Week Forty-Eight: Street Carnival

Carnival.

Oh, what a joyful word to kids’ ears. Carnival. Cotton candy and scary carnies. The lure of winning a horridly ugly stuffed dog by throwing balls or tossing rings. The thrill of getting lost followed by the inexplicable joy of being found again. And a chance to watch Dad go ballistic when he has to pay $3.50 each when you and your two brothers want hot dogs.

Cokesbury, too, is in a carnival spirit. Behold:

A good way to make money for any worthy enterprise is to have a Street Carnival.

Yeah, making money again. I wasn’t aware that carnivals existed for any other purpose than paying for additional tattoos or having yet another excuse to avoid going to the dentist. But Cokesbury seems to think you can make money by hosting one, preferably indoors so you can filter out the riff-raff, especially when your advert for the carnival is so damned compelling:

Christian Endeavor Street Carnival

Friday Evening, October 10.

A lot of fun for all.

Admission, 25 cents.

Or, alternately:

Big Street Carnival

Tuesday night at eight o’clock.

Come one, come all.

Under the auspices of the Conference Club

Admission, 15 cents.

Kinda reminds me of this:

Wow. “Stimulant properties of the coca plant.” Yeah, before they changed the formula, Coca-Cola was basically liquid cocaine. But since it was a “Syrup*And*Extract,” that took the curse off it.

Anyway, back to the publicity. I love this gem:

The newspapers should have two or three stories about it.

Wow, they were pushovers for a good carnival story back then, were they? Of course, this is back when people actually did read newspapers. And back when folks like George Babbitt could manipulate a reporter at will. Such as:

When the Sunday School campaign was finished, Babbitt suggested to Kenneth Escott, "Say, how about doing a little boosting for Doc Drew personally?"

Escott grinned. "You trust the doc to do a little boosting for himself, Mr. Babbitt! There's hardly a week goes by without his ringing up the paper to say if we'll chase a reporter up to his Study, he'll let us in on the story about the swell sermon he's going to preach on the wickedness of short skirts, or the authorship of the Pentateuch. Don't you worry about him. There's just one better publicity-grabber in town, and that's this Dora Gibson Tucker that runs the Child Welfare and the Americanization League, and the only reason she's got Drew beaten is because she has got SOME brains!"

"Well, now Kenneth, I don't think you ought to talk that way about the doctor. A preacher has to watch his interests, hasn't he? You remember that in the Bible about—about being diligent in the Lord's business, or something?"

"All right, I'll get something in if you want me to, Mr. Babbitt, but I'll have to wait till the managing editor is out of town, and then blackjack the city editor."

Thus it came to pass that in the Sunday Advocate-Times, under a picture of Dr. Drew at his earnestest, with eyes alert, jaw as granite, and rustic lock flamboyant, appeared an inscription—a wood-pulp tablet conferring twenty-four hours' immortality:

The Rev. Dr. John Jennison Drew, M.A., pastor of the beautiful Chatham Road Presbyterian Church in lovely Floral Heights, is a wizard soul-winner. He holds the local record for conversions. During his shepherdhood an average of almost a hundred sin-weary persons per year have declared their resolve to lead a new life and have found a harbor of refuge and peace.

Everything zips at the Chatham Road Church. The subsidiary organizations are keyed to the top-notch of efficiency. Dr. Drew is especially keen on good congregational singing. Bright cheerful hymns are used at every meeting, and the special Sing Services attract lovers of music and professionals from all parts of the city.

On the popular lecture platform as well as in the pulpit Dr. Drew is a renowned word-painter, and during the course of the year he receives literally scores of invitations to speak at varied functions both here and elsewhere.

Yeah, your modern-day newspaper reporters love stuff like that. Call them. Several times. See how many times you’ll be completely ignored.

No matter. Your guests will be battering down your street carnival doors, two bits in hand, waiting for admission so they can see the attractions you’re going to nickel-and-dime them for. Better get going. Here are a few suggestions:

Museum. Have one booth arranged as a museum. A charge of admission of 5 or 10 cents should be made. Some of the following may be placed in the museum:

September Morn (a card bearing the date September 1, 5 am)
The light of the World (a box of matches)
A collection of marble (just some marbles)
Some things out of King Tut’s tomb (anything that has never been in King Tut’s tomb)
The Home of Burns (use a smoothing iron)
Portrait of Penn (a picture of a writing pen)
The Watch on the Rhine (a watch on an orange peel)
A twelve-carat ring (make this with a dozen carrots, placed in a circle)
The One-Eyed Monster (a sewing needle)

For Men Only. The booth for men only should be an attraction for the ladies. But it may be required that when women are admitted they have to go in pairs or be accompanied by a gentleman friend. The booth merely contains articles used exclusively by men. A razor, men’s trousers, leather belt, socks, tie, etc.

