The Sixties, the bomb and iceberg lettuce


By Frank Roberts

Today, students, we are going to remember the ’60s. What a decade that was — so much going on in the world.
JFK became president, the first president born in that century; nuclear weapons were discovered in Cuba — much too close for comfort; there was the Vietnam War; there was Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I have a dream” speech; and, also in that era there were the assassinations of King and Bobby Kennedy.
The Beatles entered the scene, as did Malcolm X and Muhammad Ali. The Cold War was going strong. The Civil Rights Act occupied headlines. Women’s Lib was active. There was Israel’s Six Days’ War.
Hippies were commonplace; there were accusations of police brutality during the Democratic convention; black-gloved fists were raised on the Olympic victory stand. There were race riots, and there was one piece of very good news: The Eagle had landed on the moon.
Now, back to the ‘40s. The largest building in the world at the time was in Oak Ridge, Tenn., in an area known as Atomic City, where all types of secret activities connected with development of the “big bomb” were going on. That particular building cost $512 million.
Speaking of the ultra-secret work going on there, the bulk of the workers were women. Many of them were high school girls pulled from their rural Tennessee homes.
They operated calutrons for the super-secret Y-12. Work on those killer bombs was super secret. The closest President Truman came to talking about them was following the Potsdam Conference of Allied leaders during World War II. They outlined terms of Japan’s surrender. He said that if that country did not wave the white flag, it could expect “utter destruction.”
A final note on that: The president delayed the opening of the conference to first be assured of the functionality of the powerful new weapon.
The magazine “Confidential” was the forerunner of today’s supermarket rags. But get this: Over the years, most of the stories that appeared in that publication proved to be true. People used to put the mag down but it turned out that the magazine was right, and the naysayers were wrong.
Confession time: I once wrote for “The National Tattler,” a newspaper owned by Confidential. At that time, Confidential was the best-selling magazine in the United States.
The war against drugs continues. Still today, the super legal drugs are easy to find. They are caffeine, tobacco, alcohol — and lettuce. Yes, lettuce, the veggie that dominates what restaurants call a salad. You wind up with a bowl of lettuce and one or two bites of a couple of other vegetables.
It turns out that lettuce contains an opium-like alkaloid called lactucarium. Reports are somewhat contradictory about its psychoactive properties, though the substance apparently was used by the ancient Egyptians. Safe to say that it’s healthier to eat, anyway.

During a 60-year career spanning newspapers, radio and television, Frank Roberts has been there and done that. Today, he’s doing it in retirement from North Carolina, but he continues to keep an eye set on Suffolk and an ear cocked on country music. Email him at froberts73@embarqmail.com.

Buckley and Mailer: The Difficult Friendship that Shaped the Sixties



Buckley and Mailer: The Difficult Friendship that Shaped the Sixties, by Kevin M Schultz

A timely antidote to vacuous times, argues David B Woolner
Norman Mailer: made it plain that he hated the liberal establishment just as much as William Buckley did. 

David B Woolner
Book Title:
Buckley and Mailer: The Difficult Friendship that Shaped the Sixties
ISBN-13:
978-0393088717
Author:
Kevin M Schultz
Publisher:
WW Norton
Guideline Price:
$28.95

