A much-revered landmark for IG users, Salvation Mountain is a checklist destination perfectly prohibitive in its desert geography (close enough for social media sojourners to get there and back within a day, distant enough to give every picture pilgrim the appropriate amount of cool cred for making the otherwise desolate journey). As evidenced by the thousands of carefully-filtered photos bearing the eponymous hashtag, Salvation Mountain is a place for disingenuous youth to affect the poses that have become so subconsciously familiar (those characterized by the subjects' well-studied stare as they regard the horizon with an expert combination of anguish and apathy). A colorful, if slightly sun-blistered backdrop, Salvation Mountain's unqualified Judeo-Christian ethos can be tolerated in the name of post-ironic photo gathering. A surefire "heart" magnet, Salvation Mountain elicits envy and scorn in equal measure. In short, it is Instagram. The veneer protecting my contempt for social media sociology may seem perilously thin, yet there we were excitedly making the trek to a destination every bit worthy of its celebrity.
Get a load of this!
Music and video by Mary
I refuse to insult anyone's intelligence by pretending that a profundity greater than the average mountain climber's motivated our visit. Yes, the wacky tacky adventure team, in our quest to storm America's greatest trash castles, was there to document the divinely-inspired folk art of Leonard Knight...but not before procuring some ultra-hip photographic evidence of our own day trip.
Blazing our trail, we began to spitball a few ideas for heightening our experience at Salvation Mountain; as we flew past a discount store, I suggested that it might be fun to arrive in white sweatsuits and drugstore flip flops, giving the appearance of a cult pilgrimage. Call it pretense, if you must, but I was looking for a way to add a layer of humor to our visit (after all, theten sexiest Instagram poseslose something in translation when applied to a fat man on the cusp of middle age). When the elusive white sweat suit became our proverbial white whale; we were forced to settle for the offerings of the paint aisle, leaving the hardware store in crisp, white coveralls and a trio of matching safety goggles.
Introducing BOTS (Brotherhood of Terrestrial Salvation)
Like a mess of meth-making Mike Teavees
Salvation Mountain is the lifework and ministry of Leonard Knight. What started in the 1970s as a proselytizing mission via homemade hot air balloon (seriously) evolved into an '80s-era devotional of straw, clay, found objects, and countless coats of house paint. It took two tries and many years for Knight to master his signature mountain-making technique; through it all, his faith, love, and generosity never wavered. Expansion and maintenance of his passion project continued until his health began to fail in 2011. In the years since his subsequent death, local volunteers have lovingly preserved Knight's masterpiece.
Love is all you need. You may quote me.
This legacy of love is the true message of Salvation Mountain. Christian and nonbeliever alike are reminded at every turn that the purpose of our existence is love.
Just in case anyone missed the literal writing on the wall,
these two BOTS brethren demonstrate how to get a heart on.
It was unclear whether other Knight devotees were feeling the love of the BOTS' presence. Despite a woeful lack of purpose/planning on our part, many videos and photographs - surreptitious and otherwise - were taken as we silently marched our way up and over the mountain (with un-swinging arms for that authentic touch of cultish weirdness).
She's still wondering if the label on the coveralls was accurate - "One size saves all."
One confused Brit was brave enough to approach me and inquire after our presence; struggling for a clever response, I instead feigned a vow of silence, trying and failing to communicate with meaningless hand gestures. When the BOTS did speak, it was a practice in improvisational call-and-response between Sister Siusiak's Polish and our semi-Slavic gibberish, punctuated liberally by the Polish slang for wiener.
Starting to question our own bizarre behavior, all we needed was to turn a corner for a loving affirmation.
Things reached a new pinnacle of strange when we formed a human triangle (facing inward with our hands on each other's shoulders) and began to vocalize in unison. I'm willing to place a generous amount of accountability upon our choice of ensemble; with temperatures upwards of 110 degrees, the internal temperature of our space suits might very well have been delirium inducing.
You could say that we were getting carried away by the spirit of the Man Upstairs...
