Ah, I see you're back. Now turn around and let me see the rest of ya. Ahem. Sorry, I stole that joke from Elvira. But anyway, while I'm stealing things, I might as well steal Star*'s idea and write about what I miss. And don't worry, this could go on for years so I'll try to keep it brief.
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At the top of her essay, Star* talks about the old radio which used to be atop her mother's fridge. I certainly hope it was made of bakelite because I too have an "old radio" story. In the 70s, my grandparents lived in a huge three storey house on Westfield Avenue in Pennsauken. In the kitchen, the dinner table was sticking out from the wall much in the same way a diner booth table is situated. Anyway, on top of the table up against the wall was an old OLD bakelite radio from the 50s which always sat there even through meals (it wouldn't be turned on during dinner, though, whaddaya take us for?). There is nothing quite like the look of an old bakelite radio and I love them so much to this day probably because they remind me of that long lost one at my grandparent's table. I miss it so much now after reading Star*'s remembrance that I want to go out and buy one at an antique shop -- even if it doesn't work -- if only so I can sit and look at it.
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Dinners with Peg. From about 1993 until her death in 2009, I used to drive every Monday to my friend Peg's house where we'd watch movies, rock out to tunes and have a homemade Italian dinner. Whether it was pasta (sometimes we would make homemades starting from scratch. . .start with the flour, make a well, get out the stainless steel pasta maker... -- oh how I miss homemade pasta) -- or Peg's baked scallops covered in melted butter and breadcrumbs, I will forever miss the laughter and the good times we had. I miss our endless cups of coffee around the kitchen table. I miss the clarion call of "Time to put the water up" which meant it was time for dinner so the pasta water needed to commence boiling. I miss making the salad: wash the lettuce, open the tin of anchovies wrapped around a caper, pour on the olive oil, the vinegar and a couple dashes of hot sauce. I miss the garlic bread she would always forget about and burn in the toaster oven. I miss my friend.
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The Borders job. Along with Star*, I can only echo her sentiments about what it used to be like before things went bad there and all the wonderful friends I used to work with every day. And could there seriously have been a more perfect dream job for me than working in a place that sold books, music and movies? Of course, now we've managed to make cds into dinosaurs and music/movie stores a thing of the past. We've even managed to almost destroy bookstores and books themselves with this insidious kindle thing. Is there no end to our perfidy? There is a reason why they call it a kindle; because it's the equivalent in our civilisation to burning books, in my opinion. A real book lover doesn't want to read something on a screen; a book is more than a series of words strung together in front of your eyes. A book is a thing of beauty, a thing with pages to turn, a thing with a spine. A kindle is spineless. In more ways than one. But I remember when, back in the day (a whole decade ago) I worked in a place which brought books, music and movies to an eager population. To be surrounded by three of the most precious things in my life -- books, music and movies -- was really kinda nice.
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The country. When I moved to my present South Jersey town in 1977, it was the sticks. Far out in the country surrounded by farms and fields and practically no traffic. I could ride my bike across the highway and not fear being run over; now I hesitate to even take my CAR onto the highway without risking Jayne Mansfielding myself. In the back of neighbourhood only one street away from my house was a complete apple orchard; I rode my bike through there too. Beyond that was the old Traino's farm where my mother and I would pick pumpkins in the autumn and there was a little farmer's market stall where we could buy all the fresh fruits and vegetables of the season. Now on top of that they plopped a cookie-cutter housing development with house packed next to identical house in soulless contempt of the field which once existed underneath them. There is now no time of the day or night when you can get in your car and drive somewhere without sitting in gridlock; even when I drive at 3 am there is traffic now. I miss going outside and being able to turn around without confronting a car, a storefront or an office building (usually empty) immediately in my face. My town has gone from an expansive, verdant land to a sardine can. I'm not a fan.
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The Death Drill. Time was you wouldn't have to search very far for a villain with a death drill. Every well-equipped super-criminal organization had one. But now, what with political correctness and the damn Geneva Convention and sheet, death drills seem to be frowned upon these days. Another example of this country going to heck in a handbasket, I'd say! That and Miley Cyrus' career.
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So there you have it. I promised I'd keep it brief. I definitely have about 82 more installments I could put up here but for now I think I'll leave it at that. Thanks once again to Star* for her original and much better executed idea and for letting me steal it.
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