concentration camp, if you wanted to."

"Well, I could put a few of 'em away, if they got funny!"

"I'll bet you could—and will, too! Who you going to arrest next, Shad?"

"Huh?"

"Oh come on! Don't be so tightwad with all your secrets!"

"What are you trying to do, baby? Pump me?"

"Why no, of course not, I just—"

"Sure! You'd like to get the poor old fathead going, and find out everything he knows—and that's plenty, you can bet your sweet life on that! Nothing doing, baby."

"Shad, I'd just—I'd just love to see an M.M. squad arresting somebody once. It must be dreadfully exciting!"

"Oh, it's exciting enough, all right, all right! When the poor chumps try to resist, and you throw their radio out of the window! Or when the fellow's wife gets fresh and shoots off her mouth too much, and so you just teach her a little lesson by letting her look on while you trip him up on the floor and beat him up—maybe that sounds a little rough, but you see, in the long run it's the best thing you can do for these beggars, because it teaches 'em to not get ugly."

"But—you won't think I'm horrid and unwomanly, will you?—but I would like to see you hauling out one of those people, just once. Come on, tell a fellow! Who are you going to arrest next?"

"Naughty, naughty! Mustn't try to kid papa! No, the womanly thing for you to do is a little love-making! Aw come on, let's have some fun, baby! You know you're crazy about me!" Now he really seized her, his hand across her breasts. She struggled, thoroughly frightened, no longer cynical and sophisticated. She shrieked, "Oh don't—don't!" She wept, real tears, more from anger than from modesty. He loosened his grip a little, and she had the inspiration to sob, "Oh, Shad, if you really want me to love you, you must give me time! You wouldn't want me to be a hussy that you could do anything you wanted to with—you, in your position? Oh, no, Shad, you couldn't do that!"

"Well, maybe," said he, with the smugness of a carp.

She had sprung up, dabbling at her eyes—and through the doorway, in the bedroom, on a flat-topped desk, she saw a bunch of two or three Yale keys. Keys to his office, to secret cupboards and drawers with Corpo plans! Undoubtedly! Her imagination in one second pictured her making a rubbing of the keys, getting John Pollikop, that omnifarious mechanic, to file substitute keys, herself and Julian somehow or other sneaking into Corpo headquarters at night, perilously creeping past the guards, rifling Shad's every dread file—

She stammered, "Do you mind if I go in and wash my face? All teary—so silly! You don't happen to have any face powder in your bathroom?"

"Say, what d'you think I am? A hick, or a monk, maybe? You bet your life I've got some face powder—right in the medicine cabinet— two kinds—how's that for service? Ladies taken care of by the day or hour!"

It hurt, but she managed something like a giggle before she went in and shut the bedroom door, and locked it.

She tore across to the keys. She snatched up a pad of yellow scratch-paper and a pencil, and tried to make a rubbing of a key as once she had made rubbings of coins, for use in the small grocery shop of C. JESSUp & J. falck groSHERS.

The pencil blur showed only the general outline of the key; the tiny notches which were the trick would not come clear. In panic, she experimented with a sheet of carbon paper, then toilet paper, dry and wet. She could not get a mold. She pressed the key into a prop hotel candle in a china stick by Shad's bed. The candle was too hard. So was the bathroom soap. And Shad was now trying the knob of the door, remarking "Damn!" then bellowing, "Whayuh doin' in there? Gone to sleep?"

"Be right out!" She replaced the keys, threw the yellow paper and the carbon paper out of the window, replaced the candle and soap, slapped her face with a dry towel, dashed on powder as though she were working against time at plastering a wall, and sauntered back into the parlor. Shad looked hopeful. In panic she saw that now, before he comfortably sat down to it and became passionate again, was her one time to escape. She snatched up hat and coat, said wistfully, "Another night, Shad—you must let me go now, dear!" and fled before he could open his red muzzle.

Round the corner in the hotel corridor she found Julian.

He was standing taut, trying to look like a watchdog, his right hand in his coat pocket as though it was holding a revolver.

She hurled herself against his bosom and howled.

"Good God! What did he do to you? I'll go in and kill him!"

"Oh, I didn't get seduced. It isn't things like that that I'm bawling about! It's because I'm such a simply terribly awful spy!"

But one thing came out of it.

Her courage nerved Julian to something he had longed for and feared: to join the M.M.'s, put on uniform, "work from within," and supply Doremus with information.

