There's more for your life

At some point during the horror show of 2020, I found myself actually getting wistful about the 80s – a decade of personal satisfaction and professional growth but culturally soulless and the start of a political shitstorm we’re still caught in. It was a great decade for football and basketball however, so I indulged my nostalgia watching DVDs of vintage pro football games. And this commercial popped up:

Seems like a fun place, doesn’t it? Despite the looks of the models cast in the commercial, Sears was solidly blue collar. And practical. 

Just before we got married in 1983, we went with my mom to the Sears in Hackensack and bought a refrigerator for our apartment. I applied for my first Sears credit card and in time we found more for our life – generally all the big-ticket stuff like tires, snowblower, lawnmower, our first washing machine and dryer all at Sears.

Fast forward to last August. Although we had nothing planned and nowhere to go, I took a week off from work. On one miserably depressing day, clammy, humid, an overcast sky spitting rain off and on, I went for a drive and ended up, as I inevitably sometimes do, back in Hackensack. Driving by Sears, with its art deco tower a city landmark since 1932, was a banner declaring, “Store Closing Sale.” Facemask on, I had to go in.

The smell of roasted nuts always greeted you at the Hackensack Sears; you could buy them there, along with weird candies that only old people ate, like Swedish fish and bridge mix, whatever that was.

There was nothing quite so welcoming this time. The place had the vibe of the last helicopter leaving Vietnam. People rooted through racks of unwanted children’s clothes. Hangars were thrown on the floor. Every wall was bare, with one cash register open. I took a loop around the store, which now seemed small and wounded, and quickly left.

It was raining harder as I left and took off for home. This was one visit to the old turf that I truly regretted.

It might have been nice to get one last ride on the store’s escalator, but it was blocked off. Watching scenic footage shot by drones reminds me of riding escalators as a kid, rising silently above all the activity below. Looking over the railing, a panoramic view of the entire store, changing as you go higher and higher!

I’m reasonably sure that a psychiatrist would tell me that I keep going back to Hackensack because I’m looking for something that may not exist anymore. Maybe all I need to do is ride an escalator.

 

 

 

 

One person’s treasure

One of a meter reader’s underrated skills is the ability to move quickly through other people’s worlds, sometimes sweeping through nearly 100 homes in a day. There were the regulars with whom I kept up a running conversation for months. Old ladies in housecoats. Retired guys who would wait for me like it was the highlight of their day – at least until the mailman's arrival. A woman I went to high school with, now married and with kids who, if she recognized me, never let on. The woman with her elderly parents in side-by-side hospital beds in the living room. The older couple who always apologized for the state of their basement with references to the Collyer Brothers. We’d carry on our brief monthly conversation, then say pretty much the same things 30 days later.

Otherwise, I spent most of each day in basements, garages, closets hidden behind knotty pine paneling, apartment house laundry rooms – the places where people left the stuff they didn’t want to look at, deal with, had no room for, outgrew or forgot about.

In an ancient basement in Bayonne, old comic books spilled haphazardly out of a plastic garbage bag. Old Marvels from ’61, ’62. Early issues of the Fantastic Four. Spider-Man. The Hulk. I thought about returning to the house and claiming I was in the neighborhood looking to buy old stuff and did they have anything, maybe old comic books, they wanted to sell? It was a fleeting fantasy. I could never find the house again, let alone find my way to Bayonne.

A shuttered candy store was another Bayonne treasure palace. A grim black woman accompanied me inside and stood watch as I read the meters. It wasn’t until I looked around that I realized the reason for the high-security paranoia. The place was literally a step back into time, with old soda and tobacco advertising signs and so much stuff on the shelves I couldn’t make it all out. But for sure, there were boxes of old baseball cards and freaking Disneyland trading cards – rare as hen’s teeth as a coworker used to say. Places like that just don’t exist anymore, at least not on the East Coast.

Somebody in Washington Township had albums in a box under the meter. Right in front was Sgt. Pepper with the yellow band across the top stating it was MONO, which nobody bought; everyone wanted the stereo version. The stuff of legend back in the 80s (the mono version offered different mixes so that some instruments and other effects were more pronounced) today the album exists on YouTube for your listening enjoyment.