For Women Only. The men should be admitted only in pairs or with a lady. The booth contains articles used exclusively by women such as a dress, hose, high-heeled shoes, lip stick, corset, etc. A small admission should be charged.

Here, it’s not clear whether Cokesbury expects men to be the only sex willing to see what’s for women only, or if women are too smart to pay to see the crap their husbands or boyfriends leave lying all over the house or apartment. Either way, just try charging only for the Women’s Tent and see how well that goes over with your feminist friends.

There are more booths, however. Let’s continue:

Wild Animals and Birds. Select people with names of animals and birds for this booth, such as Mr. Fox, Miss Lyon, Mrs. Wolf, etc. Other names that are common are Hare, Bear, Beaver, Crabb. Names of birds are Crow, Drake, Sparrow, Hawk, and Martin. If it is not possible to get people with these names, pictures of people in the city with such names may be used and the names written under the picture.

It will add to the interest at this booth if there is someone on the inside, either with a musical instrument such as a trombone, or some apparatus contrived for that purpose, making noises to represent the roar of wild animals and the squawking of birds.

I tried to think, do I know anyone named after an animal? I know a Martin. I know a little dwarf-imp-girl named after a poison gas (I don’t know why; don’t ask). Maybe this would work where you live.

To continue:

Food Booths. Quite a good deal may be realized from the sale of candy, ice-cream cones, sandwiches, coffee, and cake. If this is donated, all money received will be profit.

To go with the food booth, Cokesbury suggests:

The Green Pig that Eats Human Food. Place a mirror in the bottom of a box about a foot square. Over this box have a large green light bulb and a yellow bulb on a double socket. Charge 5 cents admission to see this show. The person looks in the box and sees his reflection in the green mirror.

If that’s not enough of a money-maker, try this one:

Mystery Fish Pond. Use an ordinary fishing pole and attach for a hook a spring clothespin or other spring snap. Arrange a curtain in such a way that the hook may be thrown over. This may be done over a partition. The customer snaps a dime for bait onto the hook and throws it over. The one in charge on the other side takes the dime and fastens a package onto the snap. Some of these articles may be of value as bait for other customers, but most of them must be valueless to assume a good profit.

Sounds like a great way to clean out lint traps, garbage pails, sink traps and other rubbish bins for the valueless junk. For the rest, just give them their dime back.

This next one, I might actually do, because in a way it reminds me of the elementary school I attended. The fire escape from the second floor WAS A FREAKING SLIDE. WAHOOO! Never got to use it, and it was removed the year I actually got to attend class on the second floor:

A Trip to Mars. The customers are blindfolded and led into the entrance of the road to Mars. Along the route they are rocked and turned in chairs, swung in swings, made to climb out of a narrow window, pass through a narrow passage, climb a ladder, and come down a slide. This slide may be arranged from a window. Care should be taken to arrange such a trip so that it will not be dangerous.

As far as I’m concerned, come do it at Lincoln Elementary School. I’m sure some janitor still has that fire escape slide stashed somewhere.

Speaking of dangerous carnival attractions, why not build your own Ferris Wheel?

The Ferris Wheel. At a church carnival I saw the Ferris wheel which I shall describe. It was strongly constructed with upright posts extending about ten feet from the ground. On either side two pieces of timber two by six inches were crossed and brace together. A hole was bored through the intersection of these timbers, and they were arrange so that they would revolve on the two-inch pipe placed on the upright posts. These two by sizes should be sixteen feet long. At each of the four ends of the timbers seats are hung on three-fourth-inch pipes to that they will revolve. The wheel must be strongly constructed. It is operated by three or four boys, and particularly for the amusement of children. If strongly constructed, grown-ups may patronize it also.

If it were me, I’d stick with the mission to Mars. Remember, describing a home-made Ferris Wheel is a lot different than building such a wheel. Maybe you ought to wait for Popular Mechanics to come out with a set of plans.

Or just do it this way:

Be sure to play some appropriate 1930s music. Like this:

Next you need a sop to throw to the folks who are getting tired of digging into their pockets every time they wander up to a booth. Enter the Free Show:

Usually in every city there is someone who does acrobatic stunts, or tumbling stunts, or someone who performs on the horizontal bar, or trapeze, or plays a violin in some unusual way. Use any of such acts that can be secured for the free show.