In today’s highly partisan and largely dysfunctional America, in an age when scientific evidence, reasoned political discourse and respect for one’s ideological opponent have all but disappeared, Kevin M Schultz’s book, Buckley and Mailer: The Difficult Friendship that Shaped the Sixties, serves as a kind of intellectual antidote to the vacuous times in which we live.
Brilliantly written and constructed, Schultz uses the friendship between these two unlikely protagonists to illuminate one of the most exciting – if turbulent – decades in modern American history: the 1960s.
All of the major issues that made this decade so important and dynamic are touched upon in this account, including the civil rights movement, the Vietnam War and the rise of modern feminism. But perhaps the most interesting aspect of the book is its chronicling of the evolving positions of Buckley and Mailer as the arch-doyens of American political culture; their mutual desire to shake up and fundamentally change the tenets of what Schultz calls the postwar liberal establishment; and their ultimate disillusionment with their abilities to do so; rendering Mailer’s reflection that “he had tried to become a hero, and had ended as an eccentric” all too true.
After a powerfully written and deeply moving introduction, in which the author describes a dying William F Buckley’s semi-successful effort to write an obituary for Norman Mailer that will somehow capture the essence of his impact on America, Schultz moves on to his first chapter, entitled “The Nature of Man”. Here, he chronicles the famous – but now largely forgotten – debate between Buckley and Mailer that took place in Chicago in the fall of 1962. The audience crammed into Chicago’s Medinah Temple and a myriad of newspaper and magazine editors covered the debate in the press.
Adding to the tension was the fact that the two men – one “the enfant terrible of American politics”, darling of the right and founder of the deeply conservative National Review; the other a brilliant author, co-founder of The Village Voice, and political radical who demanded nothing less than “a revolution in the consciousness of our time” – had never met.
The debate soon progressed into a hard-hitting examination of the nature of politics and ethics, built around the theme “What is the Real Nature of the Right Wing in America?” Buckley’s conservative movement was in the ascendancy in the early 1960s and was involved in attacking the seemingly permanent assumptions upon which the liberal establishment rested.
It soon became apparent, however, that Buckley was not alone in his disdain for the liberal establishment; Mailer too was deeply dissatisfied with the status quo, insisting that American liberalism “was shockingly unable to offer remedies to the messes it had created since the end of the Second World War”.
After all, it was liberalism “that had ushered in a falsely premised Cold War based on a phony commitment to Christianity. And it was the liberal elite whose corporate capitalism wasn’t bringing freedom to anyone, putting men in all those grey flannel suits and shipping them off to work for their pensions”.
The current liberal order, he went on, “had created a deterioration of desire, an apathy about the future, a detestation of the present, an amnesia of the past”. Worse still, it was a disease that “destroys flavour” and whose symptoms appear everywhere, not least in “the manipulation of emotion, the emptiness of faith, the displacement of sex, the deterioration of language, the reduction of philosophy, and the alienation of man from the product of his work and the results of his acts”.
In short, Mailer made it plain that he hated the liberal establishment just as much as Buckley did. Where they differed was in its remedy.
The mutual contempt both men shared for the “establishment” and the social constructs that supported it – what Schultz calls “the Rules” of postwar American society – turned out to be an important subtext for the Buckley-Mailer debate.
It also became the basis for the longstanding friendship that followed, for in the wake of their encounter and in an effort to discover more about what drove Mailer’s “incandescent moral energy” Buckley invited Mailer and his third wife, Lady Jeanne Campbell, to his Stamford, Connecticut home just a few weeks later. It was during this encounter that the two men discovered just how much they liked each other.
This mutual affection quickly evolved into a fast, if at times fractious, friendship that would continue for the rest of their lives.
From this point, the book goes on to describe what we might call “the long decade” of the Sixties, broken into four sections that take us from the fall of 1962 to the fall of 1976, when the two men would once again square off – this time in an 11-minute segment onGood Morning America.
Although the correspondence between Buckley and Mailer forms an important part of the narrative, Schultz expands his scope to include how each grappled with the great issues of their day.
It is also through Buckley’s and Mailer’s personal encounters with such topics as the civil rights movement and/or the Vietnam War that we gain a greater understanding of their worldview. The picture here is not always pretty. Buckley’s attitude towards the burgeoning demand for racial equality in America is shockingly racist while the crude language and chauvinism of some of Mailer’s public pronouncements do nothing to enhance his reputation as a gifted writer. The violence, drug use and paradoxical lack of intellectual substance of much of the “counterculture” Schultz depicts in these pages is exactly what renders his work so important.
Schultz closes the book by taking the reader through an astute analysis of the transition from the 1960s to the 1970s, from what he calls “a rules-based society” to a “rights-based society,” a development that contained elements that both Buckley and Mailer could embrace, but which left both men feeling as if America had lost its centre and sense of community.
This is a remarkable book. It reminds of us of a time when the United States was engaged in a profound period of self-examination, led by an extraordinary group of writers and thinkers whose main purpose was to try to improve the common good through a re-articulation and redefinition of American values.

