Finding Big Jim Ryan

The Cliffs of Moher

I guess they would have called him "Big Jim".  From the pictures I've seen, he looks a lot like President William Howard Taft--you know, 'big-boned'.  

James Ryan was my great grandfather on my paternal grandmother's side.  I wish now that I had paid more attention when grandma Copper spoke of her father. I remember that he emigrated from the Killarney area of Ireland sometime in the mid eighteen-hundreds and became an entrepreneur in the small village of New Holland, Illinois.  He had a hardware store and also sold Banner Buggies in the days before Henry Ford's marvelous invention.  But, that's all I know.  When you're a kid it never occurs to you that your own family's history might be important and now I'm full of questions.

Ryan's Pub in Cobh (a relative? a discount?)

The "walls" are everywhere.  Here a workman toils in Cork.

We are wrapping up our first time visit  to the Emerald Isle and there is much that surprises me.  The beauty I expected; the diversity of the landscape and the people I did not.  It's amazing how critical the destiny and personality of a country are tied to both.   

The Irish people have overcome conquest, starvation, and a climate that gives new meaning to the adjective mercurial.  Some saw a better future in America.  My great grandfather was one of those hardy souls.  Now I want to know how he came to leave Killarney and why he chose central Illinois to start anew in the United States.  With the Internet at my disposal I aim to find out more as soon as I unpack.

"The pessimist complains about the wind, the optimist expects it to change and the realist adjusts his sails."  (unknown)

It seems that many Irish realists found a home in America.

Surfing cows?  Agriculture is Ireland's number one industry; tourism is second.

You Know IT When You See IT

Like a former supreme court justice who couldn't define pornography but "knew it when he saw it", I saw real talent last night and knew its name was EDIE FALCO.

The longtime star of the Sopranos and Nurse Jackie is lights out spectacular as Bananas Shaughnessy in John Guare's  "The House of Blue Leaves" at the Walter Kerr Theater on 48th Street in Manhattan.

In a sea of Broadway re-treads and remakes it is well worth a trip to New York just to see the kind of magic Ms. Falco is making six nights a week and twice on Tuesdays.  

Edie Falco (aka Mrs.. Tony Soprano)

Like so many plays mounted in the past few years, this production relies on big name stars to draw an initial audience.  Ben Stiller, Jennifer Jason Leigh and the aforementioned Edie Falco pretty much guarantee lots of press coverage and entertainment dollars from visitors bent on attending a Broadway show.  Add to the mix a play that was written in the 1960's and set during the Pope's visit to the U.S. in 1963 and you have a built in audience of reminiscing baby boomers and younger people with no recollection of the times.

House of Blue Leaves

Ben Stiller is adequate as Artie Shaughnessy, however he seems a bit young and not nearly enough of a loser to pull off the part as say a younger John Mahoney or a Jason Robards in his prime.  But, he's okay.  Dreadful doesn't begin to describe Jennifer Jason Lee's embarrassing  turn as Artie's side slice, Bunny Flingus.   To say she can't act diminishes the ability of some of the most broken down hambones at your local dinner theater.  The woman comes across as a poor understudy for TV's late great Lulu Roman of "Hee Haw" fame.  Or, just maybe, it may be more similar to a Minnie Pearl rendition of Ophelia in Shakespeare's Hamlet.  She is a classic example of fame taken to an altitude where talent cannot sustain expectations.  Sally Struthers wasn't available?

Edie Falco, in a very difficult role, has that rare gift of being so absolutely believable as Artie's schizophrenic wife that it is impossible to take your eyes off her as she consumes the stage with her character.  The audience is with her at all times and she reciprocates.  It is rare to see someone so good and so subtle totally take over a part.  It is an award winning performance.  A real artist is at work here.

If you are anywhere near New York, or will be soon, don't waste your money on the umpteenth revival of a bad musical or some movie that has been adapted for the stage.  Grab a ticket to see "The House of Blue Leaves" at the Walter Kerr before the always busy Edie Falco takes her gift to a new venue.  You'll thank me later.

Edie Falco and Ben Stiller

Studies: The Good, the Bad and the Cuddly

Good news for teenage boys!