In the end, we couldn't decide if we were the lighthearted antidote to the hordes of picture pilgrims or ourselves symptomatic of the devolution of weird roadside in America. As the conflict rages on, we are seriously considering making BOTS official.
We are mobilizing.
And Brother Cyrus says the reaping is nigh.
Resistance is futile.
If you don't want to get left behind, all you must do is "Jump in the Line."
"Jump in the Line" - Harry Belafonte (1961)
This video has been brought to you by Fartco, Inc.
For those who don't follow along onInstagram, I suppose that I should explain our recent radio silence. Last week, following a terrible accident while under the care of "medical professionals," my father passed away. Last night we held a memorial service celebrating a brilliant man and a life well-lived. He deserved so much better from life and from me, but these are the words I could string together in an attempt to honor the bottomless source of creativity, service, and joy that is my hero - my dear father.
Being your father’s favorite child isn’t always all that it’s cracked up to be. Actually, it is fraught with anxiety. There are the front row views of him playing human Plinko while falling out of the neighbor’s tree (and hitting every branch on the way down), the worry of wondering whether or not he has gone permanently blind after performing a "quick weld" without the benefit of a welding mask. There is the embarrassment of the long series of notes excusing my junior-high absences that chronicled my diplomatic endeavors in South Africa and the crippling nature of the subsequent traveler’s diarrhea. In going through his papers, we actually found a rough draft of one such excuse note:
"[Mr. Tiny] hurt his ankle when he kicked his brother.
After severely disabling his brother he turned criminal,
going on the 'run' and robbing a liquor store. After the
ensuing gun battle with police, he fled to Mexico where
he is hiding out. And this is why he can't run in P.E."
There is also a lot of activity directing – the hallway wheelchair races, the sing-a-longs, and the impromptu living room dance parties (some that continued into our final days at the ICU). But these examples are pretty universal among every “favorite child.” Am I right?
I love hearing the memories of my dad that keep pouring in from friends and family. The common themes among these stories are how talented, cheerful, funny, and helpful my dad was. These remembrances are particularly valuable to me because my own memory is total rubbish. They remind me of the brilliant, beautiful man who let me walk on his back when he needed a massage (a practice that ended many years ago - I promise you that it was not a contributing factor to his current condition). They tell me more about the man who taught me how to draw a duck and a horse and a dog as we half-listened to the messages delivered in church. They tell me about a life lived in service to his fellow man. This isn’t to say that he was perfect; one memory that I do recall from our early years together features me as a petulant 4-year-old who refused to eat his portion of scalloped potatoes. This act of defiance quickly became a battle of wills between father and son. At first, I was handed the fairly-pedestrian threats of not getting dessert, not leaving the table, and not “passing Go” until my plate was cleaned. Things escalated when neither threats nor bribery were working. At one point, my mom gathered the other kids from the table and bundled them into their winter coats. Sitting resolutely at the head of the table, my dad declared that if I didn’t eat the quickly-congealing potatoes, everyone was going to Disneyland without me. Unmoved, I settled in for a long night at the dining table. Even as the taillights of our Honda disappeared down the street, it occurred to me what a cruel joke this was to play on my siblings who were headed anywhere that night…but certainly not The Magic Kingdom. After several trips around the block, my bitter band of brothers and sisters stumbled through the front door to a scene identical to the one they had left before. With pursed lips, I continued my hunger strike, haughtily ignoring the desperate bargaining and berating. I could feel the balance of power shifting to my side of the table. It was at the precise moment when I was sure that I had won when an exasperated, young father unloaded the entire contents of a water pitcher over the head of his “favorite child.” I think my obstinacy and my flair for the dramatic are genetic. In the end, the joke is on you, Dad. Now I can’t stop eating potatoes…it’s like I’m perpetually carb-loading for a marathon that I will never run!