Call Ned Flanders. He’s got that stupid sexy butt thing going:

And that’s it, folks. Show’s over, except for this newspaper article as reproduced by Cokesbury, describing such a fair, one which evidently went a long way in fostering improved race relations in the Greater Palm Beach, Florida, area:

It was Whoopee Night last night in the vicinity of the Northwood Church, when the great Whoopee Carnival being staged by the young people of the church was open to the public for the fist run. A huge crowd was there. Everybody was in gay spirits and took in everything that was offered, both in the way of entertainment and refreshments. The carnival runs again tonight. Besides the Main Show, which was a splendid program beginning at eight o’clock, there were two trapeze performers and side shows, including a ten-year-old negro boy weighing 450 pounds, fortune telling, a green pig, a reducing lady, a freak palm reading, and fish pond. Then the Ferris Wheel attracted old folks and young alike, while the watermelon booth, were you could get a slice for a nickel and all you could eat for a dime, the ice-cream stand, the hot dog counter, and so and so on, were busy places every minute of the evening.

Yes, my journalist friends, that is all one paragraph. Remember this the next time you criticize the Internet for being a vapid cesspool of poor journalistic endeavor.

And, frankly, speaking as a fat person, I've never understood why fat people are considered freaks or funny. As noted earlier on this blog, I never cared for the "Our Gang" character Chubbsy-Wubbsy, or the infinite other fatty derivatives out there meant to draw humor. I file fat kids in the same category I file monkeys -- and that is in the very narrow category of things that are considered amusing but really aren't, before you get any radical ideas. And having a fat negro kid? Yeah, Florida, really improving on the race relations thing, right?

So on that note, we leave the carnival and its freaks behind. Tune in next week when the party will vanish. Literally.

Ah, Sport, Georgie-Boy!

Ah, sport. And American Sport, on top of that. What could be more wholesome? More life-affirming? More Republican? Well, not watching sports, if you ask George Babbitt – a Sinclair Lewis character we’ve neglected here at the Cokesbury Party Blog for quite some time, and I do apologize for it.

Here’s ol’ Georgie’s interest in sports (read the whole thing here):

Baseball, he determined, would be an excellent hobby. “No sense a man’s working his fool head off. I’m going out to the Game three times a week. Besides, fellow ought to support the home team.”

He did go and support the team, and enhance the glory of Zenith, by yelling “Attaboy!” and “Rotten!” He performed the rite scrupulously. He wore a cotton handkerchief about his collar; he became sweaty; he opened his mouth in a wide loose grin; and drank lemon soda out of a bottle. He went to the Game three times a week, for one week. Then he compromised on watching the Advocate-Times bulletin-board. He stood in the thickest and steamiest of the crowd, and as the boy up on the lofty platform recorded the achievements of Big Bill Bostwick, the pitcher, Babbitt remarked to complete strangers, “Pretty nice! Good work!” and hastened back to the office.

He honestly believed that he loved baseball. It is true that he hadn’t, in twenty-five years, himself played any baseball except back-lot catch with Ted—very gentle, and strictly limited to ten minutes. But the game was a custom of his clan, and it gave outlet for the homicidal and sides-taking instincts which Babbitt called “patriotism” and “love of sport.”

Lewis, of course, uses sport and Babbitt’s lukewarm fascination with it as a way to show Babbitt attempting to forget his disaffection with life. What better way to show such disaffection than by throwing a party? That’s what the Cokesbury Party Blog is for, folks. Disaffection in an Affectionate Manner!

Week Nineteen: Shipwreck Party

A few costume ideas . . .

A big part of me really thinks that Cokesbury’s Shipwreck Party came a few decades too early. Back in 1932, about the only shipwreck reference common in popular culture was that of Robinson Crusoe. Crusoe’s fictional tale, while compelling, hardly has the panache of today’s shipwreck ethos. No Gilligan running around getting chased by cannibals or giant spiders, or eating bowls full of glow-goo. No Captain Jack Sparrow fixating on why the rum is gone or schizophrenically chatting to doppelgangers as eerie rock crabs scuttle about his ship, marooned in the salt flats.

Sinclair Lewis-themed segue: Alan Hale, Jr., who played Capt. Jonas Grumby in Gilligan’s Island, is the son of Alan Hale, Sr., who played Miles Bjornstam in a 1923 adaptation of Lewis’ Main Street novel.

But what Cokesbury lacks in overall shipwreckery panache, it more than makes up for it by the sheer weight of the recommended decorations and sheer pointlessness of party activities, as you’ll soon see.

But first, the obligatory invitation, accompanied by a reminder that this is a costume party:

It is the good ship – Friendship –
That sails in our social sea.
But on Friday night we’ll make believe
That the ship no more shall be.
For we’re having a Shipwreck Party,
And you are just to wear
What you salvaged from a shipwreck,
What that is we do not care.
The ship, of course, met this disaster
In the still hours of the night.
So wear what you would first pick up
Were you forced to sudden flight.

