Fascinating -- My Essay on Traveling Back in Time (to the 1930s)

Maybe I'd see Cal play in the 1938 Rose Bowl

Having trouble coming up with a topic to write about for ye olde blogareeno I took a gander at the writing prompts I use with students. Why not, I wondered, address one myself?  I’ve certainly read other’s people thoughts on these topics enough. And so I did.

If you suddenly found a time machine, when and where would you visit in the past? Explain why you would go there and what you would expect to see.

I’d go to Berkeley in the late 1930s, a period I find fascinating for a number of reasons. There’s a lot I’d want to see from that time period. First would be a football game featuring the California Golden Bears in beautiful Memorial Stadium. I’ve been going to games there since I was a kid in the 1960s. It would be fascinating for me on a number of levels. First would be the crowd. The attire would be completely different — men wore jackets, ties and hats (not caps) and women dressed well too. The rooting section was segregated between men and women and all the men wore white shirts. The cheers and chants were more colorful, inventive and interesting. The songs by the band would be the same, but might, for reasons I can’t here imagine, sound different. It would fascinate me to see how fans interacted, if they talked about the same type of things. The game itself would look a lot different with smaller, slower, whiter players wearing far less and and much thinner equipment. There would be far less passing, more punting and a lot more runs straight up the middle. 

After the football game I’d take the ferry into San Francisco to check out the nightlife, I’d be especially curious to go to a nightclub. Who knows, I might see Benny Goodman, Glenn Miller or Duke Ellington. I love nightclub scenes in movies from the thirties and forties and to be in one — so to speak — would be fascinating (a word I’m on the verge of over-using). Would the cocktail hour banter be perfectly charming? (Maybe.) Would the music truly swing? (Surely.) Would the women by glamorous and the men debonair (Probably.) Would it all be so sophisticated and engaging? (Hopefully.) 

Later I’d want to find people with whom I could talk politics. What a time to do it in! The Spanish Civil War would be raging or just finished depending on my arrival time and there would be Hitler’s Germany and Mussolini’s Italy to discuss. I’m sure I’d counter isolationists and others who thought the fascist threat highly overrated. Still others would extoll certain aspects of the totalitarian regimes and I’d have to deal with anti-semitism that was even more out in the open those days. I’d probably also meet some people who were intrigued by the Soviet Union in particular and Communism in general. I’m curious about how political discourse in the thirties would be compared with today. Hopefully more people would be open-minded and less dogmatic. 

One of the downsides of my visit to the past would be dealing with the casual and often not so causal racism. Homophobia would be pretty blatant and I’d not likely meet many, if any, out gay people. Bringing up transgender issues would be like trying to talk about Instagram, Tik Tok and Twitter. Speaking of which, there’d be no social media, no internet, no streaming. But there would be a lot of newspapers and magazines to choose from. Shopping in general would be interesting and prices for consumer goods (and everything else, for that matter) would seem ridiculously cheap. There’d be less variety in dining options, probably no sushi and fewer, if any, Mexican restaurants. I doubt that the quality of food in most eateries would be as good (certainly not as healthy) as today.

Of course I’d stroll around neighborhoods I’m familiar with to see how much and how little certain places have changed. My mother would be around so I’d sneak a peak at her and my aunt and grandparents. It would be weird, maybe even creepy, but to trot that word out again, fascinating. 

Listening to the radio would be interesting. I’m familiar with some old radio shows a few of which morphed into early television fare.

At some point I’d want to take a transcontinental train ride to New York. My 21st century dollars would go far so I’d pay for the best. I’d ride in comfort and dine well. Meanwhile I'd see America as it was then. Though no longer at its peak, there'd be signs of the depression everywhere including what were then called hobos and tramps. 

Once in New York I’d explore yet more of the nightclub world. I’d also go to the classic movie houses of yore. I imagine New York of the thirties as a feast for the eyes, with plenty of art deco and colorfully, elegantly dressed sophisticates enjoying the good life. I’d also slum around and see how the lower classes lived. Hopefully I’d be savvy enough to avoid trouble. Perhaps a baseball game at the Polo Grounds or Yankee Stadium would be fun, or a prize fight at Madison Square Garden. 

A quick trip to Washington D.C. might be fun, especially if I could figure out a way to see President Roosevelt.