Just in time for Springtime courtin' and sparkin' comes a brand new research report from Alvarado Hospital  right here in Mr. Copper's home town of San Diego.  Apparently, (drum roll), SEX IS GOOD FOR YOU!  Yep, according to Irwin Goldstein, a urologist and editor in chief of the Journal of Sexual Medicine, there is now evidence of benefits--beyond producing a baby--to whoopee.  "When you have good sex, there is a relaxation response...you lie there and life is great, " says the good doctor who is also the director of sexual medicine at Alvarado Hospital.  The research goes on to report that sex also increases oxytocin, known as the "cuddle hormone," which promotes bonding, reduces fear and stimulates endorphins, the body's natural painkillers, which is why sex can also bring temporary relief from back pain, migraines and other body aches.

OH DOCTOR!!

Where were you when I was seventeen??

This is pure gold when it comes to hormonal salesmanship for young men everywhere.  "It's not only fun, darlin', it's also GOOD for you."

So much for the good studies.

Leave it to the killjoys at the National Institute for Occupational Safety and Health to rain on the good time freak parade.  These poindexters have recently concluded that if you own a convertible you should never drive it with the top down.  

WHAT????

Everyone should have a convertible!  And, the top should always be DOWN!  I will allow a brief period of "top up" for those of you residing in states north of Kansas during the months of January and February, but that's it.  How else can you look cool behind the wheel of your latest sled?  I have owned a ragtop ever since leaving home in 1966.  The first one was a dandy 1963 Ford Galaxie 500 XL that would occasionally start and frequently broke down, but damn I looked good driving it.  After all, it doesn't matter if you get there just as long as you look good doing it.  I have owned many delightful convertibles since that time but often bask in the memories of youthful indiscretions supported by that ever faithful 500XL.  

(Cue the Johnny Mathis music...up and under.)

Now, where was I?  Oh yes, the nerds at the NIOSH have concluded a study, (Hey! Knock it off with the studies!), that found noise levels in convertibles were above 85 decibels when the top was down and the car was traveling 55 mph or faster.  At 75 mph, the decibel level jumped to 89.9.   Researchers also noted that with the top down, convertibles expose occupants to "noise spikes" from horns, motorcycle mufflers and truck engines.

To all of this I say, "HUH?" and "Who cares!?"

If the noise bothers you, turn up the radio and always keep the speedometer above 85.

Pure sex 1963 style

Grab your coat!  We're firing up the old chick magnet for a trip to the drive-in.  There are some ladies who really need to take a look at this new study from Alvarado Hospital.

Moms Rule!

Dads don't really have a chance.  In the parent popularity poll dad always comes in a distant second to mom.  Face it, for most kids--okay boys--early childhood relations with the old man go something like this:

"This is for your own good!"

SPANK

"I told you never to  (insert latest infraction here)  and you knew it!"

SPANK

"Now you've made your mother cry." (translation: no num nums for daddy tonight.)

SPANK

SPANK

SPANK!

"Are we gonna have to send you to reform school??!!"

SPANK

"No TV or movies for you for a month."

SPANK

SPANK

"Don't give me that look!"

SPANK

"Go to your room and think about what you did.  Hey, wait a minute.  Get me a Falstaff, the White Sox are comin' on TV."

"You know this hurt me more than it hurt you."  

(For the record, I never bought that one.)

It's all part of that division of family chores.  Mom gets to tell you how great you are and dad is the cop on the beat who dishes out appropriate punishment for all those things you do that aren't so great.

Mom is the one who tells you you're wonderful and that, " Daddy is just a little gruff because of things happening at work."  She knows it's bullshit, but she tries to sell it anyway.

In a nutshell this is why Mother's Day happens in May and Father's Day is in June.   We spend all our money on mom and are assured that when his day rolls around dad will get just what he wants...

NOTHING.

Dad, when you ask him, never wants anything for Father's Day and that's the way it should be.  After all, what has he done besides make you behave? 

Okay, maybe he taught you how to fake contrition and sincerity; also how to get around mom.  But other than that?   Nada.