Now, on to the decorations. In the past, Cokesbury has recommended you find your more obscure decorations (remember those hatchet-shaped cards) at your local five-and-dime. This time, they offer no suggestions, but, perhaps, intimate that such a party is better hosted in a locale such as Palm Beach, where such frippery is readily available:

Decorations. A few old anchors, ropes, life-preservers, boats, and yacht chairs would make good decorations and furnishings. Also have some steamer chairs or some beach chairs. The hose and the hostess may be dressed in sailor suits, as the idea might be that a party of shipwrecked persons was picked up by another boat. Even the social committee, the judges of the costumes, and those planning the party may be dressed as sailors or in a yachting suit.

Gee. Here I am in landlocked Idaho. Anchors aren’t all that common around here, even in the best ship's chandlers offices. Life preservers I’ve got. And a canoe. A few paddles. That inflatable raft with the hole in it. Maybe I can make this work. Just as soon as I can find a sailor suit. Don’t some sailors wear bib overalls?

The rest of the evening, apparently, will be spent faithfully recreating the drudgery of either being stranded on some desert isle or in the company of sailors who are too busy staving off homosexuality to do anything more constructive or interesting. Behold the eye-matching activity:

Matching Partners: Eyes. Have the women find a partner by finding a man that has the same color eyes as herself. In case there is an argument about the proper matching, the leader must decide the case.

I’m sure you’re waiting for the rest of the activity. I know I am. But that’s it. I even checked to make sure a page wasn’t missing from the book, or that two pages were stuck together by cocktail sauce or something. But that’s it. Ladies, find someone with matching eyes. Wasn’t that entertaining?

But there’s more:

Making the Best of a Shipwreck. Give the guests papers and pencils and sheets of paper on which has been written at the top the word “shipwreck.” Let the couples work together at this and see which couple can make the most words in a given time. Give a prize for the longest list and have this list read.

Damn, that Professor's Good

Now, the Professor from Gilligan’s Island knew how to make the best of a shipwreck. Give him a little time, some bamboo and a few coconuts and he’ll have you sitting in a Bamboo-Lounger listening to hi-fi recordings of Gilligan being chased by cannibals through the coconut earphones. He did not, however, gather the other castaways about and insist they find out how many words they could make out of “shipwreck.” Even Gilligan would have beaten him if he’d suggested such a thing.

So let’s do something entertaining, yeah? How about this:

Quiots. Get rubber quoits from the five-and-ten-cent store. Have a quiot tournament. Divide into groups of eight and match two players against the other two, letting them play four at a time. The winners in the first game play the winners in the second game. The two players who win in each of the groups of eight can then play off the tournament. Give a prize to the couple that wins the tournament.

Now really, such games are entertaining, especially when played by those who really think tey know what they’re doing. A few years ago, I played a few rounds of petanque – we know that game in America as bocce – with a few swells in France. The older gentleman wanted his ability to measure distances between the balls and the goal to be precise and unquestioned, so he removed his with which he made the measurements. Much amusement was had, as Cokesbury would say, watching this fellow play and make his measurements while at the same time trying to keep his pants up. Make sure to include such guests among those playing quoits, to keep the others chuckling.

Next we move on to a game that will absolutely stun your guests into wanting it to pass quickly, yet enthrall those of an anal retentive bent who are able to not only grasp the game’s core but also enthusiastically wish for it to continue round after round because they’re so damn good at it.

Excuse Me. The leader asks the first player a question which demands an excuse. The excuse must be given in words beginning with the player’s initials. As an illustration – the leader might ask, “Where were you last night?” The player, whose initials are IMC, replies, “Excuse me, I was ironing my clothes.” The leader asks another player whose initials are AMC, “Where were you yesterday?” He replies: “Excuse me, I was airing my cat.” And so eth leader goes around the circle. Anyone making a mistake must take the leader’s place and ask the questions.

Why aren’t you playing?

Excuse me, boring jerk dementor.

Now on to a game that could result in nuclear-explosion level double-entendres, which should be kept until the end of the party so the guests will remember it the most and forget how boring the rest of the evening was.

Guessing Words Representing Things Done on A Ship. In this game one player is sent out of the room. The other player agree upon some word ending in "ing” which represents something done on board a ship, such as sleeping, eating, talking, sailing, commanding, laughing, scrubbing, cooking, washing, bathing, shaving, playing, etc. When the player comes back into the room, he may ask questions about his word, for example, “Where is it done?” “How often is it done?” “When did you last do it?” “Is it done in the kitchen?” etc. When the person who has been sent out guesses the word, the one who gave it away must next go out and so the game continues.

The more juvenile members of your guest roll ought to be able to keep this one going for hours.

That’s it, aside from refreshments, which should be “canned goods, such as might be salvaged from a wreck. For example, each one, or each couple, might be given a small can of sardines with opener, a box of soda crackers, a bottle of soda water, a jar of pickles or olives Another suggestion would be to serve canned baked beans, buns, pickles, and coffee in tin cups.” Remember to have your guests sing or hum the Gilligan’s Island theme as they eat, to add to the authenticity.



