Blog, Bon Mots & Comments
Observations from a 58-year-old Luddite who is waiting for Facebook, Twitter, the Kindle, various pads and pods, smart phones, Starbucks, bottled water and energy drinks to go away and for fidgety texters to begin using complete sentences and proper English and to stop with the annoying shorthand.
as an old crank,
October 2011.
Button cute: Stein and the professor retrieve their "Got Ben?" buttons (l) prior to the promised photo shoot (r).
CLAREMONT, Feb. 10, 2012 --
Ben there. Done that.
Ben Stein introduced himself to me with an outreached hand.
“Hi. I’m Ben Stein.” “Indeed you are,” I replied, taken aback by his outgoing nature. “And you are?” he asked, his raspy voice trailing off. “Patrick Mullikin,” I replied. “Are you a professor at the colleges?” I said no.
Stein, speaking Feb. 9 at the Scripps College’s sixth annual Elizabeth Hubert Malott Public Affairs Program (a mouthful of a title), was on his way to the men’s room and had that look.
I’ve liked Ben Stein since his days as the economics professor in “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off” (“Bueller? Bueller? Bueller?”), and I found it amusing that while the audience was waiting to hear him speak inside, he and I were schmoozing in an otherwise-empty lobby of the Garrison Theater. Earlier in the day I had made a button for Stein, “Got Ben?” and handed it to him. He examined it as if were a rare coin, thanked me, and put it in his coat pocket. (An aside: Last October I presented Jane Fonda with a “I’m Fonda Jane” button, which she fingered as if were radioactive or dusted with anthrax.) I told Stein about the Fonda button as he eyed the restroom sign anxiously. I asked him if he would be posing for photos following his presentation. “Only with you, Patrick,” he said, ducking into the restroom for a pre-lectern leak.
Stein, in suit and sneakers – a la Professor Irwin Corey – shuffled on stage and began his presentation: “Dark Days in America – How to Get to Daybreak,” a free-form discussion on a variety of topics but centered primarily on economics and politics. Neither topic interested me particularly, but I enjoyed Stein’s droll delivery.
I did, however, learn three interesting things about Stein the man:
1) He likes Farmer John thick-sliced bacon.
2) He thinks the greatest invention of all time is air conditioning, surpassing even the Internet.
3) He is a man of his word.
Following his spiel and the obligatory Q&A session with surly students I walked to the stage to remind him about the photo.
“Wait, let me get my button.” It was now resting on the lectern.
He held it proudly as I mounted the stage for the photo.
We smiled for the camera, shook hands, and he put his “Got Ben?” button back in his pocket.
Doppelgängers all: A 124-year-old man, a most interesting man, and an outright vile man – all part of a growing gang.
CLAREMONT, Jan. 20, 2012 --
That old doppelgänger of mine
All men are ejected from the womb and hurled into this blinding world looking pretty much the same, save for the occasional pinhead or hydrocephalic.
Between cradle and grave we develop distinct features and styles that aid in our successes or, we would like to think, are responsible for our failures. In the fleeting interim we bumble along, either blessed with a face that oozes seven-eleven charm or cursed with a pair of perpetual snake-eyes.
As our twilight years approach, however, we all begin looking the same again – especially graying men who sport gray beards. We’re guys who fall somewhere between “the most interesting man in the world” and lowlife poet Charles Bukowski.
Not a day goes by when I don’t pass at least a half-dozen guys who look just like I do: doppelgängers one and all. We pass each other uneasily, eyes cast downward as if scouring the sidewalk for loose change.
It’s creepy.
“God I hope I don’t look that bad,” we say to ourselves as we pass with a cursory nod. During a recent trip to Denver I came in contact with several stellar doppelgängers, mostly guys wearing ball caps and bland work clothes. (We are not the most stylish dressers and tend to find our doppelgänger uniforms at thrift shops.)
Which leads to a recent encounter at the American Way thrift shop in Pomona, Calif.
I found “Folk Songs of Old Germany,” and was drawn to the bearded guy on the album cover (photo above left). “This guy looks familiar,” I said to myself. While I was standing in line to purchase this scratchy gem the woman behind me asked if I was the guy on the cover.
I laughed – sort of.
The album was released in 1958 – 54 years ago – and the old guitar-playing duffer looks to be around 70, which would make me/him 124 years old today. I told the woman no, I was not the man on the cover.
She smiled. I smiled, too, eyes cast downward.
A fab faux Lennon and I compare pointy noses. These paddles are not brand-spanking new.
CLAREMONT, Dec. 12, 2011 --
I wanna hold your hazing paddle
I have seen and heard four Beatles tribute bands during the past two years.
My conclusion: Success is measured by the strength of the John.