For those who aren’t totally familiar with my dad’s recent history, I’ll give you my version of events. Eight years ago, just shy of his 54th birthday, my dad suffered a massive stroke that left him totally incapacitated. We put his life, and ours, into the hands of medical professionals and held vigil night and day. After a couple of months, our biggest celebration came when he was able to reach up and scratch his nose. Two very trying years passed, both highlighted by successes and riddled with setbacks. We were finally hitting our stride when he suffered yet another stroke that seemed to erase the progress he made and left us all wondering if there were to be any more birthdays for him.
Our inclination has always been to avoid reliving those tension-filled days because of the physical response we had to his prognosis. Unable to train my mind to focus on anything other than overwhelming sadness, I resisted sleep and ached night and day. For several days, we waited to see if the emergency procedures that were being performed on his behalf would have any positive impact. Instructed to make peace and say our goodbyes, our family came together to face the most devastating outcome possible. Then, sustained by IVs, a feeding tube, a ventilator, an arsenal of the latest in chemical engineering, prayers, faith, and the love of our family, he began to rally!
In recent years, it was obvious that many effects of his strokes were lasting- some seemed like cruel jokes. My dad was a talker; like Will Rogers, my dad never met a man he didn't like and with whom he didn't have at least 5,972 things in common over which he could engage in a lengthy discourse (much to the chagrin of our mother...and the people waiting behind us in line at the grocery store checkout). After the strokes, his speech became impacted by a syndrome common among stroke victims called aphasia; this made communication a major challenge, particularly with people outside of our family. My dad was doer; as we dragged our feet behind him, he used every minute of his "free time" to improve our family home and to help neighbors, friends, church members, and extended family. My dad was a Renaissance man; after replacing the brakes on my car, you would be just as likely to find him painting, cooking, or writing a poem as you would to find him installing a dishwasher or laying tile. Confined to a wheelchair, he became unable to perform some of the simplest functions of personal care. As a young man, my dad was an adventurer; he rode motorcycles and raced cars. And as a father, he made time to take us out of school for a day of fun at museums and parks. He had the ability to make interminably long road trips to visit family seem like Sunday joy rides. It then became our responsibility to convey him using “Old Blue,” a specialty van with wheelchair accessibility.
In the wake of his illness and recovery, the biggest surprise was how little about him had changed. Yes, he had become a little more fragile and a little more tender, but his brilliant mind was intact. His sense of humor still had us rolling on the floor. His passion for his wife was abiding. His love for his children and grandson was abounding. His concern for others was unwavering. His faith was steadfast. His desire to be of service was unyielding, his appreciation for beauty more profound, his courage undefeated.
It is interesting to see how his life was an amazing lesson, one to which I should have been taking more thorough and much more copious notes. Since his illness, however, the lessons became more obvious. I have had to learn to be of greater service to others. I have had to try to be more loving. I have had to embrace adventure and uncertainty. I have had to rely on faith. I've always been hilarious so that was not a problem. Given the impossibly-big shoes to fill, I have felt utterly inept on the best of days. Nevertheless, it has been my great honor to serve my father in a way that transformed the tumultuous early years of our relationship into something so pure, so simple, and so loving. I am not a touchy-feely kind of guy but not a day passed when I didn’t hug the life out him, hold his big meat hook of a hand, and tell him that I loved him. Even though his language was affected, he had many standard phrases that left our hearts soaring and let us know how deeply he appreciated us, including “I love you,” “Wow,” “Thank you,” “I do,” “Si” (he was bilingual), and “I think you’re beautiful/terrible/wonderful/bloody spectacular/fill in the blank.” One time, he even told me that he thought I was sexy; I mean, this guy had some serious range. Being a bit of a rabble-rouser, I always encouraged him to broaden his vocabulary. Every day when I picked him up from “The Club,” I would buckle him in and ask him if he was ready to go. When I received an answer in the affirmative, I would shout, “Then let’s…” and at this point it was his job to fill in the blank with, “GOOOOOO, dammit!” Just for the record, my mom told me it was okay to say dammit in church – but just today.