Next I’d take a luxury liner to London. They look fabulous in films from that era and what fun to enjoy the ship’s various forms of entertainment and enjoy the briny air. Then I’d, of course, explore London followed by a trip to pre-war Paris. It would — that word again — by at once fascinating and deeply depressing to visit Nazi Germany. As a history buff it’s something I couldn’t pass on seeing.

One other thing I might do while I was visiting the thirties is go on a date or twelve. I’d first have to check with the missus, I’m sure that even if she okayed the idea I’d have to refrain from any hanky-panky. Heavy necking might be off the table as well. I’d at least like to accompany women on some of evening sojourns, no harm there. (Maybe to be safe I should take the wife along.)

I would expect to thoroughly enjoy my visit to the past. It would be an invaluable supplement to my understanding of the time period. I’m sure much would be as I would expect while other things would surprise to one degree of another.  All told it would doubtless be — one more time — fascinating.

Quirky Girls, Romance and an Eighties Hit

I was near downtown yesterday waiting for the missus to pick me up when a young woman walked by who I thought looked interesting, quirky and fun. I’ve seen a lot of females over the years who — for me — fit that description. They are never conventionally pretty nor fashionably dressed. I always imagine them to be independent thinkers with wicked senses of humor. They do well in their studies, never top of the class though they likely could be if they’d a mind to. They have fractured relationships with a parent or sibling but are close to someone else in their immediate family. They are never either particularly athletic nor clumsy. They reads obsessively and have a passion for music or films that are out of the mainstream. They brood a lot but are not prone to depression. 

I’ve always been drawn to these women but as a young man never had a relationship of any significant length with one. Mostly they weren't interested in me which I always found odd and frustrating as it seemed I should be just their type and I arrogantly felt that they should be drawn to someone like me who was handsome and charming. What is it about me that turned such women off, or failed to attract them?

Perhaps they recognized that I saw them more as a type than someone to be understood and appreciated for her own merits. I suppose many women sensed a certain superficiality on my part because I was glib, funny and prone to flattery. I never felt they gave me a chance. Then again maybe I wasn’t suited to interesting, quirky and fun. The love of my life to whom I’m still married is most certainly interesting, definitely fun though she is less quirky and more independent with a stronger sense of self and less insecurities than any woman I’ve known. Quirkiness can betray a certain vulnerability that doesn’t exist in my wife. 

In the last few days I’ve been obsessed with the above video. I don’t recall either the song or the video from the time of their release thirty-seven years ago. I don’t know what I find so intoxicating about the song, I know I’m drawn to the video in large part because of the beguiling Bunty Bailey (what a name) the actress in the video. It’s not my kind of music at all so I’m baffled why it appeals to me.  Somehow this obsession — one that I imagine will have a short shelf life — had me asking the question: am I a romantic? It’s something I’ve never before pondered. In the narrative form I find that they-lived-happily-ever-after stories are trite, cliched and uninteresting yet l unabashedly root for people finding true love whether in fiction or reality. Maybe in part because I found it.

There aren’t a lot of love stories on film that I like. I do enjoy many that are couched in screwball comedies (largely because they are not cloying and don’t take themselves seriously) such as Bringing Up Baby, The Lady Eve, His Girl Friday, and Ninotchka. 

There are more films with romance at the center that I’ve enjoyed including Hannah and Sisters, What’s Up Doc?, Arthur and When Harry Met Sally, the latter being perhaps the quintessential modern romantic comedy. But most are formulaic and overly reliant on sappy soundtracks and gimmicky lighting. Characters are generally stick figures.

There are many love songs that I enjoy, particularly by The Beatles but I prefer The Doors, Joplin, Hendrix, Neil Young and Led Zeppelin, not a lot of syrupy stuff there.

Other people's romances can be terribly dull stories (there seems little less interesting than two people finding one another on line though if it works out for them, mazel tov!) I've always chauvinistically believed that my wife and my story is a particularly good one though she has forbidden me from recounting it here, a command I respect.

Contrary to the uber popular and really bad film Love Story, love does in fact constantly require one to say that they are sorry. Claiming otherwise is preposterous. 

I'm now left to wonder how many of those intelligent, quirky fun women I've encountered ultimately found true love and with what kind of gent? 

Love is ever a mystery, thank god I've found it.

