Category: Uncategorized

Uncle Captain Skipper Sven Goolardi

A few years back I wrote a story about a former kid’s show host, a fellow who went by the moniker Suddsy Watters. The story centers on a free-lance writer who finds his childhood hero – a kid’s show host he almost go to see live on the afternoon John Kennedy was assasinated.

Kids shows. Gotta love ’em. The way I figure it, the golden age of local TV kid’s show hosts was between about 1955 and 1975 in the time slot between roughly 3 and 6 pm, when Mom and Dad took control of the television set for the evening news. In many markets, there were multiple hosts. For instance, while I was a kid in suburban Cleveland Ohio, there were, notably, “Barnaby” on Channel 3, “Franz the Toymaker” on Channel 8, and my favorite, “Captain Penney” on Channel 5.

Captain Penney hosted a variety of short features, including The Little Rascals and The Three Stooges. The other two hosts were geared to younger children, featuring much tamer fare. My sisters preferred Barnaby, and they came up with the term “Neighbor Doors” to describe two part “Dutch Doors”. Barnaby would appear from the upper half of the door and say “Hello little neighbors…”, hence the term “Neigbor Doors.” [As an aside, the swinging saloon doors seen on Westerns were called “Stranger Doors” from the greetings given to someone entering a saloon, as in “Howdy Stranger!”]

A few years back I read a book describing a number of those kid show hosts from coast to coast. Interesting reading. There were a lot of “Captains,” “Uncles,” at least one “Skipper,” and a host of other colorful characters. As the genre faded out, a victim of syndicated game and/or talk shows, the hosts faded, too. Some faded into obscurity, others survived by adaptation to other roles at the stations where they worked.

Other than news, most local stations did away with local programming sometime in the seventies. Too expensive by the time you figured in props and the personnel needed to run shows. Besides, there were standards which came into play which took away some of the bread and butter that the stations relied on to keep the shows running.

For stations wanting to keep a certain amount of local content, there was another opportunity available to them. One of the Hollywood studios made available a catalog of “B” feature horror flicks at bargain rates to individual stations. Many of the operators in the markets where the package of horror flicks was purchased, used a host, sometimes called a “sprocket jockey.” Hosts were as diverse as the markets where they worked – usually with monikers having to do with horror movie tropes.

In Cleveland in the mid sixties, it was Ghoulardi. Channel 8 knew a good thing when they had it and they milked the routine for all it was worth. To Ghoulardi’s credit, the person playing the character (Ernie Anderson) organized a baseball team which would appear at various places around town to raise money for charitable organizations. Ghoulardi departed Cleveland at around the same time our family left, and at about the same time as Cleveland’s most popular disc jocky – A fellow with the moniker “Jerry G” (of Jerry G and Company).

Jerry G moved to Chicago, became Jerry G Bishop, worked at a couple of radio stations, then was tapped to be a horror host on one of the Chicago’s television stations.

Called himself Svengoolie.

From a description seen on the internet (“If it’s on the internet, it must be true”) a portion of Jerry G Bishop’s schtick was lifted from Ernie Anderson’s Ghoulardi. At least, there had to be some cross-pollination as Jerry G and Ghoulardi were working the same market in the same time frame. Svengoolie was moderately popular in its day. Again, going back on the internet (“It has to be true”), a fellow named Rich Koz started sending jokes to Svengoolie, eventually being hired as a writer for the show. Mr. Koz continued the show when Bishop left, calling himself Son of Svengoolie.

At some point, Bishop gave his blessing to Mr. Koz to use the Svengoolie moniker still used by Mr. Koz on his show seen on Saturday nights on ME-TV.

While I contend that the current success of Svengoolie may hinge a little on his being a descendant of Ghoulardi, there are a number of dissimilarities. Svengoolie depends a lot on what we call “Dad Jokes,” while Ghoulardi’s humor centered on ethnic humor. Sven is more politically correct. It should also be noted that Rich Koz has had the Svengoolie moniker all to himself for a couple of decades, Ghoulardi was a relative flash in the pan, lasting less than five years.

