Kilter Ponders a Street Protest

When you work in Manhattan, you never know what you're going to run into. That's why lately, every lunch hour I've been going for a lengthy walk that takes me up Seventh Avenue, through Times Square, down 42nd Street, and back down on Eighth.

I've used other walking routes in the past, but Times Square is the kick I'm currently on. It's a good one for summer, with lots of milling around.

Take the photo above, for instance (I'm getting quite adept at whipping out my cell phone on a moment's notice, snapping a photo, and then emailing it back to myself.)

This was a protest from PETA (People For the Ethical Treatment of Animals) which apparently they stage from time to time. This was on June 25, same day as Michael Jackson died. It was a group of about thirty young people, no one more than about 25years old, protesting bullfighting.

Now don't ask me what bullfighting has to do with New York City, since the closest bullring is probably in Mexico, or maybe across the Atlantic Ocean in Spain. But the protest they staged was quite evocative and eye-catching.

All of the kids were dressed exactly the same. The uniform was only tight black briefs, and nothing on top. The women weren't exactly "topless" in conventional terminology, since they had bandaids covering their nipples. Some had fake spears stuck in their sides, and there was fake blood everywhere, completing the spectacle.

They were quite well organized, evidenced by two female leaders who knew exactly how to position their people. The effect was like watching human sculpture. I think it was supposed to be striking, sexual, artistic, and message-laden all at the same time.

They had the proper city permits -- judging by the barriers that were set up. They also had police protection, who kept shouting, "All right folks, take your pictures and keep moving!"

A brochure they passed out said, "Stay away from bullfights. It's no fun to see an innocent, crazed animal tortured before a screaming crowd of people. Handlers weaken the bull for days before the bullfight. They are usually old and drugged. Wet newspaper is stuffed in their ears and their vocal chords are often cut, so the audience will not hear their cries. Please help these poor animals. Speak out against bullfights."



Here is a picture of one of the head babes in the protest, the one holding the sign. She had the best figure of the group: beautiful large natural breasts, thin waist, and a full, firm posterior. I wondered, "What percentage of her wants to stop bullfighting, and what percentage of her wants people to know that she is blazing hot?" A legitimate question, I think.

After wandering down 42nd Street and then turning down Eighth, I ran into a second group activity, a union strike against a building company.

These guys (all men) were loud and massively assembled. I think their cause mattered more than the PETA protest since it was more locally-affecting. It involved the ongoing welfare of human lives as it pertains to wages and working conditions, rather than animals.

It was enough for me to snap another set of pictures, but somehow PETA wins the publicity struggle.

What can I say? Sex sells.

Kilter Met Michael Jackson in 1975

(All of the news about Michael Jackson's death has jogged my memory into recalling how I met Jackson personally back in 1975. So here is the account, which I also posted to my Facebook page. The accompanying pic is exactly how he looked back then. Enjoy!)



MY CLOSE ENCOUNTER WITH MICHAEL JACKSON

My first roommate from college lived in the Los Angeles area. In the summer after my sophomore year I visited him -- a good excuse to hit the west coast.

His summer job was at Disneyland. Yes, Walt Disney's original playground in Anaheim. I liked to kid him about his glamorous job. He worked the night shift as a cook at a Fantasyland restaurant.

On that particular day, June 20, 1975, I cruised in with him, getting into the park for free on one of his guest passes (naturally). The plan was for me to wander around the attractions, go on rides, etc.

Basically, I was “waiting for him to get off work.” Seeing how Disney provides nonstop stimulation, that was no problem.

In particular, I remember enjoying the evening's musical attraction -- The Four Tops. They sang their classic soul repertoire with lush harmonies and in tight dance formation.

Halfway through "Standing in the Shadows of Love," though, they got upstaged. A commotion rose from the front section of the crowd. Word spread: "It's the Jackson Five! . . . See? There's Michael!"

Through all the standing and screaming, I saw nothing. The group never came on stage. Truth be told, nor did I care much.

As a jaded, stubble-faced 21-year old, I considered the Jackson Five passé. Their career was in a lull. It had been a year since they scored with "Dancing Machine." Rumors abounded that Michael had lost his sweet falsetto now that he was stuck in his awkward teenage years. The group recently left Motown and signed with CBS. They even had to use a new name, "The Jacksons," because of a contract dispute.

