Category Archives: Who does this guy think he is?

Who does this guy think he is?

Downtown

Downtown. Ah, I still love Petula Clark 50+ years later. You could tell me she was an antifeminist, homophobic racist, and I would still love her (with some judgement — but understand, that was rhetorical, she’s as innocent as can be, as far as I know). Downtown pops up in my workout playlist at least once a week. Nowadays, the song has taken on a ‘chamber of commerce’ feel — hey, everybody, free parking after 6pm Downtown! I don’t know if I originally caught the wistful melancholy, but it’s still groovy, man.

 

“Just like downtown.” My high school chemistry teacher, Mr Kapriva, used to say “just like downtown,” explaining for the benefit of his young charges that it meant “cool.” Mr Kapriva liked me because I sat in the front row and wore a tie and carried a briefcase. (It was an act of rebellion, at the time — the 60s lasted until 1973.) Each day, he would acknowledge my tie. It seemed to kill him that I bought my ties at a drugstore (3 for $5). Just like downtown.

 

Mr Kapriva had great hopes for my academic potential but did little to enhance it, though he was kind enough to give me a medal at the end of the year. It wasn’t until college that I had serious lab experience, which taught me I love cleaning glass but hate memorizing highly structured data. (I need to build my own structure.)

 

Mr Kapriva’s chemistry colleague, Mr Palmer, might have been a better teacher. Certainly, their colleague, Mr Duncan, intimidated the hell out of me (which is why I never studied physics except to the extent it inevitably overlaps chemistry and math).

 

I liked Kapriva but my favorite teachers were able to make me feel special while insisting I prove it. Like Ms Kraft (Algebra) and Mr Kokonis (Calculus).

 

“Don’t hang around and let your problems surround you … You can forget all your troubles, forget all your cares” Downtown. Cool.

Who does this guy think he is?

Mugshots

When I was a kid, my dad developed the habit of bringing me beer mugs as he went on business trips. (That didn’t seem the least bit odd, at the time.) Eventually, I picked up the habit of buying beer mugs on trips of my own. At its peak, my collection numbered over 100. I displayed many of them in bookcases. I washed them once or twice a year. 

Decades ago, decades after the habit started, I got rid of most of them. I kept a few mostly for their beauty and potential value (doubtful). I know where a couple of these originated. Here are a few.

Only a few are authentic Kruge mit Deckeln aus Deutschland
Only a few are authentic Kruge mit Deckeln aus Deutschland
Only a few are authentic Kruge mit Deckeln aus Deutschland
Only a few are authentic Kruge mit Deckeln aus Deutschland
Only a few are authentic Kruge mit Deckeln aus Deutschland
Only a few are authentic Kruge mit Deckeln aus Deutschland
Only a few are authentic Kruge mit Deckeln aus Deutschland
Who does this guy think he is?

The Night Eisenhower Died

General Dwight David Eisenhower died the morning of March 28, 1969 in Washington, DC. I was soon to be 14 years old. The night before he died, something extraordinary happened, something I’m remembering 51 years later.

 

I doubt that at the time of his death, I appreciated how respected and beloved Eisenhower was. It would be decades before I knew of his vision for the Interstate Highway system (mixed blessing / blunt instrument that it was). Even longer before I heard his warnings against the Military-Industrial-Congressional Complex (why is that 3rd leg always forgotten?). That warning is more relevant today.

 

But none of this mattered to me at the time. What mattered was something unprecedented, something you can’t imagine in this age of 24 hour media choices. In those days, TV signed off, went off the air, each night, posting a bizarre image and blaring an awful tone to wake anyone tired enough — or drunk enough — to fall asleep with the tv on. Static ruled the night.

 

But not this night. For the first time, not just in my life but ever, TV stayed on to be ready to tell the nation whenever Eisenhower died. I don’t remember how I knew this was going to happen. I was a child of television (and CocaCola) and my biological parents indulged me in many ways, including letting me stay up this night.

 

To fill the hours, my DC-area station broadcast movie after movie after movie — did I stay up all night? There was Gypsy and Auntie Mame, both masterpieces with Rosalind Russell. Was this the first time I saw Goodbye Charlie or Some Like It Hot (Tony Curtis in both)? Or John Goldfarb, Please Come Home or What A Way to Go (Shirley McClaine and Dick Van Dyke — “Hop. Hop. Hop to Hoppers.”) Some of these must have been on other afternoons, after Dark Shadows, no doubt. (I hear the theme to the Early Show as I write this.) They couldn’t all have been on that night. (I’m sure about Auntie Mame.)

 

But, Grandpa, why this random synaptic dump now? Well, we may run out of TP and ammo, but we never could have imagined running out of media. It’s everywhere, so much so, one can binge and binge and binge while they crank out more. Perhaps you remember the Writers’ Strike? (And Dr Horrible?) While everyone everywhere holds their breath, the Industry does, too. How long before there is figuratively “nothing to watch”?

 

So, while you scan online for hand sanitizer, I’m stockpiling beloved films. It’s a life-long list. Perhaps, I’ll save On The Beach for last.