Anyhoo, that’s my rattle for this Sunday evening. Anyone else have a favorite kid’s show host or sprocket jockey? I’m always open for suggestions.

Be Seeing You!

The Penguin – A Prophet

The Penguin – A Prophet

I have a Saturday night routine which leads down strange paths. I watch “Me-TV” for a string of shows, starting with The Three Stooges and ending with the first few moments of Star Trek. In between are Svengoolie (a direct descendent of Ghoulardi), the horror movie host, and Batman (In Color!). I have reasons (mostly nostalgic) for watching this Saturday night block, but I won’t get into those reasons for the moment.

What struck me was the Batman episodes run this past Saturday: Hizzonner the Penguin, followed by Dizzoner the Penguin from the second season. Burgess Meredith does an excellent job of portraying a costumed criminal with a bird fetish. In the pair of episodes shown on Me-TV this past Saturday, The Penguin stages an event enabling him to run for Mayor of Gotham City. Since it looks like he will win the election, Batman is asked to run against the “Fowl Fiend,” vowing to concentrate on the issues while Penguin works on making the Mayoral race into a popularity contest.

Included in Penguin’s bag of tricks are twists of logic (“I’m always seen in the newspapers with the police, while Batman is seen in the newspapers with criminals… therefore, I am more trustworthy.”) Hints of ballot manipulation, and finally, when the ballot counting shows Penguin losing, there are demands of a recount, accusations of fraud, and a kidnapping of the Board of Elections.

Sounds vaguely familiar. Like what transpired fifty and fifty-four years later in a pair of certain Presidential elections involving someone wearing a red hat.

A few major points stood out.

Penguin first threw his hat in the ring with a staged event. The man in the red hat descended an escalator in a staged event where he threw his hat in the ring.

Instead of building up his own qualifications, both preferred to take pot shots at their opponents.

Both called the election process to be stacked against them, especially when they were losing; both taking to subverting the process and demanding that no more votes be counted when it became obvious that the tide had turned.

One other takeaway from the pair of Batman episodes – Penguin declared that when he won, he would place a variety of costumed criminals in places where they could essentially pillage Gotham City. Judging from the number of indictments stemming from the election when the fellow in the red hat won, he was able to do what Penguin never did.

Sixty-Six years later, the parallel continues.

Some of it from a piece of literature from a long-dead British author – J.R.R. Tolkien.

There was a piece I read Monday where it seems that the man in the red hat was sounding conciliatory in something he said over the weekend. My mind jumped to Chapter 10 of the second book from Professor Tolkien’s epic trilogy of Lord of the Rings. Titled, “The Voice of Saruman,” it essentially says that the evil wizard’s voice sounded just like listener wanted to hear it. To some, his words were harsh and unforgiving. To others, he sounded like he was apologetic – his words flowing like honey over his tongue. Much the same can be said about the man in the red hat and those around who still support him. His words flow like honey, but reek of revenge.

Note that both were able to get a measure of revenge. Note also that Saruman’s end came from the knife of a once-trusted advisor.

Art imitates life and life imitates art. Or so it is said. Sometimes that old saw can be alarmingly true!

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Some Words Have None of the Luck

Some Words Have None of the Luck

I had a conversation with a naturist correspondent about the word(s) “Lifestyle(s)”. My correspondent was bemoaning that the word(s) had different meanings depending on the audience within the naturist community. To some, “Iiving the naturist lifestyle” means living as much of one’s life as possible without the burden of having to wear clothing. To others, “living the naturist lifestyle” means being a “swinger,” or someone willing to sleep with another’s spouse, while their spouse sleeps with your spouse.

Wife swapping, if you will.

Living a “Lifestyle” has had a broader meaning over the years. Most of us of a certain age remember a fellow named Robin Leach – a presenter of the show Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. It would be a safe bet to say that none of the people on that program were shown running around in their birthday suits. As to marital stability, well, that’s another matter.

I have encountered the term “Lifestyle(s) in a couple of other situations.

In the mid to late seventies, the National Lampoon published a parody of the movie Invasion of the Body Snatchers. The politically incorrect (a Lampoon specialty) conclusion came about when it was noted that the owner of the local hardware store had come up with a “Lifestyles” section. The protagonists in the story came to discover that the local townspeople had become Jewish (see what I mean by being politically incorrect?) after eating an alien deli sandwich (with a schmear, I mean, a dab of mustard).