He was hilarious. I honestly don’t know why it is that I spent the first part of my life vowing to be nothing like my father and the most recent part of my life trying so desperately to be half the man that he was. My efforts to officially canonize him are still under review by the Pope but I just can’t help but remember him as a wonderful disciple of Christ. He was a stellar example of walking the walk, talking the talk, and being of service to everyone around him.
If you ask my mom, she will tell you that he has become the perfect husband. He eats what she wants him to eat. He goes where she wants him to go. He wears what she wants him to wear. She is completely in charge of the finances. And she always knows where he is. I thought of him as the perfect baby. With nothing but respect, I began to think of him as my child…my enormous, beautiful, bouncing baby boy. The correlation works rather literally so you'll have to go with me on this; I changed him, I fed him, I buckled him into a special seat so that we could run errands and get to doctors appointments. I tucked him in. I even mashed up his medicine and mixed it with applesauce. The tenderness I have felt for and from him was probably as parental as anything I will ever experience in this life. There was genuine beauty in his gentle willingness to submit to us…as we maintained our reverence for his dignity.
My father was there when I took my very first breaths; I was there when he drew his very last. I suppose that this is what we call the “circle of life,” but I am not ready. I want a few more chances to scratch him behind the ear, to pluck his errant nose hairs, to rub his back, to hold his hand, to hear him say, “Wow!” I want to hear him tell me again that I am "pretty special." Everybody frowned on the idea, but my plan was to "Notebook" my way right along with him. If you’ve seen that corny movie, then you know what I’m talking about. In doing so, we would have tested not only God’s plan for us but also the weight capacity of a standard-issue hospital bed. Yes, my dad left me, but he left me prepared for what lies ahead.
The greatest gifts my dad has given me are purpose, an understanding of service, and a mother who exemplifies the true meaning of devotion. No tribute to my father would be complete without acknowledging my beautiful mother. My dad didn’t just love my mom; he had a passion for her. That passion was expressed in quiet, simple gestures, in rip-roaring "discussions," and in public displays of affection. It was intense. Growing up in a house filled with humor, excitement, strong opinions, and passion, it is no wonder that our life has been, shall we say, colorful. Through it all, my mom has been the most humble, steadfast, hard-working person I have ever known. What can I say? My parents chose the best of the best. But besides her winning streak on PASSWORDand his regular first-place ribbons at chili cook-offs, my parents have lived a life free from major acclaim and a lot of high-profile credits to their names. Together they built a life that was rich in ways that were not always obvious to the outside world.
If you’ll indulge me, I’m going to "pull a Pat" and read you a poem I wrote. Everyone in my family accuses me of being my mother’s son but writing poems is pure Dad.
THERE’S A LITTLE BROWN HOUSE
WITH A LITTLE BLUE DOOR
WHERE THE PEOPLE INSIDE
ARE BITTERLY POOR.
THEIR SHABBY, OLD CLOTHES
AREN’T MEANT TO BE FUNNY.
THEY RECYCLE CANS
JUST FOR THE GAS MONEY.
THE CAR THAT THEY DRIVE
HAS TIRES THAT ARE WORN,
HAS BRAKES THAT ARE SQUEALING,
AND AN IMPOTENT HORN.
THE CHILDREN KEEP MOM
IN A PERMANENT PANIC,
WHILE DAD JUST KEEPS BUSY
AS HEAD CHEF AND MECHANIC.
THERE ARE SO MANY KIDS
WITH SO MANY NAMES
THAT WHEN ONE GETS IN TROUBLE
EVERYONE’S BLAMED.
SOME PEOPLE WILL SCOFF
AT THE REDUCED CIRCUMSTANCES
BUT THE FAMILY’S QUITE USED
TO THE GIGGLES AND GLANCES.
DESPITE HOW THINGS SEEM
FROM OUTSIDE THE DOOR,
THE PEOPLE INSIDE
DON’T KNOW THAT THEY’RE POOR.
THE RAMSHACKLE STRUCTURE
TO THEM IS A COTTAGE.
AND THEY PLAN ON STAYING
WELL INTO THEIR DOTAGE.