So, do your best to show mom a good time this Mother's Day and blow all your money on flowers, candy and other doodads.  (If you're still south of twelve years old you can probably get away with one of those macaroni art projects, but don't push it.)  Dad will be just fine with the usual lame-o non gift on his day.  Maybe a refill of Old Spice from the grocery store or, better yet, while you're up grab him a Falstaff.
The game will be on in a couple of minutes.

Crap like this makes mom rave about your genius

Dad sees this and knows you're an idiot.  Mom spends $100 on a frame.

And the Lord said...

They've pretty much eliminated one of my big beefs about going to church.  Apparently it's now okay to just roll out of the hay; maybe disguise your bed head with a ballcap, throw on some shorts and make ready to grab some pew at your nearby sanctuary.  As a kid, dressing up to get saved cramped my style.

Nonetheless, having agreed weeks ago to join my daughter, Katie, and her family for Easter services, Linda and I dressed up for a very rare Sunday appearance.  Outside of weddings, funerals and the occasional baptism I have a somewhat spotty record of church attendance.  My brother and I were dragged to both Sunday school and church every week from birth to our much longed for parole from high school.  In addition to getting "duded up", we both hated the music and the constant threats of eternal damnation for questionable deportment the other six days of the week.  It seemed to be a losing proposition.  Other than the fine climate, heaven didn't seem to be worth the effort if all our friends were going to be partying south of there.   As a consequence, since leaving my parents home, I have been to Sunday church services maybe four or five times in forty-five years.  Like I said, a spotty record.

It's not that I don't believe in something bigger and wiser than all of us.  I do.  However, I still don't like the music, ritual, or dogmatic nature of formal religion.  God makes me nervous when you get him indoors.  I also have decided after years of searching for loopholes that the bible is the product of a committee that bothered neither to fact check or even collaborate as they pieced together their collection of allegories and proverbs.  Pretty good stories but, call me a sceptic, certainly all designed to keep us in line.


So, there we were,  Easter Sunday in church with family on a beautiful Southern California day.  Since it had been awhile, I was taking it all in.  There were people in shorts, t-shirts, jeans and even one guy who didn't know enough to remove his University of North Carolina ballcap in one of the nicest churches in downtown San Diego.  I still can't stand the music and the ritual, but the pastor had a quite wonderful message on beauty:  "There is the beauty we see.  More beautiful is what we understand, and MOST beautiful is what we don't understand."  I liked it and I liked him.

During the service my one and only grandson, 18 month-old Dan, was seated on his mother's lap.  He still nurses before going to sleep each night and his mom knows it is closing in on time to ween him.  She is not looking forward to it as the boy clearly enjoys his boob nightcap and she realizes how hard it will be to end this ritual.  At one point during the service young Daniel pulled on the top of Katie's blouse, looked down her front and said, "WOW!"  I laughed hard enough to double my collection "drop" when they passed the plate.  It was a priceless moment.  (Soon I will have to have that chat with Dan about saying good-bye to anything resembling those things until he gets his drivers license.)


Everything considered it was a very pleasant Easter Sunday and one of the select times when I was almost over dressed.  Who knows, maybe I'll be there next year.   Maybe it will be God's turn to look down and say..."WOW!

PRESIDENTIAL FUN ON THE 405

It's a little after 3PM and I am leaving Westwood  headed home to San Diego.  Ordinarily it's a miserable commute until you're south of LAX and some of the freeway merges in Orange County. Today, Thursday, the president is in town raising money for his re-election and the drive is becoming a bit of a challenge.  Surface streets like Santa Monica  and Wilshire Boulevard are being sporadically closed and the San Diego Freeway, the famous 405, is just about in gridlock.  I envision Easter and possibly Christmas passing before my car eats up the hundred miles of freeway needed to reach my home in San Elijo Hills.