Scattered on a table in Hackensack was the record collection of another woman I’d gone to school with, all Motown and Stax singles, each with her name written on the label.

And there were the magazine hoarders. Stacks of LIFE in a house in Teaneck. Over to horny Hillsdale where one guy had boxes and boxes of porn (heterosexual) in the basement. Just down the street – and fittingly in a closet – a neighbor kept his stack of gay porn near the gas meter.

An inexplicably random Supercar Golden Book next to a meter in Hillsdale. Cartons of junky knockoff toys in a Teaneck basement (G.I. Jeff figures anyone?), probably overstock from a five and dime store. In an industrial maintenance supply store in Hackensack that always smelled of floor wax, a sign in the basement for Hobby Land – a remembrance of what the store had been in the 50s and 60s, with its memorable electric train layout.

In a well-lit, neat cellar in Maywood, there was a dead raccoon stretched out on the floor. When I told the homeowner, he replied, “I know.” I shrugged and moved on to the next house.

 

The Perfect Day: April 11, 1966 

Time travel. It ain’t here yet, but when it does, it’s gonna be something. Another shot at revenge or redemption. A chance to spend extra time with friends and family who left too soon. An opportunity to right wrongs. Imagine the line of people outside Mark David Chapman’s nursery waiting to smother him in his crib. Or those willing to pay the greens fee to rent a golf cart and run over a young Donald Trump. Nothing serious, maybe just a case of severe head trauma. 

One of the great deals on eBay over the years has been the ability to grab old issues of TV Guide. For a throwaway periodical that served its purpose after one week, it’s amazing how many are still floating around. I have several New York Metro editions and sometimes I’ll go through a single day and try to figure what I’d watch for 24 hours, starting at 6 AM (where TV Guide’s daily listings began each day). Admittedly lame, but it keeps me out of the pool halls. 

Our time travel trip takes us to Monday, April 11, 1966 and my parent’s living room. 

6:00 AM: We’re limited at the start of the day, with only NBC broadcasting and leaving us with no choice but “Education Exchange” and time to look out the windows and watch it grow lighter outside. If we’re lucky, it’s trash pick-up day and we get to watch the garbage trucks come through. 

6:30 AM: Staying with NBC, there’s “Bwana Don,” a syndicated nature show featuring a guy wearing a safari outfit. 

7:00 AM: A Jurassic-era “My Little Margie” rerun on ABC. The “Today Show” is on NBC, but with a promised look at “medical corpsmen in Vietnam,” I’ll pass. 

7:30 – 9:00 AM: An onslaught of cartoons on WNEW, hosted by Sandy Becker, and ABC. 

9:00 AM: “Girl Talk” with the perfectly coiffed Virginia Graham. Today’s panel is a winner:

Hermione Gingold; Trude Heller, whose Greenwich Village club bearing her name was a hipster destination of 1966; and the alluring Hullabaloo dancer Lada Edmund Jr. 

9:30-11:30 AM: Following a rerun of “Leave It To Beaver,” we go with three straight games shows: “Eye Know,” “Concentration” and a personal favorite, “Supermarket Sweep,” with John Bartholomew Tucker. Maybe it will be one of the episodes filmed at the Bergen Mall Food Fair. 

11:30 AM: The Dating Game is the choice over yet more cartoons at WNEW. 

12:00 – 1 PM: We’re tempted by “Jeopardy” with Art Fleming and the manually operated answer board, but “Romper Room” beckons, a strange hour of educational segments, songs, commercial plugs for Romper Room toys and old cartoons. Plus, the added charm of the live audience of little kids, who would sometimes get fresh with each other, cry or talk over Miss Mary Ann. 

1:00 PM: An ad in TV Guide says “PDQ” is “television’s fastest and most exciting word game” and our decision is made. 

1:30 – 3:30 PM: The early afternoon is dominated by games shows and it doesn’t make any sense to watch a soap opera since tomorrow we’ll be back in 2021. We’re going with “Let’s Make A Deal,” “Password” – with Barbara Feldon and Brian Kelly of “Flipper,” followed by an Art Linkletter doubleheader, “House Party” and “People Are Funny.” Let’s also keep in mind that the Mets are playing the Reds on WOR this afternoon and we can always switch over to that. The ’66 Mets were pretty miserable. 