THEIR CLOTHES MAY BE CLASSED
AS OLD HAND-ME-DOWNS,
BUT COME HALLOWEEN
THEY ARE PIRATES AND CLOWNS.
THEIR CAR IS A CHARIOT
THAT CARRIES THE LOAD
WHEN HUNTING DOWN PALM FRONDS
O’ER THE BUMPS IN THE ROAD.
CHEERFULNESS REIGNS
AT THIS HUMBLE DWELLING
BUT THERE’S STILL TIME FOR FIGHTS,
CALLING NAMES, AND SOME YELLING.
THE CHARM OF THIS TRIBE
MAY BE LOST ON OTHERS,
BUT TO PEER THROUGH THE WINDOW
ONE QUICKLY DISCOVERS -
THAT HIDDEN INSIDE,
THEY’VE COLLECTED A TREASURE
THAT CANNOT BE COUNTED
FOR IT’S FAR BEYOND MEASURE.
THIS FORTUNE THEY PRIZE
ALL OTHERS ABOVE
IS GOD’S GREATEST GIFT…
A FAMILY’S LOVE.
In his very last hours with us, I think my dad was just waiting for me to ask him one more time, “Are you ready? Then let’s go, dammit!” Instead, as his breathing slowed, I told him how proud I was of him. I asked him to watch over us. I thanked him for being an incredible father. I told him how much I loved him.
It was never a question whether my dad loved me or not but he gave me plenty of opportunities to wonder if, given the choice, we would ever be friends in "real life." On the last day I shared with him before he entered the hospital, he gave me one final gift. In between the Christmas carols and dance routines, he traded in his typical loving refrain for something much more precious to me. Whenever I entered or left the room, instead of offering me his usual “I love you,” he looked me in the eye and repeated “I like you. I like you. I like you.” I like you too, Pop.
My Father • My Buddy • My Baby
November 2, 1953 - December 11, 2015
In the great scheme of things, an adventure to find one of our favorite houses from one of our favorite films seems positively puny when compared with the BIG adventure of the film's hero. It might also seem highly unreasonable for a grown man to consider said house as holy ground. When one considers that the house' primary, if fictional, resident was one Pee-Wee Herman (the original "eccentric man-child"), it all starts to make more sense.
Pee-Wee's House from Pee-Wee's Big Adventure (1985)
There are many subliminal (or overt) style cues/taste preferences I picked up from both Pee-Wee Herman and art director, David L. Snyder - cowboys & indians, holiday decor, lawn art, space age travel, and symmetrical homes
of the 1920s.
Built in 1922, this delightfully-symmetrical house made Mr. Tiny jump for joy.
Even without its fire-engine-red paint job, yard full of statuary, and Water
Wiggle sprinkler system, this home would suit this eccentric man-child to a T!
Nestled between quite sizable Craftsman-style homes, the scale and current color of Mr. Herman's house make it a real standout in its lovely, South Pasadena neighborhood. Having made no secret of the fact that my very favorite houses are those that resemble either a child's drawing or the sweet simplicity of a Mary Blair illustration, I could easily see myself feathering this particular nest. I have never even seen the inside but I know that living in Pee-Wee Herman's house would make me feel like "the luckiest boy in the world."
With its red-tinted roof, picket fence, and twin peaks, Pee-Wee's house is a passable,
real-life stand-in for The Little House - even without the gingerbread trim.
In taking this picture, I assured Mary that I was Pee-Wee and she was definitely Francis.
The neighbors, including Mr. Crowtray (I always thought he said "Crabtree"), were not buying it either.
Incidentally, this shot includes the window from which Mr. Crowtray communicated with Pee-Wee.
I am such a die-hard fan of everything Pee-Wee related that someone might be liable to call me "crazy," "a nerd," "an idiot." To that person, I have only one thing to say, "I know you are but what am I?"