A few years later, I worked at a radio station which moved their offices and studios into a building a few doors down from a gay nightclub. The club closed suddenly – with a notice posted on the door telling patrons that there was a new “Lifestyles” bar just down the road.

So, the term(s) “Lifestyle(s)” has taken a bit of a beating over time.

Another word with the misfortune of shifting meanings has been “Liberal.” At one time it was meant to indicate someone with an open mind – with characteristics we all strive to emulate. These days, the word has become a slur, especially in heavily “Red” areas. Come to think of it, wasn’t there a time when calling someone a “Red” indicated that the person in question was or is a communist?

Then, back to “Swinger.” Could be a kid enjoying a piece of playground equipment – or a “Hep Cat” dancing to what was once called swinging music – or a name given to a Polaroid camera, selling for “Nineteen dollars and ninety-five!”

It’s all a matter of understanding between people in a conversation. And sometimes the lines of understanding don’t easily cross between generations or other subsets of people. The phrase “Cut a rug” comes to my mind.

For some of us, the phrase “Cut a rug” is a phrase used to describe a pair of people dancing… a term not everyone is aware of.

I worked for a few years on an offshore oil drilling rig, two weeks on and two weeks off. Several of my co-workers concluded that it would be cheaper to fly back and forth to Costa Rica, stay in a hotel and enjoy the services of hot and cold running prostitutes. One of the older workers asked the pair running back and forth to Central America, “What do you do with these girls? Do you cut a rug?” Neither of the pair knew the phrase… I smiled and translated, “He wants to know if you install carpeting!”

The quip brought down the house!

English is a complex and sometimes difficult language to comprehend. It can sometimes be like a loaded gun. Just gotta be careful where you aim it!

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Grape Gum

Grape Gum

It was noted on my internet feed this morning that today marks 34 years since the Chicago Cubs played their first night game at Wrigley Stadium. Twenty years prior to the lights going on at Wrigley Field, I had an English teacher who declared herself as a baseball fan who was mad at the Cubs because Mr. Wrigley did not see fit to lighting the baseball field named in his honor. Because of that, she declared that there was to be no gum chewing in her class. Doing so would support Mr. Wrigley.

To say that Mrs. Fair disliked her English students chewing gum in her class would be a fair statement (note the play on words). While she was intolerant of all chewing gum, she was particularly intolerant of grape-flavored bubble gum.

When it came to grape gum, the woman had a nose like a hawk. If she even thought that you had grape gum on your person, you would be sent to the restroom to spit out the offending gum and then were told to rinse out your mouth before coming back to class.

There were other rules, too. I’ve forgotten most of them because, as I came to the discovery in my early days as part of that class, I sat in what I would consider to be the “Teacher’s Pet” seat. I got away with a thing or two because of my position in Mrs. Fair’s seating chart – and no, I didn’t test the limits by chewing gum, much less grape gum the entire school year. Came close, but never caught.

Why I was put into the “Teacher’s Pet” seat was likely because I was new to the school and/or new to the school system. I was in the position of having to find a whole new set of friends. Seated where I was didn’t help things, especially when the word was out that the front seat in the center row of Mrs. Fair’s classroom was… shall we say, special.

A couple of side notes having to do with my time in Mrs. Fair’s English class.

For one, we spent a few weeks studying Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations. There was an extra credit assignment which found me writing a “Musical.” I did a “Weird Al” thing of setting several plot points to already existing tunes. Mrs. Fair loved it. One of the easiest projects I ever did.

For the other, Mrs. Fair announced one day that one day, when she retired, she would sit in her rocking chair and listen to me on the radio. She retired in June, 1972. I started working at the local radio station in December of that year. (I would mention that Mrs. Fair’s husband and the owner of the radio station where I first worked were former mayors of the town, bookending a short-lived experiment of having a Council-Manager form of government. The better half found it amusing.)