The Jacksons stayed for several songs, then left. This prompted more commotion and screaming, though as I noted in my journal that night, it served only as a distraction to be shrugged off. After the show I moved on to more rides.

At 12:45 a.m. (the park didn't close until 1:30 a.m. back then) I was standing in line at the Matterhorn Bobsled ride. I had saved the biggest thrill for last. The rollercoaster lines wouldn't be so long now, and it was almost time to retrieve my friend.

Suddenly the same commotion ricocheted through the crowd – screaming girls leading an increased frenzy. "So where did the Jacksons resurface now?" I thought, and turned around.

Standing DIRECTLY behind me was Michael Jackson. Behind him was his younger brother, Randy. Behind both boys was their father, Joe.

They were going on the Matterhorn Bobsled ride. Same as me. And they were standing RIGHT behind me.

Suddenly, I forgot all about being a jaded 21 year-old. I forgot about being critical and negative. This was a close encounter of the first kind with the actual, real Michael Jackson. In fact, by the end of the night he converted me into a fan.

Quick -- What could I say to him? How much did I know?

Unfortunately, not much. He grew up in Gary, Indiana. One of nine brothers and sisters. My favorite rockers were "Mama's Pearl" and "Sugar Daddy." My favorite ballad was "Never Can Say Goodbye.” And can’t forget Michael already had two solo hits: "Ben" and "Got to Be There."

Even so, I couldn't think of a single thing to say. What do you say to an international star that's four years younger than yourself? What kind of chit-chat would his next door neighbor make?

How could I be cool without being a fool?

The girls pressed closer, sighing and gasping. Michael had gotten much taller since his Motown days. He was lean as a stringbean, sported a large Afro, wore silky clothes, and had ultra white teeth.

I remember being impressed with his behavior. Despite the spotlight being squarely on him, he bounced around good-naturedly, enduring all the photos, hand shakes, and autographs with a smile. He never once lost his sense of humor, nor his rapport with the crowd. He accommodated all -- right down to throwing his arm around a girl in a wheelchair.

I wrote in my journal later, perhaps cynically, "I think he enjoys being a 16 year-old star."

Michael's brother, Randy, three years younger, was the newest member of "The Jacksons," having replaced Jermaine who decided to stay at Motown. Randy patiently allowed himself to play second banana to his bro. I broke the conversation barrier with him.

"Did you guys come here tonight because of the Four Tops?" I asked, speaking loudly in order to capture his ear.

"Yeah, they're our friends," he said. He asked me to throw away his empty popcorn container into the trash can next to me.

I also made it a point to speak with the old man, Joe. "Did you hear the Tops play 'Bernadette'? Same quality vocals as ever," I said.

"Never gets old," he said. "Never gets old."

As for the Matterhorn ride, it was designed for two people per "sled." I couldn't believe it when the operator pointed to me and said, "Just one? Get up front here. Michael, get behind him."

Michael and I nodded, and got in the exact same car.

Quarters were tight in the fake bobsled which was welded to a track. The metal sides reached up to our necks as we sat down low, for safety, and got belted in. Michael could've hugged me. His legs straddled my torso. I could see both his shoes when I looked down.

Behind us, in the following car, Randy and Mr. Jackson climbed aboard. The girls were still screaming.

Don’t ask me what I remember about the ride itself. Were the twists and turns scary? Was it pitch black inside the mountain? I couldn’t tell you. My mind was only thinking, "I can't believe -- I'm on a ride -- at Disneyland -- with Michael Jackson."

The deboarding area was relatively free of fans as Michael and I got out. This was my now-or-never moment. I NEEDED to say something, to validate our meeting -- especially since I had no camera, no pen, no paper.

In my mind Michael and I were already buddies, yet had exchanged no words.

I said, "Hi Michael, how’s life? I might as well meet you, too. You're a great singer and I respect your talent. Keep pushing forward, man. I’ll be curious to see what you do next." I stuck out my hand. "My name is Ken."

We shook. He said shyly, "Ken. Okay. Hi.”

I said, "I wanted to say hello back there, but didn't want to get run over by Michael Mania."