Pee-Wee's house in action
Pee-Wee Herman's House
1848 Oxley St
South Pasadena, CA
For Americans, November is a month dedicated to gratitude. Veterans' Day offers us the chance to be grateful to members of our armed forces, recognizing them for the innumerable sacrifices associated with their service. And while it is being ever more co-opted by greedy retailers, Thanksgiving is the holiday we have collectively consecrated for counting our blessings. There is so much for which we at wacky tacky are grateful and one of those things is good, old-fashioned nostalgia. Nostalgia is the very fuel for the wacky tacky fire and, in a way, this blog is my method of expressing my thanks.
I've realized lately that I have aged to the point where I am starting to get nostalgic for my own youth. This has created a weird paradigm because many of the programs I watched in my youth were themselves shows about nostalgia,not the least of which was The Wonder Years. I find myself layered in compound nostalgia when recalling The Wonder Years because it was a show about family that we always watched together as a family. Gathered around a hand-me-down television, I remember splitting my time between watching the show and watching my dad watch the show. Of an age that would have made him a contemporary of Kevin Arnold, The Wonder Years allowed my dad the luxury of vicariously reliving some of the sweetest moments of his youth. Rapt with nostalgia, I can still hear my folks humming along with the music and saying, "Oh, we had a stove just like that," and "We were the first on the block to get a color TV." Is it absurd to think with a fair measure of confidence that my dad's inner monologue is voiced by Daniel Stern?
The Wonder Years (1988-1993)
We are lucky enough to have reels and reels of
similarly-styled home movies shot by my grandpa.
For as much affinity as I have for the show, I will admit to never being fully satisfied with the outcome of The Wonder Years. Call me corny, but *SPOILER ALERT*, Kevin and Winnie should have ended up together. I am not the kind of person who really appreciates vagaries, loose ends, or complicated endings. If you ever find yourself wondering what I value in my entertainment, you can be sure that it is pure, unadulterated fantasy. Don't get me wrong; I'll allow my favorite shows to be riddled with conflict as long as the end sees everything tied up in a nice, neat, symmetrical bow.
As thankful as I am for the nostalgic storytelling of The Wonder Years, I do have a couple of gripes. Jack should've softened and lived into old age so he could enjoy his grandchildren and celebrate the success of his wife. Wayne should've...well, Wayne did okay; taking over his old man's furniture business was probably as good as it was going to get for Wayne. I think that life can be so scary, so unpredictable, so messy that, if just for one moment of make-believe, the promise of an Arnold-Cooper union would have made the world seem right. I want what skeptics view as unattainable perfection; I can appreciate that it might seem naive, but I embrace the belief that if we aim for the moon and fail, at least we'll end up amongst the stars.
The Arnold family at home
At the very least, we'll end up amongst the homes of the stars. In this case, the home of the Arnold family, nestled in the charming, suburban sprawl of Burbank, CA. Included on our list of blessings-to-count is the fact that, more than twenty years after the show's finale, the Arnold home remains virtually unchanged. From the white shutters, to the patchy front lawn, to the hedgerow, that edifice was so comforting in its familiarity that as we pulled up could almost hear Kevin asking Norma, "Hey mom, What's for dinner?" We could almost see Winnie and Paul waving to us from the curb.
Cynthia giving us her very best Paul Pfeiffer
The roof has been replaced and a few windows have been updated, but number 516 is unmistakably Arnold.
Like many others, I'm fully aware that very rarely does life follow the escapist story lines of our dreams. I can't say with any surety whether it happens slowly or in the blink of an eye, but I know how the magic veil of childhood innocence is lifted with age. I know what it is like when, in an instant, life changes forever. I know loss. I suppose it is the harsh realities of life that make us more profoundly grateful for the moments of light, and laughter, and joy. And while I feel like a late-bloomer still working through some of the challenges of finding my place in the world, I must remember to pause and give thanks for my story line thus far. I must remember the blissful days of one imperfect family gathering to watch and relate to the struggles and triumphs of another imperfect family. It is funny how something as simple as a television house can elicit such gratitude for my very own wonder years.