At any rate, I believe that night baseball in Wrigley Field came well after Mrs. Fair expired, so she never got to take back her vendetta against poor Mr. Wrigley. And despite having the temptation of being able to chew any gum I wanted to chew in my lifetime, I never developed a taste for grape gum.

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Cleaning up the Mess

Cleaning up the Mess

Several years ago, I leased a house with a ticking time bomb in the form of a large tree in the front yard. The good news was that it cut my summer cooling bills by a considerable margin. The bad news was that the tree was still growing underground.

The lease on the house had a stipulation that the landlord would not be responsible for any drainage problems that I had. “Fair enough,” I thought, knowing that I have heard complaints from landlords about items flushed down toilets causing problems, like tampons and other miscellaneous items not made to be put down a drain.

About three years into our seven-year adventure at the leased house, the stepson noted that the toilet he was using needed additional help each time he sat down instead of standing up at his toilet. We put up with it for about six months before calling out a plumber to see if there was a problem. A few hundred dollars later, we were told that the tree in the front lawn had grown into the toilet’s drain. It was blocking solid matter which otherwise would have flushed from flushing.

“You are responsible for any drainage issues,” the landlord reminded us when we told her of the problem. “It’s in the lease.” That was the end of that discussion for a while at least.

At the end of our stay, cut short by the landlord’s wanting to put the house on the market, it wasn’t just one toilet with the problem. Most of the other drains in the house wouldn’t. When we got our notice 15 days into the standard 30 day notice period, we were more than happy to leave the place for someplace better.

It wasn’t until six to eight months later that a loophole was brought to my attention. While a landlord can impose certain restrictions, those restrictions are by the wayside when the health and safety of the occupants is at risk. Not being able to flush a toilet due to an invasion of the sewer line by a large, friendly tree falls into that loophole. The landlord in our case dodged her responsibility. Had I known sooner, I might have had a lawyer press for the needed repair.

Live and learn, I suppose.

The point of this story is that sometimes one walks into a situation which may or may not have been deliberately sabotaged by a landlord or a previous resident.

Or the previous President, in the case of the White House.

For the past thirteen or so months, the fellow we had elected President has been fighting the mess left by the previous occupant of the Oval Office. Every time he seems to have handled one problem; another crops up. And it’s always the fault of the current occupant. The former guy and his supporters are quick to fix the blame instead of fixing a problem.

It would seem that the former guy deliberately set up certain roadblocks to hamper his successor. For instance, it was noted that during his tenure, the former guy deliberately withheld aid from Ukraine (wanting the powers there to come up with evidence to smear his opponent in the 2020 election) and was a frequent basher of NATO. Just like he effectively surrendered to the Taliban, releasing thousands of Taliban fighters, leaving the execution of the drawdown of U.S. troops smack dab in his successor’s lap. And then there’s the Covid thing which was nothing more than a “hoax,” until it was too late to contain the disease. Deliberate actions. Revenge, perhaps, for losing the election?

I can forgive my former landlord for putting in a clause excusing herself from the responsibility of maintaining the drainage system of the house she owned. She had no idea – nor did I have the idea that a tree could interfere with the drain line. When people’s lives are at stake because of the actions or inactions of a “leader,” that’s the proverbial horse of a different color. What looks like deliberate sabotage needs to be addressed for what it is – and an apology at least to the people of Ukraine is in order.

We could use that apology as well.

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Another Trip Around the Sun

Another Trip Around the Sun

I was born on the twenty-first anniversary of Jack Benny’s 39th birthday. On Valentine’s Day, I celebrated the twenty-ninth anniversary of MY 39th birthday.

Another trip around the sun, with fewer trips to look forward to than trips I have made. It works like that.

Regrets? Few.

Desires? Well, I would love to have an hour or so to sit down and have a nice chat with people I have not seen or heard from for a long, long time.

For those people on my list who are still living, I’d start out with congratulations on making it so far, followed by asking what their life was like up to this point. We could exchange stories, have a laugh, maybe a cry or two, and then wish that person all the best moving forward.

Then there are those people who are no longer with us. The conversation would be more one-sided, I suppose. I would reflect on what I miss about that person – keeping them alive in memory in the time I have left. Parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and a wide assortment of other people who have been a part of my sixty-eight years are already etched in my memory.

