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.

Just for fun: Jonny Quest

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Here we go again: Last night, I tried to post the opening credits of the classic animated series “Jonny Quest,” but for some reason wasn’t able to.

Since it seems to be working tonight, here’s a few thoughts:

“Jonny Quest” debuted on TV in 1964 and lasted only a season, but it is one of the most-repeated, most-imitated and idolized ostensibly-for-kids shows ever. It’s influenced a couple of generations of animated shows and there’s even been talk of a live-action movie version.

If the show was before your time or below your radar, the stories focused on Jonny, a pre-teen whose dad, Benton Quest, was a government scientist. Government agent Roger “Race” Bannon was Jonny’s bodyguard and teacher and Hadji was Jonny’s adopted brother.

The show was great wish-fullfillment for a kid like me but also just plain fun as the Quest clan jetted around the world, encountering sinister plots, evil scientists, maniacal despots and mysterious happenings.

“Jonny Quest,” along with “Star Trek” and old Universal monster movies, helped activate the geek gene in a lot of us.

Trickle down: Ice in urinals

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Here’s something that few men and even fewer women have ever seen. I’ve only seen it a couple of times.

Ice in the urinal.

I’ve written about this before on Facebook, but i noticed it again last week, so I thought I would mention it here.

If you’ve been to La Hacienda, the longtime Mexican eatery on Muncie’s south side — and you’re a guy — you’ve noticed the ice in the urinal there. The bar and restaurant is one of the few in this area that I’ve noticed that dumps ice cubes in its urinal.

But why?

The prevailing theories behind the practice of ice in urinals are:

The ice, as it melts, provides what amounts to a continuous flush.

The very fact that the ice needs regular replenishing indicates to patrons that the staff is checking the restroom.

The cold discourages drain flies.

And because it’s fun to melt the ice, guys are more likely to, you know, actually aim.

So now you know.

But I wonder: Is there an equivalent in the women’s restroom?

 

Bookstore apocalypse: Making a run for the Borders

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Boy, things were hopping at the Borders bookstore today.

If that statement makes you go “Huh?” then you’ve been paying attention to news about the book-selling industry. Borders, the nation’s second-largest chain, announced in July it would shut down and close its nearly 400 stores.

Experts say the company made a lot of bad moves in the past decade, including its response to the Internet. First Amazon kicked the butts of most big chain stores and now e-books are outselling paper and cardboard books.

While I have a real appreciation for some bookstores — Powell’s in Portland, Oregon, Tattered Cover in Denver, Malaprops in Asheville, North Carolina, to name a few — I can’t say I felt a special affinity for Borders. Barnes and Noble feels more like a “real” bookstore to me.

But I hate to see a bookstore go out of business. The closing of a bookstore means one less place to browse and touch and sample and buy books.

I’ve certainly contributed to the downfall of bookstores. While we still buy books, I’ve tried to save money in recent years by stepping up my library use.

So it was with mixed emotions that I found myself, out of the blue, at the going out of business sale at Borders today.

We decided to visit Hamilton Town Center on the north side of Indianapolis and were walking around when we realized that Borders — not Barnes and Noble — was the bookstore at that mall. We figured it would already be closed but it wasn’t. It is in its death throes.

“Going out of business” banners and signs are plastered everywhere and shoppers bustled about, checking out the somewhat-depleted shelves.

We bought some books, DVDs and CDs. Yes, it was like shopping in an elephants graveyard, times three. And no, there wasn’t a rack of eight-track tapes, thank you very much.

As we made our purchases and the clerk behind the register thanked us and wished us a good day, I wondered if he didn’t really mean, “Thanks for coming by! Too bad you didn’t spend a hundred bucks here when it counted!”

New school year, old memories

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This time of year – particularly as a parent of a school-age kid — my thoughts dwell on the beginning of a new school year.

And not just any school year, but my first grade year.

I didn’t go to kindergarten — something about where my birthday fell made me too young for one year’s incoming class and too old for the next, apparently — so first grade was my introduction to school, obviously, but also to the big wide world out there.

I had a fairly isolated existence before I started school. I grew up on 20 acres of farm land that was mine to roam. I had a 100-year-old barn to explore and livestock to watch, including chickens that seemed determined to claw my eyes out. I think about those scary little suckers every time I have a chicken nugget.

So joining the school population in first grade was thrilling and terrifying at the same time.

Mrs. Schull — Marjorie Schull to the grown-ups — was my guide through this new world. I still remember Mrs. Schull’s patient teachings of letters and numbers and, oddly enough, the mechanics of functioning in the world of school.

Early in the year — maybe even the first day — Mrs. Schull used a plastic cafeteria lunch tray to show us how to go through the cafeteria line. I still remember that she used a pencil to show us where to put our utensils. Strangely, I remember her telling us that when we boys grew up, we would carry a wallet in our back pants pockets and that our pockets would have a button on them to secure that wallet. I still remember being resistant to that idea. For some reason that I can’t remember, I didn’t want a button on my back pocket.

The early 1990s-era building where our elementary classes were held is long gone now, but the structure — where I attended classes until we moved to a brand new elementary in fourth grade — looms large in my memory: Its three stories, steep but wide wooden stairways, mammoth windows and hissing, spitting radiators linger in my dreams.