3:30 – 4:30 PM: School’s out and WNEW has Soupy Sales and Chuck McCann back-to-back. At this point both were a little past their prime as kid’s show hosts but they’re certainly worth our attention here. 

4:30 PM: “Where the Action Is” with guests James Brown and Mickey Rooney Jr., representing the last gasp of the trend of movie stars’ kids trying to build off dad’s brand as rock singers, some successfully (Gary Lewis, Nancy Sinatra, Dino, Desi and Billy) and some not so (Noel Harrison and Rooney Jr.). 

5:30 – 6:30 PM: As we hit the back half of our wasted day, it’s the Three Stooges on WPIX, 

hosted by our favorite uncle, Officer Joe Bolton, followed by Paul Winchell on WNEW (According to TV Guide, “Knuck makes everyone panic when he can’t be found”). 

6:30 PM: We have the option of staying with Paul Winchell (at least until we find out where Knuck has been hiding) or “Surf’s Up” on WOR, a half-hour of surfing films. 

7:00 PM: Reality time with the news. The pick is NBC with the reliable law firm of Huntley and Brinkley, over Cronkite on CBS.

7:30 PM: Primetime starts and it’s an easy choice of “Hullabaloo” over “12 O’Clock High” or the “New York television debut” of Abbott and Costello’s “Jack in the Beanstalk” on the Million Dollar Movie – although it’s difficult to get excited over the lineup of Peter and Gordon, the Cyrkle, Lesley Gore and host Paul Anka. 

8:00 – 9:00 PM: When people try to tell you that TV was better back then, they never sat

through a night like this. At 8, the best choice is “To Tell the Truth” and a half-hour later we get to choose from “The Lucy Show” and “Jesse James” with James Dean-whisperer Christopher Jones. We’ll go with the Western. 

9:00 – 10:00 PM: For seemingly decades, was there ever a single week when Andy Williams wasn’t on TV? Here, he’s hosting the Kraft Music Hall. One of the bits is a “send up,” as they used to say, of “Flower Drum Song” with Andy playing an “Oriental criminologist” … sounds like something that isn’t about to repeated anytime in the next century. 

10:00 – 11:30 PM: We’ll go with Merv Griffin on WNEW, whose guests include Tab Hunter and Totie Fields, making one of her 59 appearances on Merv. For the record, she was on the Mike Douglas Show 71 times. 

11:30 – 1:00 AM; Johnny Carson, with guest Woody Allen, who will surely make many jokes at his own expense about in his inability to “score” – to use the 1966 term – with women. Possibly a show that isn’t about to be repeated anytime in the next century. 

1:00 – 2:30 AM: ABC shows “The Trap” with white guy Sidney Toler as “Oriental criminologist” Charlie Chan. Once ubiquitous, I couldn’t tell you the last time a Charlie Chan flick ran on TV and I don’t believe it’s going to happen anytime soon. 

2:30 AM: We’re on life support here, with most of the stations off the air. CBS is showing a 1935 movie called “Bolero” with George Raft and it’s the only raft available to ride through to the end of the perfect day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Losing My Religion

When they first came on the scene in the early 80s, R.E.M. was the best new group around. They had a sound that combined punk and Americana – before anybody even knew what that was – with indecipherable lyrics that, when you could make them out, were abstract, dream-like mumbles, adding extra significance and meaning to the band’s name.

The cover of their first album, Murmur, pictured a field overrun with kudzu, a commentary on an invasive junk culture threatening to take over not only the South and their home state of Georgia, but regionalism in general. These guys were smart and subversive; the overall vibe was one of Andy of Mayberry on acid.

We saw them at the Capitol Theatre in June 1984, a strange concert that was being filmed for MTV. (Strange on three counts: it was held on a really hot night and the Capitol didn’t have air conditioning; MTV handlers were milling around on the lookout for girls they could fill in the front rows with; and the opening acts were John Sebastian, Roger McGuinn and Richie Havens, each of whom, according to MTV, influenced R.E.M.’s folk-rockish sound. The band apparently disagreed and pointedly opened with a cover of a Velvet Underground song).

