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Spam, Spam, Spam, Spam

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I love Spam.

The kind you eat.

Well, maybe love is too strong a word. But I like Spam. In a world where people eat raw fish — and pay premium prices to do so — Spam is not only a taste sensation but a bargain.

Okay, maybe there’s a bit of tongue in cheek — not to mention meat byproducts — in this ode to Hormel’s processed meat. But I genuinely enjoy the stuff.

My dad was a Spam eater from way back. (Or, if you prefer, SPAM. But that seems kind of stilted, so for the purposes of this blog, it’s Spam.)

Spam was a taste my dad acquired in World War II, when he was stationed in the Pacific Theater and spent part of his time as an Army cook. Hormel says 100 million pounds of Spam was shipped overseas during World War II. Some of it was even eaten. Much of it was used by my dad in various recipes.

During the war, my dad ate Spam because he had to but retained an appreciation for it, which he passed along to me.

Some of the foods of my youth — most sugary cereals, Beanie Weanies — don’t stand the taste-test of time today. Spam does, however.

I can eat it fresh (well … ) out of the can. I can eat it cold. I can eat it fried, preferably with eggs.

Part of the continuing appeal of Spam, I think, is that it horrifies my son so much. I enjoy torturing him by pulling a can of Spam out of our cabinet — I think that can has been there for much of his young life — and telling him, “What do you think? Should we have Spam tonight?” He reacts with disgust, of course, and so far I haven’t actually made him eat any.

Spam has gotten a bad rap in recent years. Its reputation took on a new luster with Monty Python’s “Spamalot,” but there’s not a lot that even a spoofy Broadway musical can do to overcome the onus of having particularly obnoxious junk email named after it.

Dang. All this writing about Spam is making me hungry. I don’t have any reason to worry that the can of Spam has been eaten, but it might have disappeared from the cabinet through some Spam-preventive skullduggery.

Ah, no. Still there. Waiting for me.

Soon, Spam. Soon.

Lester Holt, hardest working man in show business

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I was watching the “Today” show last week and Ann Curry mentioned that Lester Holt had been chosen as the new host of “Dateline” on NBC.

Okay, let’s set aside, for the moment, that I didn’t know that NBC was still showing “Dateline.” It was only a few years ago that the network was airing the magazine show six or seven or possibly eight times a week. But I haven’t noticed it lately.

But I’m totally not surprised that Lester Holt is going to anchor the show.

Holt very possibly anchors more hours of network TV each week than any other living being.

Before the “Dateline” gig, Holt was already hosting the weekend editions of “Today.” Two hours (only one hour on the Indy affiliate) Saturday and Sunday mornings.

He’s also the anchor of “NBC Nightly News” on Saturdays and Sundays.

That means that Holt, a fixture on NBC and MSNBC since 2000, finishes with the “Today” show and then comes back 10 or so hours later to host “Nightly News.”

It’s no secret that the hours suck in journalism. Weekend hours are among the suckiest. But does anybody have suckier hours than Lester? I mean, does NBC give him a cot to nap on between morning and evening shifts at least?

That doesn’t even count all the times Holt guest-anchors on “Today” or “Nightly News” during the week while Matt Lauer and Brian Williams go kayaking or whatever the heck TV news anchors do.

And now “Dateline.”

I don’t think Lester would be quite so appealing, however, if he didn’t seem like such a nice guy. TV thrives on warm personalities. It’s possible for viewers to watch and enjoy an aloof jerk, but I think bad attitudes and star-tripping egos are ultimately obvious.

Lester never gives off that vibe.

And what’s more, he doesn’t even seem frazzled or tired, no matter how sucky his work hours.

I’m not sure even Lester can get me to watch “Dateline,” but I’m glad he’s there.

My moment with Vincent Price

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It was the spring of 1982 and I was in an unexpectedly quiet spot in Chicago’s O’Hare airport, waiting for a plane. And, just as unexpectedly, there in front of me was horror movie icon Vincent Price.

I had been in Chicago on a press junket for the Arnold Schwarzenegger movie “Conan the Barbarian,” which was due to come out in just a few weeks. I’ve previously recounted my brief meeting with Schwarzenegger, who was far from a household name at this point.

Likewise, Vincent Price wasn’t a household name anymore. Except in my household, and those of other old horror movie fans around the world.