Faux Pauls, Georges and Ringos can squeak by with a shake of their Ish Kabibble bangs and a “yeah, yeah, yeah.”
But a lackluster John spells doom.
I lay awake thinking about this.
On Thursday I saw the “Four Lads From Liverpool” with my sister and her husband.
The FLFL were appearing at Zendejas Mexican Restaurant in San Dimas, Calif, operated by Tony Zendejas, former NFL (not to be confused with the FLFL) Ram kicker.
The FLFL audience, not surprisingly, was mostly Mexican – with few exceptions. Two of those exceptions were “George’s” brother, Michael Pou, and his girlfriend, Donna. My sister and I met them by chance at the “Tommy’s” restaurant in Barstow, Calif., Oct.8, while en route to Laughlin, Nev., where I was to celebrate my 58th birthday. I was wearing a John Lennon button. Lennon and I share the same birthday, Oct. 9. Pou, in line for a Tommy’s chili burger, noticed my button (which I gave to him) and told us his brother, Jimmy Pou, was a George Harrison impressionist. He’s an excellent one, I might add. He has Harrison’s voice – singing and speaking – down pat.
For the record, and with a certain degree of gloating, I saw the Beatles in person on Aug. 20, 1964, in Las Vegas.
Without a doubt it was – and still is – John Lennon’s band.
Turning the other cheek
A chronic yard-sale and thrift-store shopper, I unearthed a real treasure Sunday at a yard sale: a set of four hazing paddles from Indiana University.
Note to the new crop of politically correct beanie-wearing pledges out there: Hazing paddles were used by sadistic frat boys and sorority girls to spank recruits into their ranks.
Recall the scene in “Animal House” where a fanny-up Kevin Bacon (his best role?) cries: “Thank you, sir. May I have another?"
My four paddles are not brand-spanking new; they have a well-worn, eerie patina.
Best of all – I bought all four paddles for just $1, thinking I might make a killing on eBay.
As it turns out, other like-minded men and women have listed their prized hazing paddles on eBay, too, and there is a paddle glut.
The shape and look of a hazing paddle is similar to a cutting board, and I may use one for that purpose, leaving the remaining three free to display or, if the opportunity arises, some good old-fashioned ritual spanking.
Thank you, sir. May I have another?
CLAREMONT, Dec. 5, 2011 --
At face value
A woman at Los Angeles' bustling Grand Central Market told me with a smile (maybe it was a grimace) Sunday afternoon I looked familiar.
She did not elaborate.
A movie star? An ex-boyfriend? A serial killer?
The list of people I’ve been told I resemble (to date they have all been movie stars) is diverse.
Later Sunday evening one of the regulars at Little Tokyo’s Nirvana Bar heralded my happy-hour arrival with a phonetic: “Mr. Richard Gere!”
Gere has gray hair, so there is a connection I suppose.
A few weeks earlier, at that same bar, a trio of Americans agreed I looked like Sam Elliott. Elliott has gray hair, too, and sports a beard sometimes.
The actor Michael Madsen told me at his birthday party two years ago I looked like the late Stewart Granger. Maybe it’s the eyes.
But my favorite to date was a decade ago in Las Vegas in the wee hours of the morning at a deserted McCarran International Airport, searching for my suitcase. A lone security guard, a middle-aged black woman, summoned me over to tell me I looked like that “Dick Van Dyke fellow.”
Was it my late-night, beer-induced gait that reminded her of Mr. Van Dyke? Had there been an ottoman nearby (the footstool not a Turk) I would have done a pratfall for her benefit. I regret not asking the woman at the Grand Central Market to elaborate.
All I know is this morning when I peeked in the mirror I looked like hell.
LOS ANGELES, Nov. 26-27, 2011 --
Enjoying the last slice of occupy
The weekend atmosphere at the Occupy LA tent city was at once festive and gloomy – sort of like life itself I suppose.
The donated food flowed freely, and on Saturday I enjoyed, in succession, a bran muffin, a turkey hotdog, chicken soup, two apples and a slice of pizza. The soup line was right next to the vegan guy’s territory (yin-yang in action), and it appeared the heady aroma was getting to him. I fully expected him to fall off the vegan wagon. Instead he just paced nervously and griped.
Sunday’s pickings were slim: a Dr. Pepper (a corporate sponsor of the movement?) and a stale bagel, but a concert by the band NOFX made up for the skimpy handouts. Although I couldn’t see the band and loathe punk with a passion, I thought the group’s appearance was a nice Woodstockian touch. NOFX (not be confused with a sign that read F--- Fox News) succeeded in putting the movement’s spiky-haired contingent into a frothy frenzy.