Here, they perform “Radio Free Europe” from that night. This is a band firing on all cylinders, and maybe because they made so many videos, did we watch them age over the next 20 years or what?

 

As R.E.M. grew to become an international force of nature and entered a long-term residency on MTV, I started to lose interest. It felt like there were too many people in the room and their music began to change direction. With the inescapable and bleak “Everybody Hurts,” and the bubblegum nursery rhymes “Stand” and “Happy Shiny People,” I was already backing away.

Around the same time, I had similar reactions to a couple of other favorites, Bruce Springsteen and Elvis Costello.

Springsteen began to take on some sort of Dust Bowl affectation, with a lot of desolate ballads, usually addressing someone as “sir” and sung with, I guess, a Western accent. His zillion-selling Born In the USA album was four good songs and the rest filler – if things fall in my favor, I’ll never sit through “Glory Days” ever again. In Costello’s case, I kept buying his records well into the 90s before I realized the music had become not just overly crafted but utterly joyless.

Yet there’s hope. For the longest time I felt the same way about Paul McCartney. His post-Beatles output seemed to be based more on “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer” and “All Together Now” than say, “Penny Lane” or “Hey Jude.” His ill-advised teaming with Michael Jackson and the embarrassing videos that followed drove me out completely. But right around the start of the century, Paul seemed to remember he was a Beatle, not a Bay City Roller, and began – and continues – to record albums that play to his many strengths and make me glad he’s still around writing and recording.

R.E.M. broke up a few years ago and when I can find them, I check the latest albums by Springsteen or Costello out of our local library. I always give them a hopeful listen, but we seem to be growing ever-further apart.

The Adventures of Superman: The Stolen Costume   

This entry is part of the Favourite TV Show Episode Blogathon hosted by A Shroud Of Thoughts

While mostly remembered today as a kid’s program, the first season of The Adventures of Superman could be downright dark and disturbing. I couldn’t have been the only kid watching the syndicated reruns who was creeped out by the discovery of the dead dog in “The Deserted Village” or the loony wax museum proprietor who “prophesizes” the death of several Metropolis civic leaders, then cages them in her basement, in “Mystery in Wax.”

“The Stolen Costume” was one of the more memorable stories from that first season, offering some truly noir-ish elements and an unforgettable ending.

The Metropolis police are baffled by a burglar who lowers himself by rope into windows. Despite this, Clark Kent leaves his bedroom window wide open and, with the police in pursuit, the thief ducks into his apartment, where he stumbles across the greatest secret in the free world: in a hidden closet, draped on a hangar as if it just came back from the cleaners, is Superman’s costume.

(One of the more interesting sidebars in this episode is its view into Clark’s apartment: primly decorated, Felix Unger-neat and colorless, with the secret closet as the only personal touch).

Fleeing with the costume, the burglar is shot and finds his way to the front door of Metropolis hood Ace and his moll Connie (Dan Seymour and Veda Ann Borg). The burglar, whom Ace recognizes as a local “two-bit punk,” dies on their couch but not before revealing Clark Kent as the costume’s owner.

Candy and Clark -- not to be confused with Candy Clark

His worst nightmare realized, the normally cool and collected Clark is visibly upset, anxiously pacing his apartment. While he can’t say what’s missing, he has a private investigator pal named Candy (Frank Jenks) dust for fingerprints. “What did you have hidden in here, the family jewels?” asks Candy when Clark shows him the secret closet. “No, something a lot more valuable to me,” Clark answers. 

Ace needs more solid proof that Clark is Superman and breaks into his apartment, jimmying the front door this time – Clark may as well start charging admission – to rig an explosive. Ace’s logic? If the bomb goes off, Clark will “either be dead, or we’ll be sitting on top of the world,” a statement that falls well into the category of being careful what you wish for.

The bomb goes off, Clark is alive and a meeting with Ace and Connie is arranged. But earlier in the episode Connie mistook Candy for Clark and when Connie and Ace find him outside Clark’s apartment house, they take Candy away at gunpoint to their apartment.