Bon Voyage. And bon appétit. This might be a good time to get rid of the canned hominy and beets you have in your pantry. Remember, shipwrecked people will eat anything. Just ask Gilligan. Tune in next week for the Bride and Groom Party, which Cokesbury describes as “very clever,” a sure sign of hilarity.

Week Three: The Automobile Party

On next Thursday night come to our blow-out;
Let's all be these and make it a knock-out.
It's an Auto Party -- and won't be joy ride!
So bring your husband, sweetheart or bride.
We believe this is all U auto know;
If we told you more, you couldn't wait to go.

As we introduce the Automobile Party, the last line of the suggested invitation poem is a bit anti-prophetic; I'm not sure I'd go to this party twice. But be prepared for hours -- well, at least an hour and a half -- of mirth involving cut-and-paste, peanuts, one per guest, and horn imitations.

First of all, of course, you're supposed to divide your group into four groups by automobile: Ford, Dodge, Buick, and Chevrolet, or as we know them today On the Brink, Bankrupt, Old Fart, and Insolvent. For decorations, well, the white-and-green crepe-paper you've had up for the last two soirees is looking a bit tattered. This time, spread out all the highway and city road signs you've swiped over the years. Cokesbury also suggests "favors of toy automobiles may be used." If you need any, any at all, let me know. I have two boys under 10 years old, thus, I have about 10,000 toy automobiles you could use as favors.

For games, Cokesbury says, bear in mind that what's offered in this book is far, far too much to cram into the 1 1/2 hours they suggest. So, as always, we'll pick and choose. Here's the first:

Auto Advertisements. Have cars cut from magazines pined on the curtains or other places about the room. Give each guest paper and pencil. As the names have been cut from the advertisement, he is to guess the make of the car. Give a prize for the one guessing the largest number.

Of any of the games suggested by Cokesbury -- and I have leafed through the book and read quite a few of them -- this is the one that shows the most marked differences between 1932 and 2009. Aside from a few makes and models, there is little overlap among the auto makes of then and the auto makes of today. To their Deusenberg, we offer a Hyundai. To their Pierce-Arrow, we offer Yugo. To their Hudson, we offer Toyota. Same planet, different worlds.

This next one is embarrassing, because it's very close to a game I've played with gusto at many parties. I credit an unfortunate collision between myself and another 300-pound beef with my trick knee. Here's the game:

Auto Fruit Basket. The names of makes of cars are given to the guests. "It" is the chauffeur. He calls the names of two makes of cars, and they have to exchange places. While the change is being made the chauffeur tries to get one of the places. If he succeeds, the one left standing becomes the chauffeur. When the chauffeur says "Auto turns over," all must change places, and the one who fails to get a seat becomes the chauffeur.

Auto Fruit Basket. Even the name is exciting. Or boring, depending on whether you think the other games Cokesbury proposes are any better.

Or not. Here's the next:

Filling the Gas Tank. Keep the same formation as in the preceeding relay. Each of the four groups face the leader. A peanut is given to each player and a vegetable dish placed about eight feet from the front of each line. Each player has one throw for the bowl with a peanut. Allow five points for each peanut that remains in the bow. If the crowd is not large, two or three peanuts may be given to each.

This is the kind of game wherein you really show off how cheap you are. One. Peanut. Each. Or three, if the crowd is small. Weed out unwanted guests for the next party by observing who eats the peanuts. You don't want those kind of frivolous, careless people at your next party, eating your party favors.

On to the next game, which could be made much more entertaining given the closure of 800-some-odd Chrysler dealerships and the more than 1,000 GM dealerships closing this year:

Putting Curtains on the Car. Secure from an auto dealer four large pictures of an automobile. Fasten these to the wall or draperies. Make a curtain of paper about the size of the front glass of the car. Have one of these for each of four contenstands. One contestnat from each group is blindfolded and given a curtain and told to put it on the car. The one who gets it nearest the right place wins.

Yes, you're entertaining your guests by, effectively, making them play Pin the Tail on the Donkey. So to make it more interesting, rather than borrow pictures of automobiles, borrow the automobiles themselves, as there are plenty of those lying around doing nothing much at all aside from filling car lots. Substitute paint-filled balloons for the paper curtains and suddenly your party is a lot more lively, if not also a lot more messy. Place a hedge fund advisor or bank CEO inside each vehcile and watch the line of paint-balloon lobbers circle around the block. This game might be best saved for the end of the party because it's during this game that it's most likely the cops will be called.

Now, on to testing your klaxon experience:

Sounding the Horn. Select one from each group. The elader migth say he wanted someone who could sing. They are then asked to tray one at a time to imitate an automobile horn. The one making the best imitation of a horn sound, in the estimation of the judges, wins a prize. A toy horn might be used for this prize.