He laughed. "Oh, they're good people. I don't mind. Fans are fans. I love each and every one of them."

By now his father and brother finished their ride and joined us. The four of us nodded goodbye. The Jacksons walked off into the night. They were more anonymous now that they were on the move instead of stationary.

I felt exhilaration, jealousy, astonishment . . . everything except proper appreciation for the experience. I wrote in my journal, "For a guy, his handshake was too dainty. Long fingers, awfully chapped . . . he's all bone and no muscle."

I think I figured Michael Jackson’s best days were behind him, that his star would soon begin to fall back to earth.

Little did my ken reveal!

My former roommate got off work and listened with bemused detachment to my excited news.

"So you met Michael Jackson? Famous people breeze through here all the time," he said. "Know who ate at our restaurant last week? Tiny Tim. C'mon, let's get some tacos."

So I guess back in 1975 it wasn't such a watershed event. But seeing how it has grown in stature over the years makes me glad I can still tell it now.

Thank you, Michael Jackson, for living life off the wall.

Kilter Attacks Japanese Beetles

(photo by Min Lobb)

Just like that, almost overnight, Japanese beetles struck our yard.

It must've been the time of year rather than the heat of the day, because it just hasn't been that hot yet this summer. That's why it took me by surprise.

All I know is that one day our red and white rosebushes, our pink crepe myrtles, and our apple and peach trees were completely free of Japanese beetles. Everything was beautiful and life was good.

Next day, they were covered. Just like the photo above.

Japanese beetles are one of the ugliest, persistent, damaging, abundant, pesky bugs in the world. They were accidently imported from Japan to New Jersey in 1916. From reading on Google I see they love to munch on over 300 different plants.

I cringe whenever I see the presence of their bright metallic green jackets and coppery-colored wings. Their legs are hairy and have relatively strong grips. Luckily they are not fast, nor are they smart.

In other words, they may be abundant, but they are easy to kill.

Since they ate through my whole yard last year, this year I was ready. As soon as I saw they had come out, I got my Sevin bug concentrate, made with the chemical carbaryl, and mixed it with a gallon of water. I sprayed the heck out of the affected scrubs and plants.

After about an hour they started falling. He-he-he.

I killed thousands, but already a lot of damage was done.

The following day, I noticed most of the leaves were free of the beetles. The spray worked as advertised. Despite that, a few beetles were hanging on, most of them mating -- one humping another. Sometimes it was an all-out orgy involving several.

I took a plastic bag that had been used to refrigerate leftover snowpeas with butter. It was the closet thing at hand. I gave it one more additional use before discarding it.

I went around the yard with the bag and pulled off an addititional 30-40 beetles. Once you catch them they drop no problem. As I said, they are dumb. I think if they sense danger, they drop straight down. So if you're ready for them, you can capture them.

How I loved to see those ugly creatures squirming around in the greasy butter of the used bag! My devious side really came out.

There was no way for them to escape. It was certain death. I was glad to kill, wanted to kill, felt extreme pleasure to kill.

The directions on the poison say I might have to repeat this in 5-10 days. I also see I should have sprayed these bushes BEFORE the last week of June.

(from the internet)

Japanese Beetles Life Cycle and Habits:

The adult beetles normally emerge during the last week of June through July. The first beetles out of the ground seek out suitable food plants and begin to feed. These early arrivals release an odor that attracts additional adults. Newly emerged females also release a sex pheromone that attracts males. After feeding and mating for a day or two, the females burrow into the soil to lay eggs at a depth of 2 to 4 inches. Females lay 1 to 5 eggs before returning to plants to feed and mate. This cycle of feeding, mating and egg laying continues until the female has laid 40 to 60 eggs. Most of the eggs are laid by mid-August. The eggs hatch in 8 to 14 days and the first larvae dig to the soil surface to feed on roots and organic material. By October most of the grubs dig deeper into the soil to overwinter. The grubs return to the surface in the spring as the soil temperature warms, usually in mid-April. The grubs continue their development and form a pupa in an earthen cell 1 to 3 inches in the soil.

Damn the Japanese beetle!

Kilter Comments on Jacko

I guess it's time for me to weigh in on the late Michael Jackson, seeing how I consider myself a responsible blogger and that all Blogstorians agree that one more opinion can't hurt. So here goes:

I liked the guy!