Clark sees the three drive off and instinctively begins to loosen his tie, then stops when he realizes there’s no costume underneath his street clothes. Moments later, he breaks through Ace and Connie’s front door, then coldcocks Candy so he won’t hear or see what happens next. Ace and Connie threaten to divulge Superman’s secret identity. “How are you going to stop us?” sneers Connie. “Everybody knows Superman doesn’t kill.” “You’re not going to tell anybody,” says a grim Clark, adding, “put on some warm clothes.”

Back in his work clothes, Superman flies Ace and Connie to the summit of a remote, rugged mountain – Ace’s “top of the world.” Superman tells them there is no way down, but there’s a cabin nearby they can call home for now. “You’ll have to stay here until I can think of some way to keep you from talking,” he says before flying off to gather some supplies.

Ace, Connie and Superman on top of the world

Certain that Superman has left them for dead, Ace begins working his way down the mountain. Reaching an icy ledge, he yells for Connie to follow, telling her, “It’s a cinch.” Well, not if you’re wearing a dress and heels. Connie slips and takes Ace with her as they plummet to their deaths.

The episode ends with an obviously relieved Clark, his secret safe and still well-kept.

“The Stolen Costume” moves along briskly with lots of snappy dialogue and interaction between the four characters. The script was written by Ben Peter Freeman, a veteran of the Superman radio show who wrote eight first-season episodes of The Adventures of Superman, including the aforementioned “Mystery in Wax” and “The Deserted Village.” Freeman left Hollywood a year later and changed careers, joining his brother’s construction company.

With the focus on Clark – Superman only appears in its final minutes – George Reeves, always appealing and underrated, gets to bring a bit more emotion than usual and his concern and anxiety feel real. Another sidebar: Of 104 episodes of The Adventures of Superman, this is the only one without Lois, Jimmy, Perry or Inspector Henderson.

Reeve’s supporting cast of Dan Seymour, Veda Ann Borg and Frank Jenks all had long movie and television careers as character actors. Seymour made a living primarily playing gangsters, most famously as one of Edward G. Robinson’s henchmen in “Key Largo.” He would hit the TV Superhero Daily Double 14 years after “The Stolen Costume” with a role in an episode of Batman.

The ending of “The Stolen Costume” neatly resolved what looked like a no-win dilemma for Superman, although it left some ethical and legal questions. Was he planning on holding Ace and Connie hostage on the mountain forever? Was Superman guilty of kidnapping? Did he anticipate the crooks would try to climb down the mountain – a nearly impossible feat – and just looked the other way?

Maybe the last question is the answer. Superman may have rationalized his actions, or lack of action, this way: Having my secret identity revealed could jeopardize the lives of my friends, coworkers, maybe all of Metropolis, and possibly even compromise my mission here on Earth. If I need to realistically balance the lives of two hoods who are likely beyond reform or redemption with that of all mankind, this end justifies the means. Ace and Connie made their choice. My hands are clean.

And with that, Superman finds the moral wiggle room he needed to keep fighting his never-ending battle for truth, justice and the American way.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

No direction home: Coronet Blue

When speaking with friends about obscure TV shows, while someone always remembered T.H.E. Cat or Colonel Bleep, nobody seemed to have any recall of the 1967 summer replacement show called Coronet Blue – a fitting response for a show about a guy (Frank Converse) suffering from amnesia, with no memory of his name or past.

In the opening moments of the first episode, Converse's character boards what looks like a sightseeing boat for a meeting with a woman and two men who claim they “know what he’s up to.” There’s a scuffle and Converse is knocked unconscious and his personal items are taken before he’s thrown into the river and left for dead. He survives, but he emerges a blank slate, able only to dredge up the phrase, “coronet blue.” Armed with that, and little else, he goes off to what it means and who he is. (He names himself Michael Alden after the doctor treating him and hospital where he’s recovering).

I watched at least the first episode of Coronet Blue that summer, and it was probably the TV Guide Close Up below that drew me in, but didn’t stay with it and, with the show seemingly lost forever, I couldn’t go back and figure what went wrong for me. Then, out of nowhere in 2017, came a DVD collection of all 13 episodes of Coronet Blue – only ten of which aired. Here was my chance to resolve my personal case of amnesia. Fifty years later, was it worth the wait?

