How Bill Steinkellner Came to Earth: A Speculative Tale of the Origins of Team Steinkellner

The Chicago World’s Fair AKA The Century of Progress opened in 1933. Sally Rand, the Fan Dancer (You had to be there but it was hot for entertainment at the time) and Judy Garland were there. Even the German airship, the Graf Zeppelin flew overhead.  According to family tradition it is also where my parents met.

I don’t know how they met but they both liked to dance so perhaps it was on this Dance Floor over the ice pond in the Black Forest Village as pictured here. Heck, they might even be in that crowd.

Did he see her across the chilly floor and think what the hell?

When he asked her did she think “what the hell”?

Did she snuggle close because it was cold outside and did he get the wrong idea? (But then she felt sorry for him and so she let him think that she liked him more than she really did?)

Was she there with her girlfriend who was sort of on the plump side and so my dad had to get a buddy to talk to her friend while he tried to get my mother’s attention?

Is my existence, as well as my three brothers and two sisters, dependent on my daddy being able to talk one of his doofussy friends into engaging in idle chatter with some chubby girl who smells of too Jungle Gardenia? (Decades into the future are my unborn children cheering on this most cliche of situations.)

What if my mother had missed her bus and somehow arrived three hours later when my father is off having a hot dog as the shadow of the Graf Zeppelin passes by?

What if my dad had pulled a muscle bowling the night before and never got to the Fair?

What if organizers had decided that Cleveland was a hell of a lot better place for a Fair?

Or was it like I’ve always believed?  Kismet.

 

Household Name Corpse at the Green Parrot Inn: A Solve It Yourself Mystery

Note: Reverse side reads– This “Chicken Dinner Place” belongs to my nephew and niece, Howie and Mary Toothman of Kirkwood, Mo.

 

Duncan Hines was deader than a donut. He wouldn’t be reviewing anybody’s restaurant any more. Now, the worms would be reviewing him. One thing for sure he had made himself many an enemy at a ton of eateries on Route 66.

No matter how you dubbed his demise, the crime scene wasn’t a pretty sight. Not that most things that roll out of a roadside kitchen are very fetching until they pretty it up with sauces and such just before plonking it in front of the clientele.

But this little deadly tableau was definitely muy malo. Duncan’s back had been poked with a fork so many times it looked like Sarasota Springs with ketchup. His face had been squashed inside a pie shell that was two sizes too small for the job. And just to make sure that he never made it to his night cap rendezvous at the Kit Kat Klub he had been deboned.

Now, the case was in my lap. My name is McCanna.  I’m an ex-cop … and the busboy.

 

What It’s Like to be a Real Life Princess

“It’s shit to be a princess these days. Everyone thinks I’m sour graping them but it’s the truth.

The problem is the girls have an image in their heads that royal life is like The Princess Diaries.  What a load of crap. All those animated mice prancing around and singing… oh wait that was a different one.  No matter it’s a big load anyway.

Oh sure, when my gradmother was a princess it was a lot like the movies. Fancy dress balls every time you turned around. Black tie and tails,  ermine robes and gobs of jewelry as far as the eye could see. The Princes all looking like they just crossed a moat and were about to  step into an enchanted  forest.

And the Princesses were glorious.  Beautiful, brocaded, with hints of jewels.  Like God’s own wedding cake. Of course, it wasn’t all glamor. Tata Mamoushka insisted that lugging around all that ghastly heavy material once gave her a yeast infection.

…Now? I just sit around on my blue-blooded duff. My agent’s angling to get me an endorsement for some new Princess Spaghetti.  I hope I don’t have to eat any of the crap.  I did a local spot for Sonic and almost ended up with frost-bite of the tongue.”

How to Take the Perfect Baby Picture.

The front of this card reads: “This is Baby Ernest G. Green. Taken September 7, 1908.  It was taken outdoors and the sun shone on one of his eyes and spoilt it. — Edith Green”

“This way, Honey.  Baby Ernest, look at the camera.  Look at the nice man with the camera. No, this way. This way. This way. Big smile for the camera.

Let’s see your pretty teeth. Ernest has pretty teeth. Show the camera your teeth. Big smile.  Lots of teeth. Teethy, teethy, teethy…

…No, it can’t hurt you. The camera doesn’t have teethies.  Baby Ernest has teethies.  Show the camera your teethies…

No, no spitties, Baby.  The camera doesn’t like spitties. The camera wants you to put your tongue back in your mouth. No tonguey.  No spitties. Big smile.

Almost done. No, no, Baby Ernest sits.  No getting out. Later we’ll get out. Sit and smile. Good boy. Good sittie boy. Ernest likes to sit. Yes, he does.  No hand in mouthie, Baby.  No hand. No hand. Hand all gone. Goody goodest boy.

Almost done. Smile at the puppet. Big smile. Sit. Big smile. Look at the smiley puppet. Hand down. Both hands down. Smile.