David B Woolner is senior fellow at the Roosevelt Institute, associate professor of history at Marist College and co-editor of Progressivism in America: Past Present and Future

George Barris, designer - obituary


Car designer who created the Batmobile and customised Cadillacs for Elvis and Liberace
George Barris, who has died aged 89, was known as the “King of the Kustomizers”, responsible for cobbling together dozens of bizarre vehicles for films and television series, most memorably the Batmobile, a preposterous testosterone-fuelled black two-seater with red trim that whisked the dynamic duo from the bat cave to do battle with the Riddler, the Joker, the Penguin and other assorted baddies of Gotham City in the original 1960s television series .
Barris had begun making a name for himself in the custom-car field before the Second World War, and for many years it was almost impossible for cinemagoers or television-watchers to ignore his handiwork, his creations including the “Munster Koach”, the Beverly Hillbillies’ jalopy, K.I.T.T. from Knight Rider, Herbie the Volkswagen in The Love Bug, “Black Beauty” (Bruce Lee’s car in The Green Hornet) and the customised Ford Explorers in Jurassic Park. In his essay on Californian custom-car culture “The Kandy-Kolored Tangerine-Flake Streamline Baby” (1965), Tom Wolfe described Barris as an artist – “like Tiepolo emerging from the studios of Venice ... except that [he] emerged from the auto-body shops of Los Angeles.”
In 1965 20th Century Fox studios gave Barris only three weeks to come up with a supercar for the pilot episode of Batman, a half-hour show for ABC Television starring Adam West as the caped crusader and Burt Ward as Robin. With such a tight timetable, Barris was forced to modify an existing car rather than develop something from scratch.
Luckily he had recently purchased a Lincoln Futura, a Ford concept vehicle featuring menacing eyelid headlights, dual jet-aircraft-style Plexiglas canopies, a full-length grille and giant fins. Painted red, the car had featured in the 1959 Glenn Ford/Debbie Reynolds film, It Started With a Kiss. Barris spent the next 21 days reworking the car, painting it black, enlarging the wheel arches, extending the fins and fitting a panoply of gadgets including bat-phone, bat-rocket launcher, bat-scope, bat-beam, twin bat-chutes for emergency stopping, cable-cutter blade and a “jet-turbine exhaust” rigged up to belch smoke and flame.
When the show was first broadcast, the television critic of the New York Times observed that “Television’s great and lasting gift has been to demonstrate that there is no bottom to its barrel”. But children loved its combination of crime-fighting and high camp, and Barris’s creation was a key element in its success. No toy collection of any small boy of the 1960s was complete without its gadget-ridden Batmobile. Barris contributed to the craze by designing plastic models of many of his creations which could be assembled at home. He also whipped up three replicas, with fibreglass bodies, two of which developed such bad cracks that they had to be covered with a velvety “Bat Fur” to disguise the defects.
The original Batmobile, too, promised rather more than it delivered. Although it could be driven, the Futura suspension was constantly in need of repair; the electrical system was always draining the battery and the engine overheated on a regular basis. Meanwhile a distortion in the Plexiglas windshield made it difficult for the actors to see the road.
He was born George Salapatas in Chicago on November 20 1925, to Greek immigrant parents who later changed their family name to Barris. His mother died when he was three and George and his elder brother Sam were sent to live with an aunt and uncle in Roseville, California.
Car-mad from an early age, the two boys customised their first car as teenagers, applying orange and blue stripes to a 1925 Buick and fitting it with hubcaps and metal trim made from pots and pans.
After the Second World War George Barris moved to southern California and opened his own shop, in Bell, a suburb of Los Angeles, where he began customising cars for private clients. His often outlandish creations soon caught the eye of Hollywood stars.
Among other commissions Barris created a 1954 Cadillac Eldorado for Liberace with sterling-silver grand-piano hood ornaments that played I’ll Be Seeing You when opened; a refurbished 1960 Cadillac Fleetwood for Elvis Presley, complete with gold-plated record player, drinks cabinet and shoe buffer; a gold Rolls-Royce for Zsa Zsa Gabor; and a pair of Mustangs for Sonny and Cher – his lined in bobcat fur and suede, hers in pink patent leather.
Barris became the go-to man for Hollywood producers from 1958 when he supplied the makers of the Mamie Van Doren film High School Confidential with two identical customised 1948 Chevrolets, one of which was to be rolled over a cliff and had to be fitted with inner struts to prevent injury to the stunt man. Barris’s talent for the bizarre reached its height in the 1960s when, as well as the Batmobile, he designed the “Munster Koach”, a fusion of three Ford Model T cars featuring a custom hearse body and “blood red” interior.
The oil crisis of the 1970s, however, led to a downturn in orders from the studios as cars became smaller . But as the economy boomed in the 1980s business picked up, with the creation of the “intelligent, talking car” K.I.T.T. in Knight Rider and the big screen version of the Batmobile.
In 1958 George Barris married Shirley Nahas, who predeceased him in 2001. Their son and daughter survive him.