I really did.

Michael Jackson put out a decent body of music as both a member of the Jackson Five and then as a solo artist. He was a sharp dancer including inventing the Moon Walk, and wrote many of the songs he sang.

I emphathize with the way he struggled with his demons. I hate to see a gentle soul die so early. Like his former father in-law, Elvis Presley, I don't think ultra-creative persons like Michael are built to cope with the "normal" world at large for long.

At the same time, I'm not THAT emotionally involved with the event of his sudden passing last week at age 50. He wasn't murdered like John Lennon. Whatever happened last Thursday in Los Angeles was brought about only by himself with no foul play suspected.

He was never my idol or represented my musical base, which would lean a heavier toward The Beatles, Bob Dylan, and The Rolling Stones.

His Motown roots appealed to me. I've always loved "I Want You Back," "ABC," "Mama's Pearl," and "Never Can Say Goodbye." He was the impetus behind the great song, "We Are the World," along with Lionel Ritchie. I bought the Off The Wall and Thriller albums as soon as they came out in 1979 and 1982, respectively. Recently I had bought the remastered deluxe CD of the latter and burned a 17-song disc of my other faves.

My favorite songs of his as a solo artist are, "The Way You Make Me Feel," "Man in the Mirror," "Smooth Criminal," and "Dirty Diana." Probably not much different than anyone else's favorites.

I appreciated Jackson as a musical artist, but not as a celebrity.

I don't give a crap how he wore a white glove on only one hand, or how he put masks on his kids to prevent them from being seen in public, or debating whether his marriages were sham jobs or not. I don't care about any of that.

The thing I'm intrigued about most is how the color of his skin whitened to such a degree over the years, starting with his first plastic surgery in 1984. Bleaching? Vitiligo? And how many noses did he really have?

I bring those things up because I recognize Michael Jackson was the most famous person on the planet. Whether one CARES about those sleazy peripherals or not is one thing. But neither can you ignore them -- because he was so OUT there.

Do I think he molested young boys? Yes and no. He probably went too far. In his mind, he probably thought it was innocent. He should have learned that society considers it a no-no to crawl into bed with underage strangers of the same sex, no matter what "happened."

Jackson should have learned his lesson in 1993 from the way he had to pay off his first accuser, and was uncredibly stupid for letting the same pattern manifest itself again eight years later.

But somehow I always wind up giving him the benefit of the doubt (the jury did, too, in 2005, when he was aquitted of all charges). That's because basically, as I wrote earlier, I liked him!

I like the idea of a working class family from gritty Gary, Indiana, conquering the world through music.

How can ANYONE understand what went through the creative and gifted head of Michael Jackson, most famous person on earth? As Mick Jagger once sang, "It's lonely at the top."

Whether his death was specifically brought about by overmedicating on prescription drugs like Demerol, as is currently suspected, I think the real reason for his death was accumulated stress. Human beings are just not designed to endure the type of pressure he was under every moment of the last four decades.

I agree with others in the press who've said, "He didn't look or act like anyone else I've ever known in my life." I would agree with that.

Enjoy your eternal rest, Michael Jackson. Born August 29, 1958. Died June 25, 2009.

(Iran) Is This Moral Leadership?

First off, it's nice to see Iran fighting Iran. Keep it inhouse, guys. That way you don't have time to worry about staving off evil powers like the United States.

Got to tend to your own problems first.

It's also nice to see democracy at work in a Muslim nation. The people sure have been demonstrating their full rights as citizens, and then some. The voice of the people has been heard. Despite western journalists being recently banned (to hide the government's shame), we've learned all we need to know through today's social networking sites, like Twitter.

But the bottom line is the supreme leader, Ayatollh Ali Khamenei, has blown it. Blown it big time.

He's dug his own grave by standing behind the bogus election results, which reelected unpopular current president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad over popular opposition candidate Mir Hossein Mousavi.

Mousavi claims that hard-liners -- influenced and bribed by Ahmadinejad -- stole the June 12 election through massive fraud. He has called for annulling the results and holding a new vote.

But Khamenei, who ranks ahead of both candidates in power and visibility, said today that the government would not give in to pressure over the disputed election, effectively closing the door to compromise with the opposition.