Big smile then yummy ice cream. No, no ‘screamy, yet. ‘Screamy when you sit and smile. ‘Screamy in a second. No cries, Angel Pants. One big smile then ‘screamy. Good boy. Sit. Sit, now. Almost there. …Shoot-shoot. Good boy.  Goodest boy.

Got it!

Here’s ‘screamy for Baby Ernest. Goody gumdrops, goodest boy.

Well, I think that’s going to turn out just peachy.”

The Greatest Singing Quartet until the British Invasion.

Jack Thomas was the spark plug of the quartet. (If you read the promo material you’d swear that was Lester Bartlett’s role. But if you put stock in what Jack claimed, “Mr. Bartlett just drives the bus, makes home-made grilled cheeses and goes out on the beer run”.) Jack Thomas was hampered in his explosive forward thinking energy only by his tendency to be what might be called a “chain drinker.”

Lester Bartlett had formed the group.  He picked out the formal duds that set them apart from their peers.  He had musical arrangements imported from Europe and the Far East.  He ate, slept and drank the Harvards.  Thus the rumor of his lack of spark plugability cut him so deeply. But truth to tell where there’s smoke…

Wirt Phillips was the consummate lady’s man. ( Lester Bartlett never regretted being mistaken for him because of this. Plus, Wirt was a better singer.) Wirt had been known to make women swoon just by giving an odd little tug on his tie or flicking his tongue at the corner of his mustache when the group did their encore of  “Not Even the Harvest Moon Can Fill the Hole in My Heart Upon Seeing You with Another”. 

Jewell Boyd was a man’s man.  But in spite of his overwhelming manliness he still liked a lovely book of verse, flower arranging, shopping for fine furniture, and dressing up as heroines of the Bible for Halloween. He never found the right person to be Mrs. Jewell Boyd so he remained a life long bachelor.

 

 

 

 

 

The Return of the Legendary Western.

Note: This card is postmarked 1905.

In case any producers get tired of reality shows (especially the ones involving cooking) here’s a genre that absolutely dominated the air waves many moons ago.  And it went something like this-

SCENE ONE.                                                                  BLACK BART

If you don’t git, Virginian, I’m afeered there might be some gunplay

that’ll leave you writhin’ in the dust like a sick, yella dog.

THE VIRGINIAN

So be it, Bart.  So be it.

BLACK BART REACHES FOR HIS SIX-SHOOTER.  THE VIRGINIAN IS TOO QUICK FOR HIM AND SHOOTS BARTS PISTOL OUT OF HIS HAND. WITH FURTHER SHOTS THE VIRGINIAN MAKES THE GUN DANCE UP THE STREET. BART THROWS HIS HANDS UP AS IF TO SURRENDER.  BUT WHEN THE VIRGINIAN LOWERS HIS GUN, BART PULLS OUT A DERRINGER. TOO LATE. OUR HERO SHOOTS HIM ONCE STRAIGHT THROUGH THE HEART.

 

SCENE TWO                                                                        LAREDO KID

Mister, I hear tell you’re the fastest gun west of the Pecos…

THE VIRGINIAN

Well, I ain’t been all that west of here but I shoot straight enough.

You got your whole life ahead of you, Kid. It’d be stupid if this was

your last day…

THE LAREDO KID NODS AND STARTS TO TIP HIS STETSON WITH RESPECT BUT THEN PULLS A SAWED-OFF SHOTGUN FROM BEHIND HIS BACK.  THE VIRGINIAN AS QUICK AS A RATTLER NAILS HIM WITH ONE SHOT. THE KID STAGGERS AND FALLS INTO A WATER FILLED HORSE TROUGH. THE WATER TURNS A DARK PINK.

REPEAT SCENES ONE AND TWO WITH VARIATIONS AS LONG AS NECESSARY.

LAST SCENE                                                       SCHOOL MARM

It’s a pity you couldn’t stay a little longer.  Any way

you have our heartfelt thanks.

THE VIRGINIAN

Thank, Slim.  He’s the Sheriff, now.

THE VIRGINIAN WHEELS HIS HORSE ABOUT ONE AND A HALF TIMES, TIPS HIS HAT TO THE SMALL GATHERING OF DECENT CITIZENS AND RIDES OFF INTO THE DYING SUN.

 

 

The Top Ten Secrets of Show Business Success.

Disclaimer: Many of the following secrets have a bias towards writers– but what –  I’m a lion-tamer?

1) Nothing will be a bigger hit than a TV show that appears “smart” but is, in fact, stupid enough for the viewer to follow while casually flipping through People or the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition.

2) An actor (especially a star) who has character motivation issues, whether real or imagined , always feels much better when given more lines. If these lines are surefire laugh-lines taken away from a supporting player, it’s even better. From the writer’s POV it may not get as big a laugh but at least you don’t have to come up with new material.

3) Young writers always want to write black comedy, anti-society diatribes, and satire.  They might as well try to sell three-day-old fish.

4) The public always thinks actors make up all the dialog that comes out of their faces.  They seldom realize it belongs to the names that follow the words “written by”.