As to those people I connect with on a regular basis, I hope to continue to connect with on a regular basis. Friendships and family ties are to be treasured.

No matter how the years are counted.

Tomorrow, it’s back to the day-to-day. Groceries to buy, dog to walk, books to read, books to write.

Never a dull moment. It’s all part of the grand adventure of another trip around the sun!

Be Seeing You!

My “Ohio Skills”

My “Ohio Skills”

I woke up this morning in my little corner of the DFW Metromess to a weather mess, courtesy of a dip in the jet stream. It gave me an opportunity to employ what my sister living in Columbus Ohio called “My Ohio Skills.”

The freezing rain followed by colder temperatures, followed by sleet, followed by snow, is seldom seen in Dallas. When it is seen, well, crappy weather comes with a vengeance. Last winter, just after my birthday, we almost had a complete breakdown of the electrical grid when the snow came with temperatures in the negative degrees.

Because of my “Ohio Skills,” we managed quite well, despite going nearly three days without electricity. I was able to prepare hot meals on the Weber grill and temperatures in the house didn’t fall below 50. No burst pipes (to the chagrin of plumbers who would have loved to fix them for me). The only casualties were a gallon and a half of Blue Bell Ice Cream which happened to melt in the freezer. Alas, alack!

Previous winters found me using those precious “Ohio Skills” taking the other half to work (but not today) or hunting down stray gallons of milk and/or loaves of bread left behind from shoppers stripping the shelves for essentials in anticipation of the storm. This time I didn’t have to fight the crowds, as I beat them to the punch by purchasing what I needed the day before yesterday.

Yesterday was spent making chili and battening down the hatches. And wouldn’t you know, the only preparation I didn’t make was purchasing a box or two of Jiffy brand Corn Bread mix. I was taken to task for my omission by a fellow traveler from California. California? Well, the score will be evened at lunch today as the other half will be preparing some home-made biscuits to have with the chili at lunch. Will follow up with a dish of ice cream.

In the meantime, I have my “Ohio Skills,” honed in winters much colder and much snowier than what we are witnessing this morning. I remember the morning I woke up at three in the morning to the sound of my neighbor’s car horn going off. Ice crystals completed the circuit in the horn button, making the horn sound. I got out of bed, bundled up, went outside, jiggled the neighbor’s horn button, and stopped the noise. A police cruiser came by just as I closed the car door. I was thanked for doing what I did (someone else called the police to come and check on things). The policeman then asked if I knew how cold it was. Before I could tell him that I didn’t want to know, he told me that it was Twenty-Two degrees. Dramatic pause. BELOW ZERO!

So saying, this morning’s temps in the teens in my little corner of the DFW Metromess is the figurative cakewalk in comparison.

It doesn’t make things any less cold and miserable, mind you. I believe that it reinforces the notion that living in the south thins one’s blood over the years, making even a little bit of cold even worse than it really is. I’ve lived here for nearly twenty-four years and have reason to believe that the notion of thinning blood is true.

But I still have my “Ohio Skills.” Along with blankets, hot cocoa and the luxury of not having to be somewhere this morning, I believe I can make this a good day.

Be Seeing You!

(By the way, aside from being red, both vehicles in my driveway were made in Ohio. They have “Ohio Skills,” too!)

I’ll Never Be As Good As…

I’ll Never Be As Good As…

I was in the process of developing a character on a Tuesday afternoon when the better half came in and enquired about what I was doing. When I described the character, she reminded me of someone who lived across the street from me while I was in high school. From there I went off on a tangent about a classmate who retired in the last year after having a successful career as a professional photographer. I started to whine that “I’ll never be as good as…”, before changing my tune to realize that I can be better than I am at the moment.

The person who lived across the street from us when I was in high school was a product of a broken home. His parents showered him with opportunities in an effort to win his love and/or respect. One of his opportunities was a state of the art camera and a darkroom. I had a pretty good idea on how to work a darkroom. My father showed me the routine when he had me with him on the job where he worked before we moved to southern Ohio. With just a little re-education, I became adept at using the darkroom.

