I keep finding things that would be perfect for Vintage Pop, if that site were actually a going concern at the moment. Anthony Lane has an overview of Barbara Stanwyck’s career in the current issue of The New Yorker. I discovered a new CD compilation series featuring music from 1890-1920. And, most of all, I’ve been overwhelmed by the quantity of good material on YouTube.

For example, here’s a handful of videos I found this morning through casual browsing. The first few simply show scenes of 1920s recreational life (primarily dancing) while set to some jazzy tune or other. The last couple focus more on the Charleston (a popular dance step) and on a couple of my favorite songs from that era. (“Caldonia” is actually a big-band song from the mid-1930s, but so what?”)

Though I’d love to be sharing clips like these, and writing about them, I guess I’ll have to be patient, to just wait until I have time to focus on more than just a few sites.

Educator of the week, Mr. Paul Jolstead, sent me a piece of Oregon mythology: the infamous exploding whale. I’ve seen this video clip before, and heard the story many times, but I suspect that many of you are unfamiliar with it. Here’s the original news story (3:26):

According to the Wikipedia:

On November 12, 1970, a 14 m (45 ft), eight-ton sperm whale died as a result of beaching itself near Florence, Oregon. Since all Oregon beaches are under the jurisdiction of the state Parks and Recreation Department, responsibility for disposing of the carcass fell upon the Oregon Highway Division (now known as the Oregon Department of Transportation, or ODOT), a sister agency.

After consulting with officials at the United States Navy, they decided that it would be best to remove the whale in the same way they would remove a boulder and, on November 12, used half a ton of dynamite to remove it. They thought burying the whale would be ineffective, as it would soon be uncovered, and they believed the use of dynamite would cause an explosion that would disintegrate the whale into pieces small enough for scavengers to clear up.

The engineer in charge of the operation, George Thornton, was recorded as stating that one set of charges might not be enough and more might be needed. Thornton later explained that he was chosen to remove the whale because the district engineer, Dale Allen, had gone hunting.

The resulting explosion was caught on film by television photographer Doug Brazil for a story reported by news reporter Paul Linnman of KATU-TV in Portland, Oregon. In his voiceover, Linnman joked that “land-lubber newsmen” became “land-blubber newsmen”, for “the blast blasted blubber beyond all believable bounds.”

The explosion caused large pieces of blubber to land some distance away from the beach, resulting in a smashed car. The explosion disintegrated only some of the whale, most of which remained on the beach for the Oregon Highway Division workers to clear away.

Comedy gold.

Speaking of the Jolstead-Woodruff clan, Amy Jo’s blog has been humming right along lately. Go check out From a Corner Table. But be warned: you’ll come away hungry. (Paul, I want to see your beautiful engraved apple!)

Here are a few things that scare me: heights, roller coasters, The Dark.

Imagine my terror, then, when I rode Space Mountain on my first trip to Disneyland in 1987. I had just graduated from high school, and was in Anaheim for the annual convention of the Future Business Leaders of America (a high school club that boomed during the 1980s).

I’d already been on Pirates of the Caribbean, which I loved. (In fact, I still love Pirates so much that to this day it’s the ride I want to do first and last when visiting the park. Once when a group I was with wanted to watch some silly parade, I rode Pirates over and over. It was awesome.)

Visiting Disneyland with my high school pals, we didn’t really have a method, and it took us til late morning to reach Tomorrowland. We rode Star Tours (newly opened at that point, I think), a Star Wars-themed ride, and watched Michael Jackson as Captain Eo. Then we entered Space Mountain.

“What’s this like?” I asked somebody who’d been to Disneyland before.

“It’s like a roller coaster in space,” he said.

I was a little worried, but not much. I stood in line, took my seat, and the ride began. I was in the rear car, and as we entered the dark core of the ride, I began to get nervous. Nervousness turned to fright as we took our first drop. The entire minute or two we whipped around, I clung to my seat as tightly as I could. I did not have fun.

I hated Space Mountain.

…time passed…

Kris’ uncle Bob works for Disney, and when we visit her parents in San Bernardino, he’s often able to sign us into the park. (For which we are very grateful. Thanks, Bob!) Over the past twenty years, we’ve visited Disneyland three or four times. In this time, I’ve made a discovery:

Space Mountain is a blast if you are seated in the front-most car.

On one visit I was seated in the front car by sheer chance. I knew I was going to be scared, but I was ready for how giddy the terror would make me. When you’re seated in the rear of the train, you can see what’s happening to the people in front of you a fraction of a second before it happens to you. This isn’t true when you’re in the first car. When you’re in the first car, you can’t see a thing. Everything that happens is unexpected. And it makes a huge difference.

Riding in front is scarier than riding behind, but it’s such an overwhelming fear that it’s fun. (Here’s a secret that Bob once told me: when you get to the front of a line, you can ask the “cast member” to seat you in a particular spot. They’ll often ask you to step to the side for a minute or two, but then will seat you in the spot you’ve requested. This is an excellent way to get the most out of your rides.)

All of this is just a belabored intro so that I can share this virtual recreation of Space Mountain that I found via Boing Boing. Enjoy!

Now I look forward to my next journey inside Space Mountain!

Something else for Kris and her smug little lab friends:

This isn’t critical of NPR — merely mocking. And I think we can all agree that NPR could use some good mocking.

Actually, this is basically for every single one of my friends, all of whom seem to be NPR junkies. I call NPR “noise pollution radio”. It’s not that I object to its content — it has good stuff — but I cannot fathom listening to it non-stop like Kris does. Dad used to say, “I can’t hear myself think” whenever I had on something that distracted him. NPR is like that for me. (Especially those blathering car brothers.) I am constantly engaged in extensive internal dialogue, often trying to figure something out. That’s why I like driving techno music. It helps me get in the zone. NPR? NPR takes me out of the zone and forces me to focus on whatever is being discussed, thus “noise pollution radio”.

She’ll shake you all night long.

Need I say more?