"On the current situation, I was insisting and will insist on implementation of the law. That means, we will not go one step beyond the law," Khamenei said on state television. "For sure, neither the system nor the people will give in to pressures at any price."

Big mistake, guy.

He didn't realize that once people get the power to determine their own affairs, it's useless to try and sway them in a direction the people want to go.

Dictators get their way all the time and often make disasterous decisions. But Iran, to its credit, is not a dictatorship. If anything, cockneyed statements like the supreme leader's, meant to appease and coddle, only serve to inflame the masses that much more.

The Ayatollah forgot that the times they are a-changing.

As a minister of the Protestant faith myself, I can tell you that any person in a "moral" position, who is no doubt praying about a delicate situation, must make an informed and ethical decision without regard to past policies or perks or bankrolls.

In other words, political correctness or cronyism won't cut it.

Now the violence is worse than ever. Mousavi supporters have flooded the streets of Tehran and other cities, massing by the hundreds of thousands in protests larger than any since Iran's 1979 Islamic Revolution. Security forces who initially stood by and permitted the demonstrations have now been instructed to crack down and use violence and bloodshed. To date 19 people have been killed and 457 arrested.

But still, the protests go on.

I believe this could have been averted had Khamenei done the right thing and called for a new vote, and then had the results independently verified. Instead, he comes across like any political hack who has something to hide and something to protect.

He ought to be canned.

How Famous Is Your Name? (part 2)

My mother's maiden name is Boylan. This is a fairly common Irish name because it has its own coat of arms emblem.

I know there is actor John Boylan, author Claire Boylan, a Boylan Catholic High School in Illinois, and a Boylan Marble in Buffalo, among other references.

Besides my mother's side of the family, the Boylan that has been closest to me is Boylan Bottleworks from Northern New Jersey.

Here is one of their trucks which I spotted in front of my office building (which gave me the idea for this 'famous name' post in the first place:


I've been drinking Boylan Root Beer, Birch Beer, Orange Soda, Black Cherry, Grape, and Creme Soda for years. As its website says, "It's the real stuff." It's been bottled since 1891:

"For more than a century, Boylan has formulated and produced, regardless of cost, 'authentic soda-pop.' Boylan still uses pure cane sugar instead of corn syrup, which enhances the true flavor rather than leave a syrupy aftertaste. We also use thick glass bottles instead of plastic, to ensure freshness and proper levels of carbonation. Our in-house flavor formulations use the most expensive extracts and essences."

It's not THAT expensive, by the way. A 12-ounce Boylan usually goes for about $1.20 whereas a 12-ounce Coke is a dollar.

The problem is where to find it. I've seen it alot in delis in New York City, but beyond metro region supermarkets, Boylan can be somewhat tough to find.

The taste is worth it if you can get your hands on it.

John Lobb Shoes Grabs Kilter's Attention

How famous is your last name?

My last name is Lobb. That's one syllable with a short 'o.' Rhymes with blob-blob-blob. There's no instantly-recognizable people with that name, as far as I know. But the name is well-known in the world of shoes.


John Lobb Ltd. is one of the world's finest booteries and shoe makers. In fact it has been the official shoemaker of the English royal family for over 100 years.

Below is the storefront in London, the headquarters on St. James Place, close to Buckingham Palace:


(There's another store in Paris.)

Prince Charles and sons William and Henry wear them along with Queen Elizabeth. So did Princess Diana, Frank Sinatra, Duke Ellington, and Laurence Oliver.

As you can imagine, the shoes are on the high end of the scale. They are known as "The Rembrant of Shoes."

I can't afford them. Once I wanted to buy my father a pair for Father's Day, but balked when I learned the prices, and that my father would have to travel to New York to get measured by a Lobb specialist.

Currently the cheapest slippers run 700 Euros, which is about $1,200. Most shoes fall in the $2,000 - $3,000 range. Crocodile boots go for almost $10,000.

Why so expensive? Each pair is individually made to the customer's specific foot dimensions.

According to the company's website, making each pair of shoes involves NINE steps:

1. The Fitter -- the customer's feet are measured.

2. The Last-Maker -- The fitter's measurements, tracings, and notes are carved into a precisely contoured model of the customer's foot, made of a solid block of maple, beech or hornbeam.