Price was about 71 by this point and his career had, in some ways, peaked a couple of decades earlier. His series of classic 1960s horror films, many adaptations of Edgar Allen Poe movies, were followed by a series of 1970s films that, by virtue of being offbeat, had given his later career a boost. Price had won critical acclaim and made fans with the “Dr. Phibes” movies and “Theater of Blood,” in which he played a washed-up horror movie actor plagued by a series of murders … or was he the murderer?

I loved the Poe movies and looooved the “Phibes” films, which were modern and old-fashioned at the same time.

But by 1982, the type of horror movies in which Price had starred had fallen out of fashion. This was the period in which every hack filmmaker was imitating John Carpenter’s great 1978 “Halloween” with cheap and tawdry slasher films.

Maybe I was emboldened by having just talked to Schwarzenegger and the “Conan” crew, but I knew I had to talk to Price.

He was, improbably, alone. No entourage. Not even a traveling companion.

I crossed from the bank of seats where I had been about to sit and approached him slowly. He looked up and smiled and seemed to encourage me to come closer.

I introduced myself, told him what I was doing in Chicago and asked if I could sit with him for a moment.

Even though by this point in his career he must have been approached by strangers thousands of times, he welcomed me graciously and gestured for me to sit down.

We made small talk — at least when I wasn’t telling him how much I loved his work — although I don’t recall if he said why he was traveling.

I remember thinking how jealous Jim, Brian, Derek and my other movie fan friends would be about my opportunity to meet one of our favorite stars so I asked if he would mind if I got out my tape recorder and recorded our conversation.

Price, so friendly in our few minutes together, balked at this.

“I think it would attract too much attention,” he told me.

By this point, a few other people had arrived at the gate for their flights and had noticed Price. He was right, and I nodded.

We spoke for a few more minutes, although by this point Price was distracted by the other people around us. Before long, a woman came up to where we sat and asked if she could take his picture. (This was in the days before cell phones, of course, and the woman had a camera, which was certain to attract even more attention.) Price smiled a little tightly and gave his permission.

Feeling almost guilty that I had started this snowball of recognition, I thanked Price for spending some time in conversation with me and headed back to the seats closest to my gate. He smiled and thanked me for my time.

Price spoke to a few of the people near him but before long excused himself, probably to go to a nearby airport restaurant. I didn’t see him again before my flight left.

Although Price seemed almost a curiosity to the crowd in the airport that day, he achieved yet another level of pop culture fame just a few months later. Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” album and music video, featuring Price’s spoken word “rap,” was released in November of that year. Although he wasn’t seen in the insanely popular video, his distinctive voice was heard, and anyone who wondered whatever happened to Vincent Price had their question answered.

I was lucky enough to have found out, a few months earlier, whatever happened to Vincent Price. And in the process, found that he was a gracious and generous man.

I didn’t get a chance to meet Price, who died in 1993, again. But he’ll live on in my memory from our airport meeting that day in 1982.

Please Mr. Postman …

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Outside of Christmas and birthdays, there are few moments of genuine joyful anticipation for most kids that can top waiting on the mailman to deliver a package.

Whether the package in question is a gift from a grandparent, an eagerly awaited toy or even a favorite magazine or comic book, there’s nothing like the excitement of checking the mail, sometimes for days or weeks, and finally — finally — receiving what you’ve been waiting for.

As a matter of fact, sometimes the anticipation tops the actual item that’s delivered. Remember that classic “Calvin and Hobbes” comic strip series about the propeller beanie?

That’s why I love the U.S. Postal Service, better known as the post office, and its mailmen — more accurately known as letter carriers and postmasters and other postal workers.

And that’s why it makes me sad that the Postal Service is struggling right now.

There’s a good Associated Press story that sums up the problems facing USPS right now, including declining use of what some derisively call “snail mail” as well as $5.5 billion a year that the organization must set aside for retiree medical costs.

If the Postal Service doesn’t somehow make enough money to cover that expense, it could shut down.

So USPS is considering cutting staffing, closing some post offices and eliminating Saturday delivery. Workforce cutbacks take their toll on any company or organization, without a doubt. Closing post offices not only pose inconveniences for customers but take away a sense of identity for many small towns. Saturday delivery is great but seems the most expendable.