With some of those patented Dirty Harry driving moves, I beat any closure of Santa Monica Boulevard and hit the southbound ramp of the 405 just in time...to sit.  And sit some more.  Then, very slowly, I merge with the tide of rubber and iron rolling South.  Luckily I always have audio entertainment with me and today is no exception.  Satellite radio, trusty Ipod and audio books are all sanity savers for situations like this.  Today, however, even these distractions aren't enough to take my mind off the fact that thousands of us are being inconvenienced by a feckless commander-in-chief who is in Los Angeles for only one reason.  He is here to shake down his Hollywood pals for campaign money.  He needs to raise a BILLION dollars to get himself re-elected, more than a year hence, to a job he shows no interest in doing.  He is in full campaign mode and will remain so until November of 2012.  Apparently it matters not that the country is now involved in multiple wars we can't afford, has millions of citizens out of work and enough debt to insure that a baby born today already owes over $46,000 to the treasury before filling his or her first diaper.

I don't think I want to know  the total cost for a presidential road trip like this.  I do know that the aviation fuel for Air Force One was nearly $200,000.  The secret service detail, helicopters, local police and fire personnel expenses have to run to the millions.  The founding fathers, I feel safe in assuming, NEVER had this in mind.

And it's not just this guy.  It's all of our elected officials.  Congress should be IN SESSION right NOW!  We need to get this out of control spending stopped.  It is a national emergency.  We need to get it handled or we all lose.  

I don't know about you, but I would happily vote for the first guy who makes a sincere promise to devote his every waking moment to straightening out the fiscal quicksand we've stepped into.

As I sit here in L.A. smog on the 405 I am willing to bet I could take up a collection from my fellow automotive captives that would top any amount of money the campaigner-in-chief will get from his show biz pals at tonight's Brentwood fund raiser.  At least there is a better chance of that than there is of getting  $46k out of my eighteen month-old grandson.  Maybe he'd take a Cheerios contribution?

Later...

I made it home in three and a half hours.  Math has never been my long suit, but I believe that works out to about a thirty mile-per-hour clip.  If I have cooled down tomorrow I'll delete this.

FAT CHANCE!

Let Bob Take the Wheel

Bob Chamberlain was a car kid.  Southern Michigan, in the 1950s, was full of boys who loved all things auto related.  Most dads worked for companies that either made, sold or fixed cars for the "Big Three": General Motors, Ford and Chrysler.  Bob's dad had the local Chevy dealership in the little town of Leslie where I did my grade school time.  Bob was the guy who was always building a go-cart or attempting to rig up a motor for his bike.  Since he lived next door to us, I was often a stooge in his many attempts at gasoline greatness.  In particular I remember him slapping a Briggs & Stratton lawn mower engine onto a piece of purloined plywood he had requisitioned from a nearby lumber yard.  After  nailing the wheels from his brother Dick's radio flyer wagon to a random 2X4 and attaching it to the front of the plywood frame, he was ready to roll.  A couple of pieces of clothesline rope would do nicely for a steering wheel.  (This was high tech compared to the field expedient clutch he concocted from an old fan belt and washing machine pulleys.)  Bob's total capital outlay for the project was about eight cents.  That's what he paid "Pike" Pixley at Pixley's Hardware store for the nails needed to secure the wheels.  

Eight cents...and the damn thing ran.  It didn't go far.  As I recall, a trip around the block was out of the question because of a massive clutch failure and frequent stalls, but it was an eight cent ride.

Bob and his adventures in the world of motorized transportation popped into my head the other day when I heard the news of a slight glitch with the the new Chevy Cruze. 

Chevrolet has recalled more than two-thousand  Cruze models because___

If you don't like the steering wheel here, you can always move it.

THE STEERING WHEEL FALLS OFF!!!!

This is what happens when, instead of letting a poorly managed business simply fail, the federal government decides to spend billions of your tax dollars to prop up a sclerotic company and its bloated union so that they might continue to manufacture cars we no longer want to buy.   Nice going Chevy!

This news should make you feel better as you prepare to send more of your tax dollars to the mentally challenged mendacious holdup artists in Washington, D.C.  Just remember that no matter what they say there is NO way this money will ever be repaid by GM and Chrysler.  The dough, your dough, has only served to prop up the UAW and insure us a continuing supply of cars featuring removable steering wheels.

By the way, in case you're one of the lucky few who have taken delivery of a Chevy Cruze, I know that Bob still lives in Michigan and has cornered the market on clothesline.