I Miraculously Survive a Routine Procedure and Make a Meal of it

Thursday of last week I went to the hospital to have a pacemaker implanted. In the days leading up to the “procedure” I was reminded why having a vivid and active imagination can have drawbacks as I found myself envisioning horrible complications during the operation resulting in my untimely death. If I survive this, I vowed, for the rest of my days I will appreciate every moment. I will savor favorite sounds, tastes, smells, sights and feelings. I’ll not waste a second, instead living life to the fullest.

I can be so dramatic.

None of my fears were shared with anyone save for jokes with the missus about her soon being a widow. She was not amused.

As you may have already gathered, I survived the operation and this has not been written from the great beyond.

There is something oddly exciting about showing up for operation. After all it’s a sharp break from one’s normal routine. There is also the understanding that a team of people are going to be looking after you and one’s only obligation is to be polite and follow simple instructions like extending your arm or taking a deep breath. This is in my wheelhouse. 

After checking in I was led to a large waiting area. My first assignment was to undress and put on one of the lovely hospital gowns that are so stylish and practical. I then endured the first of a series of tests of my blood pressure, pulse, temperature and ability to be patient through a battery of repetitive tests. I passed.

Next I met a young man (most people seem young to me these days, hell, he could have been in his forties) who did an echocardiogram of my heart. I got to see it in action, the old ticker doesn't look a day over fifty. The echocardiogrammer (how does one decide to go into that line of work?) informed me that my heart looked healthy. Relief. So I can go home now? But no, we were just getting started.

The anesthesiologist was next. Here was a man who would have my life in his hands. Too much juice could send me into the long goodbye. He was a most amiable chap, reassuring in the ways that a medical professional should be. He explained what was to be done and I understood more than half of what he said. He said they were getting the room ready for me "after the last victim." It was the kind of humor I would use.

One of 20,000 nurses I was to see in the coming twenty-fours then brought me a toothbrush and mouthwash. I can only imagine that doctors have grown weary of operating on patients with foul breath. I obliged and did an oral cleanse.

Finally the cardiologist himself popped in and gave me the 4-1-1. He's a person who positively oozes professionalism and by the time he had finished previewing coming attractions I was ready and confident. I just might live through this, I thought.

I was wheeled into the operating room on a gurney, a fun ride to be sure, though one struggles to look dignified while wearing a hospital gown and being pushed around on wheels. 

Upon entering the room I immediately remarked that it “looks like the set of 2001.” There followed a series of quips bandied about by me and the crew that was prepping for my procedure. I was thus even further at ease. Meanwhile I was hooked to an IV and it was not long before I was waking in post-op with no memory of having an incision made in my chest nor a metal object being placed in my body. There was a gigantic bandage in my upper left chest area, as if I'd taken enemy shrapnel.

I was high as a kite.

This is not a desirable condition for a recovering addict/alcoholic but given the circumstances there was nothing to be done for it and no amends needed be made.

There was a post op nurse seated near and I proceeded to talk her ear off — the poor dear. It is my hazy recollection that she was a fetching young woman and more than that charming and affable. I don’t recall the topics of our discourse but I was particularly garrulous and — god, I hope not, — perhaps flirtatious. As my darling wife later observed she was likely well used to people emerging from surgery acting goofy as hell.

When I was wheeled out of the room I had the horrible feeling that I was being taken away from a new found love. Indeed I distinctly remember thinking that I was in love with the post op nurse. For her part I'm sure she was delighted to have seen the last of me.

But I was so giddy from the drugs that I quickly recovered and started gabbing incessantly at the poor soul that was taking me to my room. The hours that follow are a blur but I know they were replete with more tests and a battery of questions. I was finally allowed to eat though I don’t remember the first thing I had nor what I thought of it. I also recall chatting on the phone with my wife and that she and older daughter later came to visit. Now my beloveds were subjected to my verbal diarrhea. But no matter I was good spirits and my family has developed a tolerance for my nonsense and indulged me. 

Younger daughter called from New York so that she too could share in hearing crazy old dad blather on.

I was to spend the night in the hospital which I’d already been given to understand was a strong likelihood. Low points were to come. First there was dinner. I ordered what they laughingly referred to as a Caesar salad along with mashed potatoes and a fruit cup. Everything tasted like it was prepared during the Eisenhower administration and to make matters worse I confused the gravy for my potatoes with dressing for my salad. This did nothing to enhance the “flavor” of the salad and made me wonder if I were tasting the worst dressing in the history of hospital food. 

Anyway, the cold water was good.