Whatever happens, I hope they work it out. With email and online transactions, we do a lot less mailing than we used to. But our household still gets a steady stream of print magazines, packages and important mail that we can’t live without.

Maybe none of it can match, in pure joy, the mailings and packages I received in my youth: Items purchased from Captain Company ads in Famous Monsters magazine, X-Ray Specs from comic book ads and my Merry Marvel Marching Society membership package.

But the mail is still welcome in our household. More than welcome. Necessary.

Ten years later

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I still have the dream.

I’m standing outside at night. I hear the whine of a jet far overhead. I look up and see the airliner, darker than the night sky around it. The shape of its body and wings eclipse stars, then clouds, then trees as it falls to earth.

Sometimes I wake up at that moment. Sometimes the dream involves ushering a child or a dog to comparative safety behind an elaborate fountain like the kind you’d find in a town square. Mercifully, I never dream long enough to see the fire or hear the noise.

I’ve had the dream for the better part of 10 years now. Like my other recurring dreams — being lost, losing teeth and the classic being back in high school with no idea what I was doing or where I should be going — I’m not certain what prompted it, other than general anxiety.

Ten years ago this week, we all felt horror and shock and sorrow as we watched the events of Sept. 11 unfold. I doubt there are many of us who don’t still think about that day. Or dream about it.

Almost as vivid in my memory, however, is the memory of my relief when, a few days after the attacks, I first noticed a vapor trail in the sky. It was a sign that we were recovering, that things were moving back toward normal.

That recovery has seemed very slow at times and the nightmares linger. But we’re recovering, nonetheless.

(Photo above by Dallas commercial photographer Sean Gallagher.)

 

Geektastic: Jonny Quest stop-motion animation

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This makes me all geeky goosebumpy.

A stop-motion animation artist named Roger Evans has produced a two-minute-long-or-so version of the opening credits of the classic 1960s animated series “Jonny Quest.”

Yes, this talented man has produced a stop-motion animated version of an animated cartoon, but if that stumps you, you’re missing the point. And probably checking out the wrong blog.

If you’re an old school “Jonny Quest” fan, you’ll appreciate the behind-the-scenes details of how Evans accomplished this. Here’s the webpage with the info.

And if you don’t get a tingle every time the Quest jet cuts through the clouds, I’ll double your money back.

Just for fun: Buckaroo Banzai

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Here’s a little something for my fellow geeks out there: The end credits of the 1984 film “The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8th Dimension.”

The movie, starring Peter Weller, Jeff Goldblum and Ellen Barkin, came out in the summer of 1984 and was met with a collective “Huh?”

The story of Buckaroo, a surgeon/musician/adventurer, and his posse was a throwback to pulp stories featuring superheroes like Doc Savage.

But the movie left a lot of people cold. It did play like a long inside joke, admittedly, but it was an inside joke that I appreciated.

I saw this at the (now gone) Northwest Plaza Cinema in Muncie. It was the summer of “Ghostbusters,” “Beverly Hills Cop,” “Star Trek III” and “Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom,” and Buckaroo and the Hong Kong Cavaliers got lost at the box office.

Overlooked as it was, there’s been talk of a sequel and of  a TV series, and Buckaroo’s HQ, the Banzai Institute, has a Facebook page.

And the legend lives on in the film’s cult status.

Weather hates us: Blizzard of ’78

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Watching bits and pieces of the Hurricane Irene coverage the past few days makes me think of the two greatest weather events of my lifetime so far: The Blizzard of ’78 and the ice storm of 2005.

A lot of people in this part of the Midwest have compared the two in the years since the January 2005 ice storm and most people I’ve spoken with say that in some ways the blizzard was less harrowing. The loss of electric power for most of us during the ice storm — we were lucky and only without power for three or four days, although some were in the dark and cold for a week or more — was worse than being cooped up at home after the Blizzard.

Although I’m not signing up for a recurrence of either, I think I’d prefer to relive the Blizzard of ’78 if I had to choose. The January 1978 blizzard — up to 20 inches of snow across much of Central Indiana, whipped by high winds into road-closing drifts that often reached to the rooflines of homes — paralyzed much of the state.

