|EH in 1896, ideals shining right off his cowlicks, dreaming of a better future.|
Massive, massive, gigantic, megagigundous difference between the Roycrofters and the guy responsible, besides the Martians, for that vast cult known as the sci-ummmologisumissimists. The guy whose name rhymes with, wouldn't you know it, Enron. Hm. Given that I once wrote an exposé for a magzine published by Ralph Lauren's son on EST offshoot the landmarx fourhum (not the real name), and thus nearly got sued by the cult's admin, I hesitate to even say the word scientolomoneybrainwashbarleywaterologiwhich. And yes, I know that one is not the other. But they both have formidable legal teams.
|The inscription reads: Elbert Hubbard on Garnet leading Asbestos. Garnet according to the Elbert Hubbard museum was his favorite mare. Asbestos: her foal. (Hubbard Roycroft Museum)|
|Cars during the transit strike in an American city during the 1970s. From Documerica, an amazing piece about the mess we were in during the 1970s, in the Atlantic.|
|Roycroft magazine stand from 1915, the same year the Lusitania sank.|
I didn't know that Elbert and his wife (often referred to as his "second wife") —
|"Elbert Hubbard with his second wife, Alice Moore Hubbard, and their daughter, Miriam" from the Hubbard Roycroft Museum.|
The title gets its name from the fact that there is a man who has to get a message to Garcia, and, well, he does. And saves the day.
And that's what got me started looking up Elberto. History begs to be messed with in a writer's head, and to me the title sounds like a very modern short story, a Godotian plot, perhaps, where someone has to get a message to someone who may or may not be named Garcia, and perhaps the whole thing takes place in Miami on Calle Ocho, and the protagonist, a very anti antihero, finds himself stepping on toes every time he asked. As in, What, you think we're all named Garcia?
|Actor Andy Garcia|