Getting to sleep was a near impossibility especially since the room temperature was a notch or two warmer than a Turkish prison in August. I finally managed to doze when about two hours later bright lights were shining in my face and I was subjected to — you guessed it — more tests. What cruel form of torture was this? Somehow I fell back to sleep only to be subjected to another round of tests two hours later. Health care professionals or sadists?

The morning came and the pain meds were wearing off leaving me with soreness in the incision area and the distinct feeling that I hadn’t slept in a fortnight. 

Released in late morning, the missus picked me up — figuratively — and to blessed home we went. My wife bought me a delicious lunch featuring salmon — my favorite. I ate ravenously and all was well with the world. Well, sort of. There was torture to come. The pain meds had caused constipation that would persist for two uncomfortable days and I had a dull pain in my left shoulder that has kept me from certain tasks such as typing. I’ve been trying to write this post since Monday but the pain has prevented more than a few paragraphs a day and even now the shoulder throbs.

Still I went for a long walk on Monday and Tuesday was teaching again. Yesterday I had the bandage removed and this morning was able to resume normal showering. The shoulder pain is not so bad and there’s every hope that it’ll be gone in a few days time.

Best of all my fears of a sudden, shocking death during a routine procedure proved unfounded.

As stated at the beginning, I vowed before the procedure that should I survive (what a drama queen) I would savor every remaining minute. Yeah, well, we’ll see about that. I’ll do my best. No promises. I do have an even greater appreciation for my wife, daughters, friends, nieces and nephews and their mates and children. What lovely people I surround myself with. 

Expressions, Thoughts, Words, Humor A Delightful Mishmash

Tessa Thompson, because it's her birthday today

One day last week at around 4:30 someone said to me: “have a nice rest of the day.” It got me to wondering what is the cut off point? Certainly in the AM hours we would still encourage people to have a full on “nice day.” This should extend into the early afternoon. I’m guessing somewhere around 3:00 too much of the day is gone for having a nice day to have much meaning. But then when do we start with “have a nice evening?” Certainly by 5:00. I think there’s a small window for a “have a nice rest of the day.” Actually I could do without it entirely. It’s like saying, “well, you’ve pretty much shot most of the day, try to make something of the rest of it.”

One Sunday at around 5:00 my wife and I were checking out at a grocery store. The checker cheerily said, “have a nice weekend.” Uhh, excuse me, young lady, that ship has long since sailed. In fact wishing someone a nice weekend ends at dusk on Saturday by which time most of the weekend — certainly the best part of it — is over. 

I once got this: “have an awesome weekend.” Hold on there, son, that’s way too much pressure. I can handle “nice” or “good” but to pull off an “awesome” weekend is a difficult feat. You don’t just hand those out like candy. 

If calling various medical offices has taught me anything it’s that if I’m having a medical emergency I should hang up and dial 9-1-1. Every time I call a medical professional the voice mail greeting begins, “you have reached such-and-such office, if you’re having a medical emergency, hang up and dial nine-one-one.” Thanks, for the tip. I’ve gotten this message when calling cardiology offices, my GP, psychiatrists, dermatologists and podiatrists. 

No one ever shoves off anymore. You also rarely hear people say they’re going to “take off.” Saying “I’m going to split” has similarly fallen out of fashion.

Ever hear people say they’d like to be a fly on the wall for such-and-such conversation? Not me. Being a fly would suck for more reasons than I have the desire to enumerate.

Which is better to receive: high praise, plaudits, encomiums, hosannahs, acclimation, acclaim, hurrahs, commendations or kudos? All are nice but I think I prefer cash rewards.

It doesn’t seem as though Brits say cheerio much anymore. More’s the pity.

One expression I’m glad to see fading away is: “don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Which often came with the addendum, “and if you do, do it better.” Too vague. Please specify those things you “wouldn’t do.” Are we talking drugs, alcohol, sex, reckless physical endeavors? I'm  only left to wonder.

Speaking of vague: “have a good one!” A good what? Would it kill you to specify. One assumes you mean have a good day or weekend but it that’s the case why not say it?

I’m having surgery on Thursday to have a pacemaker shoved into my chest. Here’s something I’m expecting to be told by well-meaning people: “we’ll be thinking of you” or “you’ll be in our thoughts.” But what exactly you’ll be thinking and what thoughts you’ll have are left unsaid. Oh well, it’s the thought that counts. 

Have a good one, everybody!