Number 4 in a series of 22 columns by my grandfather, Lawson E. Parker, for the Fort Lauderdale Sunday News.
Warning: SpongeBob makes an appearance.
I wish I could put hyperlinks into the jpg of these scans, then as you read the name of the band you can click and listen, instead of scrolling down to the video. I tried scanning some into PDFs using word recognition or whatever it’s called, but that didn’t work. Hyperlinks would be possible if I retyped everything, but that’s not going to happen.
Speaking of typing, I typed a letter to a childhood friend on Grandpop’s 70 year old typewriter the other day; my hands still hurt. I gave up using the normal asdf jkl; method Mr. Taylor taught us in 9th grade and used the two index fingers like Grandpop did and Dad still does; it’s the only way with that beast! But I love the font, so all my cards and letters will be typed on it from now on.
Every time I hear the SpongeBob tune, which is more often than I should admit, it bugs me that I know it from somewhere; now I know where.
2nd Warning: Grandpop calls Satchmo a sell-out.
Third in the 22 part series of columns by my grandfather, Lawson E. Parker, for the Fort Lauderdale Sunday News.
I’ve heard Bix Beiderbecke’s name all my life. I didn’t know anything about him, though, until the internets came around and I could Google him.
Of course Grandpop loved the Wolverine Orchestra; Bix was his favorite musician, and Grandpop was a U.of Michigan Wolverine.
On a side note, October 31 was my great-grandmother Grace Parker’s birthday and my great-grandparents’ anniversary.
Victor Moore, on drums, was a realtor in Fort Lauderdale when Grandpop wrote this column. Apparently, he didn’t live as hard as Bix (cornet, far right) did.
About a thousand years ago (199x?) I met up with some friends at a bar on Washington in downtown Orlando for a birthday. It was a somewhat trendy bar (as to be expected, given the group of friends), maybe a little Early-Hipster. I remember little about the event, other than the birthday boy said I had gained weight as I greeted him (why do we remember that crap?) and that there was a GREAT short story on the wall in the men’s room. I shan’t repeat the story here, as I have to get off my butt and have a passport photo taken, but the final line of the story was, “Engraved on the front was the word ‘Zendafadori’; this meant nothing to him.” I laughed (probably more a function of the beverages…) a LOT and even copied the story down into my address book, which I had with me for some bizarre reason. I loved the build-up, then boom, nothing. And what a cool word. It means nothing to anyone… not even Google. But to me it sounds… exotic. Happy. Tropical (but not hot and sweaty).
Gotta go; Hogan is chewing a pair of clean underwear. Word UP.