I found a photo of the building on the Cowan Facebook page. It’s at the top of this blog entry. I’m kind of dumbfounded by how small the building looks. I remember it as larger-than-life. Mrs. Schull too.

And of course. Mrs. Schull was right about the button on my pockets. I have one or two on the back of almost every pair of pants I own.

Hunter S. Thompson: When the going gets weird

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… the weird turn pro.

Any fan of “gonzo” journalist Hunter S. Thompson will recognize that line from the self-proclaimed “hillbilly” writer and early practitioner of the art of participatory journalism.

My favorite of Thompson’s writing is still the 1972 classic “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas,” in which the drug-crazed journalist and his Samoan lawyer crash a convention of district attorneys.

That book, like much of Thompson’s work, began life as an article in Rolling Stone. This week, the Internet site Gothamist published a 1971 letter, purportedly written by Thompson, on Rolling Stone stationery, to Mike Peterson, a South Bend man who had submitted an article to the magazine.

Thompson was a master of excess in every way, but especially in his writing. Nevertheless, the letter is a classic, a blistering rejection note that manages to be delightful at the same time. Who wouldn’t want to send a letter like this to an unworthy correspondent? Who wouldn’t want to have this type of rejection letter in his or her file?

Forewarned: The language is as vulgar and abusive as it is creative.

Planet of the movie ads

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I’m gonna confess to a particular kind of geekiness here. As a pre-teen and young teen, I was a huge fan of monster and science fiction movies and TV shows. (That’s not the geekiness I’m confessing to. In a world where superhero movies dominate the cinema landscape, we’re living in a post-geek world. Anyway.)

As part of my geekiness, I kept scrapbooks of pictures, newspaper and TV Guide ads and other bits o’ stuff. Most of the contents could be had for the price of  a newspaper. Unfortunately I also cut up issues of Famous Monsters of Filmland magazine for pictures to add to my scrapbooks, only to have to pay to replace them years later. Those beloved monster mags are a subject for another entry, however.

The less traumatic elements of my scrapbooks were the movie ads. I used to cut them out of the Muncie newspapers, of course, and would on occasion buy copies of papers from Indianapolis and beyond for their ads.

I’ve lost track of many of those clippings and scrapbooks somehow, but I dug up a few the other day and thought I would share them — and their nostalgia quotient — with you.

Forgive the quality of the pictures. I don’t have a scanner, so they’re snapped with my iPhone. But you get the idea.

Above you’ll find an ad for a Muncie Drive-In dusk-to-dawn screening of the original Planet of the Apes movie series. This screening took place sometime after May 1973 when “Battle for the Planet of the Apes,” the last entry in the series, had been released.

My most vivid memory of this was that my friend Jim and I were taken to the Kilgore Avenue drive-in by my parents. We had to leave after just a couple of movies, however, after Jim came down with some unknown and highly suspect illness. Since I was the oldest and we were like brothers, I held it against him for decades after.

Of courses, Apes movies weren’t the only feature at Muncie drive-ins or indoor theaters.

Here’s a Muncie Drive-In ad for a trio of grisly horror movies toplined by “Raw Meat,” a 1973 film. I’m not sure I went to see these. Two of the three were R-rated and I would have been 13 at the time.

Muncie’s Ski-Hi Drive-In Theater is represented by this ad for a five-movie “spook-a-thon.” The ad notes that coffee and doughnuts were served during the final feature and a “vampire woman” — in her coffin — could be found in the drive-in’s lobby.

That kind of goofy “extra” was one of my favorite things about going to cheap and cheesy exploitation pics like these. I remember going to a drive-in screening of “The Incredibly Strange Creatures Who Stopped Living and Became Mixed-Up Zombies” in which ACTUAL MONSTERS — teenagers hired by the theater’s manager no doubt — roamed the aisles. Since the movie was originally released in 1964, I must have seen it at a re-release.

A year later, the same director, Ray Dennis Steckler, made “The Lemon Grove Kids Meet the Monsters,” a horror movie spoof. As you can see from this ad, Muncie’s Rivoli theater screened this classic. I was there.

“Girls bring your boyfriend! Learn if he’s man or mouse!” the ads taunt. Considering the movie was rated G, I’m guessing nobody’s boyfriend died of fright.

The Rivoli — the subject of a blog entry still to come — was the scene of a lot of fun screenings over the years. Here’s an ad for “The Green Slime,” a 1968 Japanese monster movie released in the states. As you can see, this is a silly “teaser” ad for the movie but the fact that it’s personalized — “The Green Slime” Covers Muncie — makes it that much sweeter.

I miss movie ads in newspapers. Not just because of the convenience of picking up the paper and checking out showtimes, but because movie ads like these were little works of marketing art. In these days of “sophisticated” marketing, we won’t see their like again.

 

 

Abandoned Six Flags New Orleans

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I couldn’t post the “LA Light” video and not post one of the creepiest, most effective videos I’ve seen online.

This is a tour of the former Six Flags amusement park near New Orleans. The park was closed in 2005 when Hurricane Katrina was bearing down on Louisiana and never reopened.

Watch this video and try not to think about the end of the world.