George Barris, born November 20 1925, died November 5 2015

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It happened in the 60s

“The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test” (1968)

“Untitled”, 1969, Mark Rothko


60s London models Jenny Boyd, Jill Kennington, Sue Murray, Celia Hammond, Pattie Boyd, and Tania Mallet.


1960 Japanese radical students invaded parliament’s grounds and engaged in a bloody  police using fire hoses and clubs, June 15. Shouting against pro-American Prime Minister Nobusuke Kish


1960s MGM STUDIOS


Actor Jimmy Stewart pins the gold bars of a Marine second lieutenant on his stepson, Ronald, February 1968. Ronald was killed in Vietnam in 1969.
           
                                                                                       
Alan Aldridge (1965)

Charles Whitman University, Texas. Tower sniper killed. 1966
Churchill died on January 24, 1965, at the age of 90, shortly after suffering a stroke



32 hours stay in an underground 1963
1964 Civil Defense Shelter US Rubber Tire Co Chicopee Falls MA
civil defense kit 1962
Control Room Atomic Power Plant, Sioux Falls, South Dakota, 1963.
cuban-missile-crisis
 1967 In Time of Disaster, Mayor and his Cabinet Would sit in center All emergency operations would be directed from desks facing these situation maps.
                       FEB 8 1967 Aurora’s 18th Civil Defense Siren Goes up Siren is installed 
Probable Targets in the US for a Soviet Nuclear Strike.
JAN 16 1963 Shelters Are Well Stocked Jane Rademacher, left, of Highland Park, III., and Christine Taylor, right, of Dallas, Tex., aren’t part of the provisions of the civil defense fallout shelters
MAY 4 1960 She Wouldn’t Take Shelter New York police carry off a struggling woman who was arrested  with some 25 other nonconformists who refused to take shelter in a large-scale civil defense 
alert.
OCT 21 1963, OCT 27 1963 Crash “Victims” Sprawl out around fire Realistic plastic “wounds” were strapped to bodies.


NOV 5 1962 Walter Brown, Golden, CO city manager, mounts plaque while Wildman (left), North watch.

NOV 1 1961 Englewood Civil Defense Firemen With Their Emergency Truck Men

                                    NOV 21 1961  two-hour Civil Defense drill























So sixties