Coronet Blue seemed to quickly lose its way. While the first episode hinted that Michael Alden was involved in spy work, as he’s followed around by the same people who threw him off the boat and one tries to pick him off with a high-powered rifle, the concept sort of faded away with subsequent episodes. His search became a plot device that each week had him follow some slim lead, stumble into a stranger’s life, interact a bit, then move on – more Run For Your Life or The Fugitive than The Man From U.N.C.L.E.

At times Converse was like a guest on his own show. Michael Alden gains a British sidekick (Brian Bedford) and in one episode – I’m guessing Converse had a commitment to do Shakespeare in the Park that week – it’s Bedford’s character stumbling into a stranger’s life, interacting a bit, then moving on.

Converse and Bedford are joined by an impressive roster of youngish actors about to make their name, like Jon Voight, Candice Bergen, Hal Holbrook, Alan Alda, Sally Kellerman and Brenda Vaccaro. Dick Clark makes a rare appearance on CBS (he was always synonymous with ABC) sharing screen time with another perennial teenager, Murray the K. Watching them together, it’s easy to figure who had a TV career and who stayed on the radio.

The series wound down with no resolution to Michael Alden’s true identity, but the show’s creator, Larry Cohen (he also created The Rifleman, The Invaders and the 1966 Robert Goulet spy vehicle Blue Light), who had no input into Coronet Blue once filming began, later disclosed that his original concept had Alden turning out to be a Russian double agent.

The idea of a TV program revolving around a search to “find one’s self,” was probably first explored by Tod and Buz on Route 66. While their quest for identity and meaning was more philosophical, Michael Alden’s is literal. Coronet Blue was filmed during the summer of 1965 (and shelved for two years), no doubt at the same time Bob Dylan’s “Like A Rolling Stone” was climbing the charts. I wonder if anyone made the connection back then that Alden was a “complete unknown, with no direction home?” Or am I just retrofitting a pop culture mash-up for my own amusement?

Anyway, here is what I remembered best about Coronet Blue, its dynamite opening and groovy theme song sung by Lenny Welch, who had a big hit in 1961 with “Since I Fell For You.”

 

The taste of freedom

When my friends and I were turning 16, we pooled our money and bought a six pack. We knocked it down quickly, while it was still warm, and belched our way through the afternoon. Little did we know it was the only time we’d score cans of Afro-Kola, “The Soul Drink.”

Afro-Kola was an unspectacular generic soda, like RC or C&C Cola, but the thrill was in the colorful can, with its great graphic of the African continent set against a blue background as if it were a map and the idea that we were indulging in something cool and “black.”

While the Afro-Kola radio jingle doesn’t seem to be anywhere on the internet, here are the lyrics, an evocative and minimalist haiku:

Afro-Kola

The taste of freedom

The soul drink

Right on

The soul drink

Afro-Kola

Right on 

Three black cultural icons were involved with the production of the radio ad. The music was written by one of the great jazz drummers and bandleaders, Max Roach, no doubt as a favor to Frank Mabry, Jr., a friend of Roach’s who owned Afro-American Distributors, makers of Afro-Kola. The singer was Brock Peters, who had a long career on stage, movies and TV, including playing Tom Robinson in To Kill A Mockingbird. The advertising company working to get media buys (in New York City the jingle ran on black radio stations WWRL, WLIB and WADO) was owned by Abbey Lincoln, the slyly named singer and civil rights activist, and Max Roach’s wife.

We found our Afro-Kola at the IGA grocery store in Maywood, ironically at the time one of the whitest towns in Bergen County. We should have bought more, as the brand seemed to vanish quickly. Afro-American Distributors was ambitious, also selling Afro-Orange and Afro-Grape sodas, but there was only so much shelf space available and marketing a new soda brand from scratch, regardless of the company behind it, is an uphill struggle in the face of national and regional competition. From what I’ve seen on the internet, it’s possible that Coca-Cola bought the brand and buried it.

As the realization of black-owned company, Afro-Kola didn’t become the household name that Frank Mabry had hoped for, except in my room where I proudly kept an empty can atop my dresser for years, using it as a coin/pen holder. Someone on the internet has a complete six-pack for sale, still in its plastic rings, although the contents have evaporated over the past 50 or so years. He’s asking $800, which probably eclipses Afro-Kola’s total sales while it could still be found in stores.