5) Directors side with the actors.  There are two reasons for this a) they used to be actors or still are; and b) it’s the smart thing to do.

6) A show with a story is always better than one without a story.  This is why a mediocre musical beats a really good musical review.  Great stories are worth far more than gold.  But they are harder to find.

7) Jokes are always trashed by people who couldn’t think of one  if you put a gun to their head. Jokes are highly appreciated by people who think of them for a living.

8 ) There are no new jokes, only new audiences. The last new joke was by Demosthenes when the pebbles fell out of his mouth.  (Great sight-gag by the way.)

9) In show business only Producers and Studio Heads win the Man of the Year Award.  Nobody breaks this rule – not even the Pope.

10) Show-biz secrets always come in top tens like box-office grosses, Neilsen ratings and bestselling books.

The Six Most Important Things to Know About Sitting Near an Alligator Wrestling Pit

Do not make inadvertent chicken noises, especially if dressed in pale marabou.

Do not run across the staging area sans clothing.  Even if it is part of a fraternity hazing.  Even if you are guaranteed that it is “cool with the management and a fun part of the show”. Even if all the other pledges are already down to their skivies and have one foot over the restraining wall.

Leave any purse, wallet, belt or shoes at the front gate if they have been made out of alligator skin. Alligators protect their own. Unlike humans they can tell each other apart. And they have notoriously long memories when it comes to the demise of loved ones.

Don’t dangle your children over the wall as a joke to “scare” them. We have a whole bunch of traumatized kids in a storage shed near the back fence that some thoughtless parents haven’t bothered to retrieve for some months.  ’nuff said.

Don’t yell taunting anti-‘gator remarks at the performers. Alligators aren’t stupid, you know? (And we weren’t able to build the wall, that you are resting your ‘Gator Slurpeez on, as high as we had wanted to.  We are pretty sure that the beasts don’t have the ability to leap that high and snap their jaws at the same time  But heck better to be safe than armless.

That smell is exactly what you think it is.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What to Do After You’re Dead AKA Checklist for Purgatory

Note: The tiny printing reads “soul in purgatory” in Spanish.  Not sure how old this card is but it must pre-date Warhol.  Could he have gotten his Campbell soup can concept from this card?

Text your friends. (Or you could just lean over and talk to them.  Trust me, they’ll be there. Nobody is going straight to heaven. … Oh, really who?)

Play that hand held poker game.  You might have enough time to get a Royal Flush.  If you don’t that might be a drag in heaven.  On the other hand if you get it right away it’s going to be a dud as a time killer.

Try to track down those old girlfriends. Now, you’ve got no excuses.

Look up, Houdini though he might have passed through already. Don’t look for JFK. I got a bad feeling.

Count all the holes in the accoustical tile ceiling.  They may not have this in purgatory but I think there’s a good chance.

Read War and Peace.  This is  probably the only thing outside of being able to explain String Theory that will impress folks on the other side of the Pearly Gates.

Transfer all your old family DVDs to the Cloud format.  Waiting around for a more elegant technology is a sucker’s bet.

Clean out the stuff at the bottom of the deep freeze.  It’s time.  Depending on the temperature in Purgatory it might thaw a lot faster than you anticipate.

Stop counting carbs,calories and whatever the hip dieters count, nowadays.  Just buy a bigger pants size. (Even More Magazine can’t guilt trip you now.)

Forgive everybody. Even the girl/guy who ruined your prom for you. You don’t want to drag that baggage with you through all eternity.

Get ready to meet God.  (Pray that it isn’t a Big Letdown.)

How Team Steinkellner Doesn’t Spend Its Free Time.

Note: No member of Team Steinkellner was kept from their many creative pursuits to make this photo.  Unlike most pictures like this these outfits are what everyone really wore to the beach.  This photo is printed on a metal plate. It is probably a hundred years old.  And yes, that is a fake ocean shore behind them.

We don’t go to the beach much.

We don’t dine out at fancy-schmancy places unless we are trying to impress somebody (so we don’t eat at fancy-schmancy places).

I can’t remember the last time we went skiing (oh, that’s right — never).

We have never gotten around to attending a political rally. But we did have a very small victory party for somebody who got elected to the school board, once.

We don’t go on three-day shopping sprees.  Though the number of packages that have been Fed-ex’d or UPS’d over the years might add up to 72 hours of materialistic pursuit.

We don’t venture out to country or farm (Ever?  I’dhave to look it up on the calendar.  We do look things up on the calendar.  Well, a certain curly-headed dynamo who lives here does).

We don’t go to bars (at least I don’t.  If anyone else does they never talk about it).

We don’t go to rock concerts — if they’re even called that anymore (so, we aren’t Kiss fanatics or Deadheads.  Big upside: all the money we’ve saved on overpriced t-shirts over the years).

We don’t run 5Ks, 10Ks, mini-marathons, marathons or Iron Men events.

We don’t go to church every Sunday.

We don’t buy old houses and rehab them.

Yet somehow we manage to stay pretty busy.