Like a lot of guys, I'm kind of a weakling when it comes to being sick. I'll never make my illness anyone else's problem but I will be the first to shut the door, curl up in a ball, and refuse to emerge from my room until the last trace of phlegm has left the building. Sick days are meant to be used and, as the old saying goes, "If you don't use 'em, you lose 'em." Indeed, I have no compunction about taking the day off so as to avoid publicly suffering through the day, spreading my infectious germs hither and yon all over the workplace (Attention potential employers: please ignore this). Honestly, if you think I look bad at full capacity, trust me when I say that you certainly don't want the vision of me in ill health haunting your dreams. Yes, the best thing to do when one is under the weather is to stay home. On the rare occasion when a "mental health day" is in order, I fully endorse the exploitation of that opportunity as well. When there is adventure to be had, make like Ferris Bueller and take the day off! And what better way to enjoy a day off than to see the house where Ferris lived?
Ferris Bueller's Day Off was kind of a cinematic anomaly in our house. It was the first/only PG-13 movie we were allowed to see at a time when my parents took the "13" very seriously (I was well under thirteen when the film was released). On a rare "date night," my parents actually saw the movie in the movie theater; so smitten were they by the last time Matthew Broderick exhibited any kind of onscreen charm, they made sure that, rather than continuously borrowing it from the library, we owned a copy of our very own. With other movies (all other movies) my mom would launch her person in front of the screen like some kind of human shield/missile interceptor to protect us from questionable cinematic moments like passionate kissing, profane language, and even intimated intimacy. I'll never forget a little library rental starring John Lithgow called Traveling Man. Confused by the NR-rating, I think my mom earnestly believed that the dad fromHarry and the Hendersonswould never make a movie to challenge her parental guidelines. That delusion was the exact reason she was just a few seconds too late to block the highly-motivating talents of a rather-buxom exotic dancer, working hard to motivate Lithgow and a conference room full of traveling salesmen. I think my mom "lost her library card" after that incident. With FBDO, she always remained in her seat; she must've figured that the references and words we understood weren't too bad and the rest went right over our little toe-heads. After countless viewings, Ferris Bueller's Day Off is a venerated title around our house, oft watched and oft quoted.
Most guys liked Sloane (Mia Sara) but Jennifer Grey was feisty, and foul-mouthed!!!
The nose may change but she'll always be Jeanie/Shawna to me.
If I could never have Jeanie, there was always Grace (Edie McClurg) - GENIUS!!!
So impactful has this movie been on my life that I have spent many years chasing the dream. Everywhere I go, I try to capture the Bueller mystique, starting at the Art Institute of Chicago. Sent to the city on business several years ago, I made my work pals (a woman, another fellow, and me) pose like the famous statue, Portrait of Balzac (Ã la Ferris, Sloane, and Cameron). In a very un-Ferris fashion, I was unsuccessful in my attempt when the one person willing to take our photo didn't understand what we were trying to do and then got distracted/hassled by an aggressive female docent. Infuriated, all I could manage to say was, "What if you need a favor someday from Ferris Bueller? Then where will you be, huh? You heartless wench!"
This could have been us!
Knowing the important place this movie occupies in my heart and mind, I felt it was finally time to go find the Bueller homestead. While John Hughes' films are well-known for their Chicago setting, I luckily didn't have to travel quite so far. Instead of suburban Chicago, the Bueller home is actually in Bixby Knolls, an historically-ritzy enclave of Long Beach, CA (who knew Ferris and Snoop Dogg were neighbors???).
The shutters are now blue, the trees have grown, but that portico
and hedge-framed circular driveway are unmistakably Bueller.
Confession time. As much as I like to pretend I am a "righteous dude" like Ferris, in the imaginary recasting of the film, there is no question that I am Cameron. I have my moments; I've been known to join a parade, dance and sing in public, enjoy the occasional ditch day, lie to my parents, and make my sister's life miserable, but I am really just a tightly-wound bundle of nerves, neuroses, and insecurities - think lump of coal/diamond. I think that is why, nearly thirty years later, the film continues to resonate so deeply with me. Quelling my anxieties, the film's message is to take chances, to enjoy life, to adventure, and to live in the moment (even if the moment is simply a short drive on your day off to see the outside of a stranger's house). As Ferris says, "Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop to look around once in a while, you could miss it." And so I say to you, just "take a stand" and take the car...but don't kill the car.
