Ill at Ease

My apologies, friends, but I have some kind of bug and am having trouble making myself blog. Yet I don't want you to worry, so here's my modest effort today. Hopefully there'll be more, and better, tomorrow!

New Theater, Old Movie

I went to the Senate Theater in Detroit last night. It's an older neighborhood theater on Michigan Avenue in the southwest side, and is being rehabbed by a group of volunteers. I was simply curious to check it out, it having been around since 1926. Old architecture is always interesting.

The evening began with an organ recital on the massive instrument which originally was to accompany silent films as they ran. The music was indeed spectacular, in a carnival sort of way. That's not an insult; it was fun. But the music was a bit over the top.

Then came the feature: Dr. Strangelove, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb. Stanley Kubrick directed. It has its moments, but, like the organ recital, was decidedly over the top. 

I suppose that was part of the point. Yet I can't escape the feeling that it's the sort of movie we're supposed to like because we're supposed to like it. A 1960s bit of Hollywood telling us what to think, it seemed. I walked away thinking that Strangelove was a film with a reputation which is beyond its real value. Think Psycho. Not Hitchcock's best, but a showy piece of cinema.

Still, I think I'll go back again. They're offering Buster Keaton's silent Our Hospitality on April 11, with organ accompaniment. I've never been to a silent with the full treatment, so I figure it's worth a look.

A Grand Feeling

Who knows why, really, rather obscure memories sometimes just pop into our heads? 

Yesterday and without any obvious prompting I remembered buying $100,000 candy bars, now called 100 Grand, at the bookstore at the University of Detroit as a freshman 47 years ago. They were a quarter each at the time. I would buy four and savor them over the course of a day. 

The memory came out of nowhere and was so strong I could damn near taste the chocolate and crisped rice. A happiness flowed over and through me which was virtually indescribable. I truly felt like I was back in the Student Union building on campus enjoying a quiet moment between classes. It was that powerful and sublime.

I wasn't in a party store and I wasn't hungry.  Indeed I had no desire for a snack at all. There were no ads in the paper I had just read and the radio was not on to perhaps have set things in motion. I was sitting at my desk at the Shop waiting for a customer to arrive, sipping on a coffee. Then suddenly I was at old U of D and feeling very good about it.

It's a feeling I cannot recreate with any satisfaction even as I try to this morning. I can't come near it. But man, it was profound and powerful and I simply have no clue what triggered it.

The Furnace Man

Our furnace went to heating system Heaven last Wednesday. Oh joy oh rapture. Yet by the grace of God we could readily afford a new one, which was installed Friday. 

The replaced unit had been put in by one Richard Stark back in 1991. He was a friend of me Pops and over the years had done quite a bit of heating work for us Detroit Cosgriffs. He worked on me Pops' furnace, me Grandpa Joe's boiler, and the oil burner at the old barn. Whenever I saw him he was dirty with oil and grime. I'm not sure I could recognize him clean. I guess that goes with heating work.

Mr. Stark had a very serious laugh, if that makes sense, with a genuine twinkle in his eye which indicated that he really was enjoying the joke or the moment. He would actually slap his knee when laughing. Honest. That old saying came to life with him, a real knee slapper.

I remember him slapping a knee once or twice as we talked in my basement while he installed that 1991 furnace. He charged me $1400, a far cry from the four grand the new one cost. But, inflation, yadda, yadda.

Anyway, Mr. Stark was a very nice guy, a truly friendly sort. I would also say that with 35 years behind it, his work lasted too.

Take My Money, Please!

I don't mind asserting that I'm old school on many things; in fact, I revel in it. Still, it can be annoying. Quiet Ron.

Although I pay most things online I do write a couple checks a month. And because I watch my banking online I don't really pay attention to check numbers anymore, nor do I keep a check register. When I write a check, I do my dead level best to keep in mind that a check for such-and-such is out there, and to allow for it when looking in on my account.

Right now there's one check from November which has still not cleared, and it's driving me insane. Again, quiet Ron.

I contacted the people two weeks ago and they assure me they have it and will be cashing it. I have no fear of anything bad happening as they are, I am certain, reputable. But doggone it, they as yet haven't actually put it in their bank.

It's little enough that it won't cause an overdraft unless I badly lose track of things. Yet it's driving me crazy waiting. Will you please, please take my money? is not something I ever thought I'd hear myself say, to anyone under any circumstances. But I will feel much better when the check clears. 

Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On

I ran into an old customer at a plumbing supply yesterday. "I could tell it was you, Marty, by your distinctive laugh," he explained. I hear that often, enough to make a guy feel rather self conscious. But I guess better to be known than not.

Why was I in that plumbing store? I needed a vent for my kitchen sink drain. "Let me see if I have that exact one, Marty," the counter man was telling me when I showed him the old one. "If not, there is another that'll work, but you'll need to reconfigure the line a bit." On hearing that, I fervently, fearfully hoped he had the original type.

He did. For $5.60 I had the part required for the easy fix. I paid, and that's when Old Customer called to me from the other end of the counter.

We chit chatted a few minutes before I excused myself. "Gotta go put this aerator on my kitchen stack," I said.

Old Customer yanked both the old and new parts from my hand. "Do you know how to tell one of these is bad?" he asked. 

Well, I already knew the one was bad. That's why I was there for him to hear my laugh. Yet he was bound and determined to show me just the same. "Hear that rattle?" he asked as he shook the old aerator. "That's how you know it's bad." Old Customer then shook the new part quite emphatically to demonstrate the lack of rattle.

But all I could think, in the moment of panic as he was delightfully showing me what I already knew, was, "Could you please not violently shake the one thing, the only one conveniently available, which will make my job easy?" 

Fortunately, no damage was done. I simply didn't need the demonstration, as much as it pleased him to offer the service.

West Virginia Cans

As I finished my can of Vernors yesterday I noticed for about the umpteenth time in my life an outline of the state of West Virginia on top of it. The symbol was next to the pull tab and after the litany of how many states have deposit laws along with what the deposit is in each. I've seen this for years and always wondered what it meant.

Fear not, dear readers! I shall not leave you hanging as I have figuratively swayed in the breeze for decades. There's a very simple explanation: it shows that the manufacturer of the beverage has paid the tax on soda pop levied by that state.

It's true! It must be, for I found it on the Internet here: West Virginia Tax 

Until next time in the search for knowledge you didn't know you needed, farewell!