Again, I have to say this sounds like the kind of boring game I'd force my guests to play at one of my boring parties. Maybe back then, with all the hoot-hoots, aa-oooh-ghaaas, boo-weeeeeps and whonks they had in individual car horns, each brand having its own, distinct sound, the game was much more entertaining. Today, the only horn I could replicate with any accuracy is that of my Toyota pickup, which makes a sound akin to the "Meep-Meep" of the Road Runner.

We need more horns like this today:





Now that everyone's all riled up from imitating the car horn of their choice, it's time for a more quiet game. Remember the cardboard card with letters on them that you've used for the last two parties? Get them out again and have your guests play:

Automobile Spelling Match. The four groups assemble on the longest side of the hall. Each one in the group is given a lettered card six inches square. Letters sufficient to spell all the names of cars pronounced should be given out. If there are too many letters to give one to each, give some two. The leader pronounces the names of cars, and each group tries to get its members in formation on the toerh side of the hall with the letters that spell the word pronounced. The leader pronounces the names of the following cars: Franklin, Pierce-Arrow, Rolls Royce, Paige, Hudson, Dodge, Lincoln, Buick, Nash, Austin, Cadillac, Essex, Ford, Chrysler, Chevrolet, Oakland, Studebaker, Auburn.

Imagine trying that today. We've passed from the world when cars were named after people or places to cars that are named as the result of complex audience surveys, marketing analyses and general mutations of the alphabet. Try to have someone then spell Aztek, Elantra, Celica, Hummer, or, heaven forbid, Canyonero. Again, same planet, different worlds.

Whew. Your party is over. And, you know what, maybe we've learned something. Cars then are as much a status symbol as cars now, though there are mutations -- take the SUV set versus the hybrid set, a real lineup of the Hatfields and the McCoys. Maybe Babbitt, in Sinclair Lewis' novel of the same name, seems a bit foolish when he buys his automobile cigarette lighter:

The effect of his scientific budget-planning was that he felt at once triumphantly wealthy and perilously poor, and in the midst of these dissertations he stopped his car, rushed into a small news-and-miscellany shop, and bought the electric cigar-lighter which he had coveted for a week. He dodged his conscience by being jerky and noisy, and by shouting at the clerk, "Guess this will prett' near pay for itself in matches, eh?"

It was a pretty thing, a nickeled cylinder with an almost silvery socket, to be attached to the dashboard of his car. It was not only, as the placard on the counter observed, "a dandy little refinement, lending the last touch of class to a gentleman's auto," but a priceless time-saver. By freeing him from halting the car to light a match, it would in a month or two easily save ten minutes.

As he drove on he glanced at it. "Pretty nice. Always wanted one," he said wistfully. "The one thing a smoker needs, too."

Then he remembered that he had given up smoking.

But is that any more silly than hypermiling, attacking SUVs wiath paint because they're gas hogs, or, conversely, believing that driving a Prius is really making a dent in erasing your carbon footprint? I don't think so.

Anyway, that's enough out of Cokesbury this week. Next week, be prepared for a swing in 180 degrees as you go from the manly Automobile Party to the Mother Goose Party which, as you suspect, is another costume soiree. Enjoy!

Automobile Party?

Remember, now, that in 1932, the automobile was the iPhone, the MacBook, the whatever-widget that everyone had to have. And like our Macs, our PCs, even our Commodores and Ataris and Tandys and Texas Instruments, just about everyone was getting in on the business of making cars, just as everyone got into the business of making computers or social networks these days.

Autos were important status symbols in 1932.

Just out of curiosity, I thought I’d research a bit and find out the number of American-made autos one could choose from in 1932. The list is not short. And remember, these are car companies listed here, not brands held under the umbrella of only a few companies, as we have (OK, as we had) today:

Packard
Auburn
Studebaker
Albatross
Alma Steam
New Era
Pierce-Arrow
Peerless
American Austin
American Bantam
Brewster
Continental
Cord
Crosley
Powell
Rauch & Lang
Rockne
Stout Scarab
Cunningham
Detroit Electric
deVaux Continental
Dymaxion
Essex
Stutz
Terraplane
Willys
Deusenberg
Franklin
Graham
Holtom
Jaeger
Littlemac
Marmon
Martin

Remember still these are only the car companies operating in 1932 that are now defunct. Some were bought out by others. The odd one may survive as a brand sold by a completely different car company today. And there were hundreds – really, hundreds – more that did not survive through the 1910s and 1920s to see the light of day in 1932.

Americans were thus overwhelmed by the variety of choice in an automobile. Nevertheless, many chose to buy and defended vociferously their choices.

Sinclair Lewis used the automobile as a central character in many of his novels of the era.