The big talk was, obviously, about the pending Monday morning drubbing by the federales (which did not happen). Not wanting to miss out on this chapter in LA history, I had my picture taken on the steps of city hall, holding a sign (above left), then posed next to a woman wearing a t-shirt reading: "Democracy is not a spectator sport." I like that photo (above right) because of the scary R. Crumbish guy in the foreground. He and I could be related.
It will be sad when the tent city leaves and the trendy farmers-market crowd reclaims its holy turf.
The highlight of my weekly occupation visits was the woman who, while changing “Peace! Peace! Peace!” at the top of her lungs, was asked by the guy standing next to me to lower her voice because it hurt his ears.
Without missing a beat she told him to go f--- himself, then retuned to her pacifist mantra.
Again, that’s sort of like life itself I suppose.
LOS ANGELES, Nov. 19-20, 2011 --
Viva la revolucion! What promised to be a big Nov. 20 celebration on Olvera Street for the 101st anniversary of the Mexican Revolution was a washout as rain fell all day.
Across the street, LA Plaza de Cultura y Artes was doing its part, however, by showing a Spanish-language version of 1952’s “Viva Zapata!” starring Marlon Brando. Brando’s bad stage mustache looked like a limp bat clinging to his upper lip. My Mexican Revolution celebratory weekend began the day before with a visit to the war-torn Occupy LA site. The free-food tent was handing out tamales, and I ate two. The twitchy guy behind me asked if I would eat a tamale off the ground.
Later in the day I visited the Original Shrimp Place, located next door to the Grand Central Market on Broadway, to listen to the resident karaoke singer belt out songs in Spanish. I sat at a folding table with Carmina, Rosie and Rosie’s comely 15-year-old daughter who looked like she stepped out of 1930s Los Angeles.
Carmina asked if the woman on my backpack (a button of Nancy Reagan) was my wife.
I was both flattered and horrified.
CLAREMONT, Nov. 12, 2011 --
Creepy collectors unite at Pilgrim fest
Collectors are an odd lot -- eccentric bordering on outright creepy.
I was reminded of this Nov. 12 while attending the 63rd Pilgrim Place Festival in Claremont, Calif., and browsing through the used music and video tent. I joined my fellow social outcasts who were drawn to rummaging through bins of other people’s former treasures, preserved in outdated media. The pretty young volunteer assigned cashier duty greeted each of us as we entered the music/video tent. “Looking for treasures?” she asked with a smile. Record collectors are among the weirder types, but I found VHS collectors hold top honors. As I browsed through a particularly rich trove of records, a personal space-invading guy in ball cap, sneakers and polyester slacks rifled through a box of well-worn VHS tapes, muttering to himself at first, then talking out loud to no one in particular. I cringed when he found a Three Stooges collection and “Nyuck nyuck nyucked,” loud enough for everyone to hear.
Horror of horrors: He was answered by another ‘Nyuck nyuck nyuck."
Delighted, Nerd 1 asked Nerd 2 if he were a fellow knucklehead. Yes. Both, it turned out, were members of the Three Stooges fan club.
Nerd 1 then found a colorized version of 1933's King Kong. “It was released in black and white originally (no shit, Sherlock), but this one is colorized,” he said, offering his keen insight to a woman browsing a bin of classical CDS. Nerd 1 then went on to explain to the captive CD woman (she made the gross mistake of making eye contact) how King Kong’s (that's the 1933 version in case you've lost track) stop-motion photography was a breakthrough at that time. I wanted to scream.
I spent about an hour mining through the records and found two gems: a collection of Maurice Chevalier and another collection of a guy named Bourvil. I didn’t know the second guy but liked the cover art. When I went to check out the young girl said: “Looks like you found some real treasures.”
“Yes. I found a great Maurice Chevalier record, and it’s imported, from France. Do you know him?”
She smiled and said no. It was the same smile one gives a slow-witted child or addled adult. “Enjoy your records,” she said as I left the tent.
LOS FELIZ, Nov. 6, 2011 --
A Ry sense of humor Listened to Ry Cooder talk about his new book, “Los Angeles Stories,” at Skylight Books in swanky Los Feliz. Cooder’s been a guitar hero since I first heard him in the early seventies. I even called my radio program on board the USS AMERICA “Paradise & Lunch” after his 1974 album of the same name, using “Diddy Wah Diddy” as my into and outro. Interviewed by L.A. Times book reviewer David Ulin, the exchange was a bit choppy, but Cooder made up for it with his droll delivery and that great Cooder voice. He had me laughing when he answered some woman’s pedestrian question with a grumbling: “Don’t ask me, because I’m pissed off all the time.” He baffled the audience with a reference to the Ben Hunter’s Movie Matinee, which I remember watching on Saturday afternoons. Unfortunately I was not able to get a photo with Cooder – with that famous glass eye and toothy grin – as he was mobbed by fawning, geriatric North Hollywood swells.