But aside from keeping us out of school for days, the blizzard had other good (bad?) effects. My family, which lived on a farm in the country at the time, was pretty well prepared and didn’t go without necessities. My brothers had borrowed some friends’ snow shoes and made forays out a few times, walking the two miles to the Marsh at Southway Plaza, the nearest grocery store.

Eventually a snow plow got down South Walnut Street and we managed to get out. I don’t think I’ll ever forget what a surreal first trip we made down the newly-0pened road. The snow had drifted higher than the tops of cars and the plow had made a virtual tunnel, open at the top, one lane wide all the way to town. There were a couple of wider spots to allow cars to pull over for the passage of the sparse other traffic.

In the decades since the blizzard — certainly by the time of the ice storm — I knew that weather emergencies were no longer an impromptu vacation from school and responsibilities. Now we still have to get to work and school. Life goes on, even after a weather disaster.

So I’m feeling for people on the East Coast who are dealing with damage and, long after the 24/7 news coverage ends, will be picking up the pieces.

By the way, I don’t have any Blizzard of ’78 pictures. The photos included here are from northern Indiana and were found on a website about the Blizzard. But they’re very representational of how I remember roads and driveways to be once we had tunneled our way out.

Are we bigger slobs every generation?

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My maternal grandfather, James Albert Stewart, was a manual laborer most of his life. He lived a hardscrabble existence in Tennessee before moving to Muncie and then worked, along with his wife, Ida, in the town’s dirty, hot factories. He was by no means a dandy.

Yet in the years I remember him best, after he was retired, my grandfather dressed in black slacks, a white dress shirt, a thin black tie and (sometimes) a jacket and hat every day. Not just for attending the Baptist church on Sunday. Every day. He would get dressed up and ride the bus downtown and pass the time in stores and coffee shops, dressed in a manner most people these days would associate with the Blues Brothers or the Men in Black. That was how men dressed back then.

My mom and dad were more casual than my grandfather but still pretty “dressy.” Mom wore dresses to church and Dad wore a tie and jacket on Sunday but during the week Mom wore slacks and blouses and Dad wore work pants and shirts.

Five days a week, I’m likely to be wearing khaki pants and oxford shirts, which may be why I love being able to wear shorts (or jeans) and knit polo shirts on weekends. I have a rack full of ties but break them out only occasionally.

Sensing a trend here?

To carry the dressing-down timeline a bit further, I see people in their 20s who seem to live in shin-length shorts and concert Ts. Or even worse, pajama pants and T-shirts. Nothing says, “I just rolled out of bed and I think I brushed my teeth” like pajama pants worn out in public.

I don’t long for a return to the days of white shirts and fedoras, despite my fondness for the TV show “Mad Men.” But I’m officially tired of people wearing Nike pool shoes everywhere but the pool and wearing ratty jeans to mortuary calling hours.

I’m gonna continue to dress down on weekends and days off. You’re not going to see me sporting spats and a cummerbund (okay, maybe the latter in case I’m best man in a wedding again) anytime soon.

But if you see me on the street in pajama pants, please wake me up gently because I’m sleepwalking.

Rockin’ your world

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Today’s earthquake packed a lot of entertainment into just a few seconds.

Now I’m being kind of facetious about the ‘quake, which was centered in Virginia but felt waaaaay over here in Indiana, because the latest news reports indicate no injuries and little damage. As one Internet quipster said, the tremors would be wildly over-reported because they were felt in DC and NYC and I suppose there’s some truth to that.

But even here, where the New Madrid fault sometimes kicks up a rumble or two, today’s earthquake felt like a real rock-and-roller.

Maybe it’s because I was on the fourth floor, but today’s ‘quake felt different than the few I’ve experienced before. Those were shakers. Probably thanks to my elevated position, this one felt like more like a wave. A friend and I looked at each other and, we later determined, were thinking the same thing at the same time: I’m feeling dizzy.

Afterward, among a flurry of conversations — both in person, on Facebook and Twitter — I enjoyed trading stories about what we felt and when.

I don’t wish an earthquake on us or anybody and I know the New Madrid fault could really throw us for a loop someday.

But today’s quake gave us all something to talk about that wasn’t politics or the economy or war. It made us all feel like we were sharing an experience instead of arguing about an experience.

Except for you people who didn’t feel it, that is. You guys are just weird.