In Main Street, Lewis uses the automobile to represent the new preferred leisure of the middle class, much as computers and the Internet are today:

Her liveliest activity now was organizing outdoor sports in the motor-paralyzed
town.

The automobile and bridge-whist had not only made more evident the social divisions in Gopher Prairie but they had also enfeebled the love of activity. It was so rich-looking to sit and drive--and so easy. Skiing and sliding were "stupid" and "old-fashioned." In fact, the village longed for the elegance of city recreations almost as much as the cities longed for village sports; and Gopher Prairie took as much pride in neglecting coasting as St. Paul--or New York--in going coasting. Carol did inspire a successful skating-party in mid- November. Plover Lake glistened in clear sweeps of gray- green ice, ringing to the skates. On shore the ice-tipped reeds clattered in the wind, and oak twigs with stubborn last leaves hung against a milky sky. Harry Haydock did figure-eights, and Carol was certain that she had found the perfect life. But when snow had ended the skating and she tried to get up a moonlight sliding party, the matrons hesitated to stir away from their radiators and their daily bridge-whist imitations of the city. She had to nag them. They scooted down a long hill on a bob-sled, they upset and got snow down their necks they shrieked that they would do it again immediately--and they did not do it again at all.

In The Job, Lewis again mentions the automobile as a goal attainable by many through application of their skills in efficient work – and lays the groundwork for work that is accomplished not for the sense of accomplishment or fulfillment but for the acquisition of material goods and the maintenance of the lifestyle those goods bear with them:

A vast, competent, largely useless cosmos of offices [he writes, in describing the city]. It spends much energy in causing advertisements of beer and chewing-gum and union suits and pot-cleansers to spread over the whole landscape. It marches out ponderous battalions to sell a brass pin. It evokes shoes that are uncomfortable, hideous, and perishable, and touchingly hopes that all women will aid the cause of good business by wearing them. It turns noble valleys into fields for pickles. It compels men whom it has never seen to toil in distant factories and produce useless wares, which arenever actually brought into the office, but which it nevertheless sells to the heathen in the Solomon Islands in exchange for commodities whose very names it does not know; and in order to perform this miracle of transmutation it keeps stenographers so busy that they change from dewy girls into tight-lipped spinsters before they discover life. The reason for it all, nobody who is actually engaged in it can tell you, except the bosses, who believe that these sacred rites of composing dull letters and solemnly filing them away are observed in order that they may buy the large automobiles in which they do not have time to take the air. Efficiency of production they have learned; efficiency of life they still consider an effeminate hobby.

And finally in Babbitt, Lewis paints the auto as we recognize it today: As a status symbol:

“I don’t mean to say we’re perfect,” {Babbitt says]. We’ve got a lot to do in the way of extending paving of motor boulevards, for, believe me, it’s the fellow with four to ten thousand a year, say, and an automobile and a nice little family in a bungalow on the edge of town, that makes the wheels of progress go round!”

“That’s the type of fellow that’s ruling America to-day; in fact, it’s the ideal type to which the entire world must tend, if there’s to be a decent, well-balanced, Christian, go-ahead future for this little old planet! Once in a while I just naturally sit back and size up this Solid American Citizen, with a whale of a lot of satisfaction.”

Babbitt, ironically, laments at the end of his novel that his son does not aspire to become a Solid American Citizen, but rather longs to become a mechanic to work on automobile engines. The Solid American Citizen, obviously, is meant to drive and own and consume the products of commerce, not be involved in their production or maintenance, unless through supervision. That sounds altogether too familiar. Plus ca change, you know.

The Automobile Party, which we will examine Sunday, epitomizes the era and its fascination with acquiring the newly mass-produced goods the nation has to offer. Laugh at them if you will. Then look around your own home or apartment, and gaze in wonder at the junk you've accumulated. Then laugh at yourself.

The Book in Action?

The best way to enjoy The Cokesbury Party Book, of course, is to observe one of the parties listed therein in action. I have, as yet, not been brave enough to host such a party, because my wife and I already have the reputation for being among the most boring hosts on the planet, a reputation we don't need help shaping.

But are these parties boring? I don't know. From an ironical standpoint, they're at least darned interesting.

Sinclair Lewis, in his novel Main Street, walks us through such a party -- themed similarly to parties in the Cokesbury book -- given by Carol Kennicott at her home in the village of Gopher Prarie ostensibly to shake the town's denizens out of their party mold of bringing out the same old stories, the same old gags, the same old "stunts" that they trot out at any party, much like the midly entertaining uncle we all have who tells the same stories at every party he attends and gets laughs, because everyone knows the stories and loves their uncle too much not to laugh.