In my junior year in high school, the fellow from across the street took me under his wing, allowing me to become his assistant. We were responsible for taking photos for the school yearbook and the school newspaper, a job which became mine during my senior year.

After high school, I developed different interests, leaving cameras and darkrooms behind me. Part of that had to do with a lack of easily obtainable money to buy the necessary equipment, and part of that had to do with a lack of space in the house where we lived to put in even a rudimentary darkroom. For the better part of forty years, my experience as a photographer hinged on having the funds to purchase film and developing services.

Back to the camera thing in a moment.

Something I wanted to do when I was a teenager was to be on the radio… to be a disc jockey. Dammit if the kid across the street went to the trouble of getting a permit from the FCC and a job playing disc jockey at a daytime radio station on Sundays. I ended up one-upping him by getting a part time job working nights at the other radio station in town – eventually making a short career (20 years off and on) out of playing on the radio.

But there was that old “I’ll never be as good as…” hanging around, haunting me. It wasn’t until I was twenty years past playing on the radio that I discovered that some of the people I thought were better at doing what we did than I were, in fact, not really that much better – and in one case, almost disasterously worse than me at my worst.

There was a pattern in all this. Whatever I resolved to do, I came to a conclusion that I could never be as good as….. and let that fear keep me from performing as well as I could, even though I was much better than I gave myself credit for being.

I have a cello sitting in the other room right now, unplayed, because I could never be as good as….

My resolve is to get back on that cello before Christmas. I was damn good for my age when I played in school. I have the certificates to prove it.

Back to the camera.

A few years back, the better half and I went to Colorado to attend her high school reunion. Naturally, the almost new camera came with us and I shot to my heart’s content. At one stop, I paused, took a photo, and was interrupted by a woman who happened to be a professional photographer. She complimented me on the shot, saying she would be hard pressed to do as well herself.

I guess I am as good or better than I thought I was.

It’s easy to put one’s self down. Most of us have done it to some degree or another at least once in our lives. Truth of the matter is, when we put ourselves down, we tend to keep ourselves from reaching our true potential.

Be Seeing You!

Back in the Land of the Living – If you call Facebook Living

A few whiles ago, I said that I would be giving up Facebook for a period of time. While I have refrained from posting, I refrained from posting for only a few days. Part of the reason is that I had taken the opportunity to check in occasionally to see if I had any responses to previous posts.

The first response to my announcement came within half an hour after I made it – one of my loving trolls asked, “How’s your prez doing for you?” OUR President is doing quite well, thank you, despite numerous ill-intentioned attempts to besmirch his image. OUR Previous President did everything in his power to burn bridges and create havoc on his way out the door. Bad form. The actors around him haven’t done him any favors, either. I watched a five-minute clip of some lawyer for the former guy’s campaign spew nothing but useless talking points in response to legitimate questions asked of her. Add the current drama about Bannon, as well as the insistence by the former guy that he’s still relevant, and it becomes obvious that the former guy has no business being elected Dog Catcher, much less being elected President of the United States.

A bit of irony was mixed in with recent postings. For instance, this past week the reading we had for the Education for Ministry class centered on Emperor Constantine and his attempt at making Christianity the only religion in the Roman Empire. Then there was the quote which popped up over the weekend where a former official of the previous administration was saying that the United States should have just one official religion.

The framers of the Constitution must have been spinning in their graves with that one.

What really made me come back, though, was the humanity demonstrated by the vast majority of the people on my friends list. Yeah, there are a few trolls sprinkled in there to help raise my blood pressure a point or two, but for the most part, the people on my friends list are either relatives, former high school, college, or work colleagues and the occasional arts and/or athletic professionals. I find it hard not to respond to certain birthdays, milestones, or medical diagnosis which pop up with regularity on Facebook.

I also found that reading the daily dispatches from Heather Cox Richardson had become a morning habit, as much as my glass of orange juice to wash down my blood pressure pill. Her comments on the day’s events, put into historical perspective serve as invaluable reminders of why we need to be vigilant lest we lose our democracy.

Well, for better or for worse, I’m back on Facebook.

For now.

Be Seeing You!