I know what you're thinking, "MORE sun hats?!?!!! This fool has got to be kidding!!!" Well, as long as the sun shines in the great state of California, sun hats will always be a necessity. Furthermore, this post has nothing whatsoever to do with thePut A Lid On It Sun Hats by Mr. Tiny, currently available on Etsy (that doesn't mean that there isn't time for a shameless little p-p-puh-plug). Rather, this post has everything to do a with a vintage hat pattern that I unearthed from the bottom of a pattern avalanche that I received several years ago as a hand-me-down from my grandmother.
At first glance, the illustration led me to believe that the undated pattern might've been from the
late-'60s-'70s. After reviewing the printing and instructions, I figured that it was probably from the
1980's, likely a classic pattern that had been in print for a number of years by Muggins Original Stuff (a company from whom it appears an interested party might still potentially acquire a copy).
A one-sheet pattern, I nearly disposed of it, doubting seriously my ambition for creating sun hats (my, my, how times have changed). Recognizing that certain timeless styles remain perennially en vogue, I decided to retain it in the Mr. Tiny pattern archives, feeling deep within my hoarder's heart that it would eventually come in handy.
Hoping to invoke the spirit of Joan and Thelma, and evoke a style reminiscent of these other
floppy-hatted beachside beauties, I pulled the "Fun in the Sun" hat pattern from the vaults.
(Source A, B, C, D, E, F)
Also from the vaults came this sturdy rayon-linen blend printed with charming sprays of pink
dogwood blossoms. I've had this fabric so long that it has actually moved house with me twice!
I had the pattern, the inspiration, the fabric, and a free afternoon; nothing was to stop me from diving head first into this hat (please, do not pardon the pun; it only encourages me).
I decided to skip the frivolity of the scalloped brim (View 2) and the superfluous sunglass holder (View 3) in favor of the simplicity of View 1. That isn't to say that I followed the instructions word-for-word (definitely not my strong suit). I ignored the warning against fusible interfacing (for a reason known only to the high heavens, I used fusible AND non-fusible interfacing), I extended the depth of the brim by 2" all around, and opted to assemble the hat in a way that suited my dubious understanding of garment/hat construction as opposed to the pattern-maker's expert instruction.
Instead of attaching ready-made ribbons to the finished hat, as per pattern instructions,
I made my own ties out of the fashion fabric and sewed them into the seam for a more finished look.
I might not have fully committed myself to the instructions but I did love the editorial commentary peppered
liberally throughout: "Everything cut out? Machine threaded? Radio turned to your favorite station?
How about a can of pop and a couple of cookies? O.K....Everything in place, so let's get sewin'."
Radio? Cookies? Pop?!?!! If this was my grandma's house in the '70s-'80s, it would've
been Donahue on the TV, a handful of Excedrin, and an ice-cold chaser ofTab!
The hat went together quickly and easily but I, of course, failed to take any progress pictures - I wasn't about to disrupt my hat making rhythm!
Because our house model is out of town, I had to employ our far more
reliable, exceedingly more cooperative standby, "Hat-tie McDaniel."
Just imagine what it would like like with a little bit of hair!
The last departure I made from the original hat pattern was electing to eliminate the multiple rows of topstitching on the brim; I like the way it looks without but I think the topstitching would provide a bit more body and stability. I might change my mind by the time our live mannequin returns ready to model the complete look (yep, I can't help myself from making matchy-matchy hat ensembles). What a cliffhanger!!! Will Mr. Tiny take to the topstitch or will the broad brim remain bare? Stay tuned!!!
Have you sewn a hat before? Is it possible that Ms. Crawford would deign to don our "Fun in the Sun Hat?" What do you think, is floppy too sloppy, or would you wear a floppy, floral, flapper-inspired beach hat?