So here are bits of Carol's party, taken from Chapter 7 of the book:

"We're going to do something exciting," Carol exclaimed to her new confidante, Vida Sherwin. She saw that in the growing quiet her voice had carried across the room. Nat Hicks, Ella Stowbody, and Dave Dyer were abstracted, fingers and lips slightly moving. She knew with a cold certainty that Dave was rehearsing his "stunt" about the Norwegian catching the hen, Ella running over the first lines of "An Old Sweetheart of Mine," and Nat thinking of his popular parody on Mark Antony's oration.

"But I will not have anybody use the word 'stunt' in my house," she whispered to Miss Sherwin.

The grinning Bea brought down-stairs a pile of soft thick sheets of paper with designs of lotos blossoms, dragons, apes, in cobalt and crimson and gray, and patterns of purple birds flying among sea-green trees in the valleys of Nowhere.

"These," Carol announced, "are real Chinese masquerade costumes. I got them from an importing shop in Minneapolis. You are to put them on over your clothes, and please forget that you are Minnesotans, and turn into mandarins and coolies and--and samurai (isn't it?), and anything else you can think of."

While they were shyly rustling the paper costumes she disappeared. Ten minutes after she gazed down from the stairs upon grotesquely ruddy Yankee heads above Oriental robes, and cried to them, "The Princess Winky Poo salutes her court!"

I've got to admit that the second the Princess Winky Poo saluted her court, the part of the court that represented me would have taken a quick hiatus until the entire hullabaloo was over. Especially considering what happens next:

As they looked up she caught their suspense of admiration. They saw an airy figure in trousers and coat of green brocade edged with gold; a high gold collar under a proud chin; black hair pierced with jade pins; a languid peacock fan in an out-stretched hand; eyes uplifted to a vision of pagoda towers. When she dropped her pose and smiled down she discovered Kennicott apoplectic with domestic pride--and gray Guy Pollock staring beseechingly. For a second she saw nothing in all the pink and brown mass of their faces save the hunger of the two men.

She shook off the spell and ran down. "We're going to have a real Chinese concert. Messrs. Pollock, Kennicott, and, well, Stowbody are drummers; the rest of us sing and play the fife."

The fifes were combs with tissue paper; the drums were tabourets and the sewing-table. Loren Wheeler, editor of the Dauntless, led the orchestra, with a ruler and a totally inaccurate sense of rhythm. The music was a reminiscence of tom-toms heard at circus fortune-telling tents or at the Minnesota State Fair, but the whole company pounded and puffed and whined in a sing-song, and looked rapturous.

Soooo, anyone for Trivial Pursuit? Did people really have parties like this? Is this what made Prohibition such an unattractive thing? Of course, this takes place before Prohibition, if such a thing can be imagined. Yes, it's a conservative small town. But these are educated people, especially Carol, leader of the pack.

And remember, the party has a theme. Read on:

Before they were quite tired of the concert Carol led them in a dancing procession to the dining-room, to blue bowls of chow mein, with Lichee nuts and ginger preserved in syrup.

None of them save that city-rounder Harry Haydock had heard of any Chinese dish except chop sooey. With agreeable doubt they ventured through the bamboo shoots into the golden fried noodles of the chow mein; and Dave Dyer did a not very humorous Chinese dance with Nat Hicks; and there was hubbub and contentment.

Hubbub and contentment. That's the goal of any party, right? Now remember your host here (me). I must admit the best contentment from a party thrown at our house comes when the last guest has left and I can finally sop having a good time and start enjoying myself -- reverting to my hermit ways as my own hermit wife does the same thing. Why, a few weeks ago we did have a conversation. Via chat in Facebook. And our computers sit kitty-corner to each other in the study. So we're not the partying types.

And we do go to themed parties these days. Well, themed as we allow them to get. My favorite includes the theme of Adults Play Board Games in the Basement while the Children Wander Aimlessly Upstairs, Upset Bowls of Ice Cubes and Neglect to Clean them Up. The theme is getting together. We don't have board game-themed food. Thank Heaven. What kind of food goes with "The Family Business," a card game wherein each player represents a mob family out for blood against the others?

So did they have fun at these parties, like the parties in the Cokesbury book? Evidently so. Witness what was written in The Dauntless, Gopher Prarie's paper the week following the event:

One of the most delightful social events of recent months was held Wednesday evening in the housewarming of Dr. and Mrs. Kennicott, who have completely redecorated their charming home on Poplar Street, and is now extremely nifty in modern color scheme. The doctor and his bride were at home to their numerous friends and a number of novelties in diversions were held, including a Chinese orchestra in original and genuine Oriental costumes, of which Ye Editor was leader. Dainty refreshments were served in true Oriental style, and one and all voted a delightful time.

Yee-haw.

Tomorrow, we get to the first party -- a wild celebration of the New Year that involves spelling, make-up, bound women and oysters. But not in the way you'd expect.