"I can get Leo Quinn—you know?—Dad's a conductor on the railroad?—used to play basketball in high school?—I can get him to drive Dr. Olmsted for me, and generally run errands for the N.U. He's got grit, and he hates the Corpos. But look, Sissy—look, Mr. Jessup—in order to get the M.M.'s to trust me, I've got to pretend to have a fierce bust-up with you and all our friends. Look! Sissy and I will walk up Elm Street tomorrow evening, giving an imitation of estranged lovers. How 'bout it, Sis?"

"Fine!" glowed that incorrigible actress.

She was to be, every evening at eleven, in a birch grove just up Pleasant Hill from the Jessups', where they had played house as children. Because the road curved, the rendezvous could be entered from four or five directions. There he was to hand on to her his reports of M.M. plans.

But when he first crept into the grove at night and she nervously turned her pocket torch on him, she shrieked at seeing him in M.M. uniform, as an inspector. That blue tunic and slanting forage cap which, in the cinema and history books, had meant youth and hope, meant only death now.... She wondered if in 1864 it had not meant death more than moonlight and magnolias to most women. She sprang to him, holding him as if to protect him against his own uniform, and in the peril and uncertainty now of their love, Sissy began to grow up.

[imaginative-123]

Walt Disney Has Left the Park by Jim Korkis

People also constantly ask me, "What would Walt think about such and such?" or "Walt must be spinning in his grave because of such and such" or "This never would have happened if Walt was alive."

I try to point out that despite my decades of interviewing people who knew and worked with Walt, reviewing letters and memos from when he was alive and more, I might (and I emphasize "might") be able to hazard a guess as to what the Walt of 1966 might think. However, even then Walt would constantly surprise people with his choices.

When Walt remarked that the Rivers of America at Disneyland was getting too crowded with so much boat traffic, it was assumed he wanted to cut back on the activity. Instead Walt added another big boat, the S.S. Columbia. No one not even Joe Fowler expected that decision.

I have no clue at all what the Walt of 2022 might think about things today.

He would have been fascinated by new technology but only on how it might improve things for guests. He would have been faced with theme parks that have a greater demand than capacity. He would have struggled to find enough good people to fill the roles at the park.

He would have faced more competitors who produce things that are as good or better than individual things at Disney. He would have faced an audience whose needs and wants have changed significantly since he was alive. Even the definition of "family" has changed since he was alive as well as what is considered politically appropriate.

However, Walt would have addressed these challenges before they became a problem because he always looked at least five to ten years ahead and listened to the guests and frequently went into the park to experience what the guests were experiencing.

The bottom line is that Walt stopped being in charge when he passed away in December 1966 and, while there were still many in the company who wanted to continue his vision, the best they could do is try to finish the plans he had in development and try to repeat past successes.

It has been said that any successful company goes through three stages. First, there is the Innovator who has the vision and the passion and develops something unique. He inspires those who work for him to produce more than they ever realized was possible.

When he leaves or dies, he is replaced by the Caretaker who tries to maintain things but lacks the vision and passion so can only at best repeat and mimic what has gone before.

Finally comes the Undertaker who has no understanding or appreciation of the foundational philosophies and tries to leverage as many assets as possible and cut costs to the bone before the company finally dies.

I can say without hesitation that everyone I have interviewed has mentioned that the spirit of Disneyland changed after Walt passed away. Even though his brother Roy did his best to try to maintain things it was just not the same. The same policies were in place. Disneyland not only remained exactly the same but added things that Walt had approved before his passing. But it still was just not the same.

Part of the reason was that Walt lived and breathed Disneyland. It was as much a part of him as blood flowing through his veins. It was no coincidence that he had an apartment at Disneyland and spent time there.

Many people assume his small apartment above the firehouse on Main Street was built because in the earliest days of Disneyland it was a long, hot commute from Burbank to Anaheim and there were only five small hotels and two motels for a total of 87 rooms.

His daughter Diane told me, "He had the apartment there because he felt he HAD to be there at the park. More than that, he wanted to be there. He liked being there."

Innovator- Walter Elias Disney

Caretaker- Michael Eisner and Roy E. Disney

Undertaker- Bob Iger and Bob Chapek

[noded]

Admiral Joseph W. Fowler

Admiral Joseph W. Fowler

Admiral Joseph W. Fowler – 1894-1993 Retired Admiral Joe Fowler came out of retirement to help Walt Disney build the “Happiest Place On Earth”, For the next two decades of his career, Joe supervised the planning, building, and operation of both Disneyland and Walt Disney World. Portrait on the Admiral Joe Fowler ferry that has been transporting guest across the Seven Seas Lagoon since 1971.

[spilladabalia]

Frank Zappa & The Mothers - Cheepnis

[rainingmusic]

David Crosby - She's got to be somewhere