3. The Pattern-Cutter -- The lasts are passed to the pattern cutter who cuts patterns to best fit the customer's last.

4. The Clicker -- the leather pieces are cut.

5. The Closer -- The sewing, stiffening, lining and final shaping of the clicker's pieces around the last.

6. The Maker -- Adds the sole and heel to the upper.

7. The Socker -- inserts the innersole, including the shop's name and the royal warrants

8. The Tree-Maker - Fits a wooden shoe tree exactly to each individual pair of shoes.

9. The Polisher -- The 'spit & shine' final stage.

Here is Prince Charles and Camilla in April, 2009, inspecting the Last Room:


To my knowledge, there is no relation between my family and Lobb Shoes, although I am tied to southern England.

My father's family comes from the southeast region of England known as Penzance, where the Pirates of Penzance used to roam the seas (that's probably more my speed -- Lobb as a pirate).

I literally stumbled upon Lobb Shoes when I visited Britain in 1987. My friend and I visited Buckingham Palace. When I saw the 'LOBB' storefront I almost gasped.

The employees were cordial and friendly, especially when I told them of the name connection. I was given the run of the store and met the elderly head Lobb, Eric, who since has died and passed the business on to his sons.

I also bought the Lobb book, called The Last Shall Be First, which chronicles the history of Lobb Shoes and Boots.

Kilter Revises Phil Spector's Biography

Now that he's a convicted murderer, I think it's time to take a look at the entire Phil Spector story and see what revisions we can make knowing that the guy is a lunatic.

Yes, he's in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. I don't see any reason to take him out. But remember O.J. Simpson is in the football hall of fame. That doesn't mean Simpson's not a major rogue and will go down in history, not as a star football player, but as the murderer of two innocent victims.

Same as Phil baby. The guy is the murder of actress Lana Clarkson in February 2003 and deserves every minute of the 19 years he was sentenced to.

Spector, 69, is through.

He looks quite a bit different without his array of wild wigs and thousand-dollar suits. Looks like someone you might encounter on a littered side-street with a brown bag in his hand.

The first thing I think we ought to do is strip him of his title of "legendary producer." In his brief career, did he do anything remotely as significant, as say, Bob Dylan, the Beatles, or the Rolling Stones? My opinion is no.

Okay, he produced "Be My Baby" by the Ronettes which was a good song in 1963. It had a nice layered sound, granted. But then he stole away the lead singer, Ronnie Bennett, married and abused her during their six years together, which no doubt swayed the jury when it came out that Spector was a certified woman-beater.

He produced The Righteous Brothers' hit, "You've Lost That Loving Feeling." I'd argue Bill Medley's broad baritone and Bobby Hatfied's tenor is the reason the song was so big, not because of the sustained background sounds.

He produced The Beatles' Let It Be album. But that was an afterthought, only after the sessions were so muddled that John Lennon thought they needed an extra hand to mop up -- just as George Harrison brought in Billy Preston on organ to help keep the piece. McCartney has gone on record saying he never liked Spector's re-working of the tunes. He even released Let It Be: Naked a few years ago, which sounds a whole lot more refreshing and vibrant than Spector's strained theatrics.

So what are we left with? An insecure, aggressive guy from Brooklyn who was famous before he was 20. He hit it big and let everything go to his head.

Spector spent a heck of a lot more years hanging out inside his Beverly Hills mansion as a recluse -- doing nothing except playing with guns -- than being actively involved in the music business.

His current wife, Rachelle, 41 years younger, whom Spector married AFTER he was first indicted, must have some twisted logic in defending him the way she does (like lots and lots of greenbacks). She still claims he's innocent.

Though five different women testified at trial that the producer had pulled guns on them while drunk, Rachelle insists, "That man couldn't hurt a fly." A prosecutor pointed out that all of Spector's guns were seized at the time of his arrest -- before his marriage to Rachelle.

She complains, "He is locked in a five-by-nine cell, 23 1/2 hours a day, and treated worse than an animal." She is counting down the days until 2028, when her husband becomes eligible for parole. Good luck.

She takes her hot pink Blackberry telephone everywhere. "Whenever he calls, I answer," she said, according to a news story.