Roughing it in black and white

On Sunday mornings one of the cable stations shows episodes of “Batman,” the campy series from the 1960s.

Sometimes I watch the beginning of an episode and feel a mixture of pain and nostalgia. The pain comes from remembering what a doofus I was back then — one of the few people (if that) in the country who didn’t realize that the show was a tongue-in-cheek spoof. Yes, reader, I took it seriously for a while. Then again, I’ve read that Neil Hamilton, who played Commissioner Gordon, also didn’t get the joke. At least he had something of an excuse: His career stretched back to the silent era, when scripts and performances weren’t always subtle, and his over-the-top theatricality added to the show’s fun.

The nostalgia I feel comes from each episode’s intro, when we are informed that “Batman” is “In Color!” This was after ABC and CBS finally caught up with the NBC Peacock, which had ruled the panchromatic roost for ages; for a couple of seasons the two also-rans always trumpeted their shows’ color at the beginning of each show, as if we stupid viewers couldn’t have figured it out for ourselves.

“Batman” was one of the first color programs I ever saw — but not at home.

We still had a black-and-white TV. I think my parents knew that we kids wanted a color set, but there were six of us youngsters, and given the cost of clothing and feeding us, we sensed that for some time to come we were going to have to take CBS’ word that Lucy had red hair.

In an attempt to make us feel better about this, one day Mom brought home a rectangular plastic sheet that was supposed to simulate the joys of color TV if you placed it over the screen of your black-and-white Zenith. The top third of the sheet had a blue hue, the bottom third was green and the middle section had another color — orange, I think. I remember that most of us kids were kind enough to go along with this, at least for a while.

Then, around the mid-1960s, my dad got a membership for a huge store, kind of a pre-Walmart Walmart, with every kind of department you could think of, including toys, electronics and groceries — not to mention the bags of extraordinarily tasty popcorn you could get as you were leaving; the memory still makes my mouth water.

The store’s membership was open to government employees. My father wasn’t a government employee, but his company, an auto-parts warehouse, had government contracts, so he slid through that way.

On Thursday nights, while he and Mom shopped in the grocery department, we kids would hang out in the color TV section, watching “Batman” and other shows. It was a thrill to see all these characters in color; for a little while each week, we got a taste of How The Other Half Lived. And we also learned fairly quickly that these 1960s TVs had a knob you could turn if you wanted to futz with the color. I still remember seeing an ad for Kellogg’s blue cornflakes.

By the time we finally got a color set I was entering college, and although I still lived at home, my academic workload tended to keep me away from the TV.

I now have a 52-inch set that can do all sorts of things; problem is, I’m too dumb to figure out how to make it do all sorts of things. On a good day I could maybe figure out how to plug it in. But the color is sharp and the audio is state-of-the-art, even if some of those Brits on the PBS shows still haven’t learned to speak up.

Of course the manual says nothing about blue cornflakes.

But you can’t have everything.

Trouble at the ATM? You can bank on it

It’s supposed to be a simple bank visit — go in, get money from the ATM and catch my bus.

As I cross the street, I’m not even worried by the guy who’s waiting at the other corner. From the look in his eyes I know he’s going to put the bite on me. I’ll just ignore him.

When I get to the corner he asks me for a dollar. He says he wants a beer.

It is a few minutes before 10 a.m.

I walk past him. He follows me as I approach the ATM entrance. No guards in sight. Fortunately he doesn’t try to follow me in, and I never see him again.

I put my card in the ATM and push all the right buttons. But when the time comes to return my card, the ATM holds on to it. It tells me I’ll have to notify the bank, which will send me a new card. The hell with that, I think, especially considering that the bank is open.

A banker whom I've often dealt with -- with varying results -- passes by. I tell her my problem and she tells me she will look for someone to help me get my card back.

I keep an eye on the outside door so I can warn any newcomers about the machine.

The banker approaches another banker, who is meeting with a couple of customers. Then the banker, who is beginning to resemble a chicken with half its head cut off, goes to another banker.

Soon a guy comes in to use the ATM. I tell him not to use it and explain that it ate my card.

The guy, who reminds me a little of Eb, the farmhand on the old “Green Acres” show, asks me if I was using a card from the bank.

“Yes!” I say, perhaps too forcefully, but I was merely trying to do the guy a favor and wasn’t expecting a countrified Joe Friday. (And did I mention that I have a bus to catch?)

He begins to tell me why he asked about my card. From his leisurely tone I fear this will be a long story, so I tune him out as I focus on the banker, who has now approached a fourth (or maybe fifth?) employee, a teller who is now, with no apparent eagerness, following her to the little room behind the ATM.

A few minutes later, the banker hands me my card. And then, just to show that she is on the ball, she assures me that they’re going to put a sign at the machine to warn people not to use it. It’s been eating people’s cards, she tells me.

So, I say, this has happened time and again and NOW you’re putting a sign up? I am in full ballistic mode; if J. Robert Oppenheimer were here he’d be hiding in the vault.

I shake my head and storm out. A guard sitting in the lobby tells me to have a nice day.

I walk to the bus stop. It is now a few minutes past 10 a.m., and despite the bank’s best efforts, I am on time for my bus.

And come to think of it, I sure could use a beer.

One for the book

On a pleasant afternoon long long ago, the neighborhood mail carrier delivers a letter to me, a brief missive from someone who has never before seen fit to write to me.

Namely the public library.

Adopting what I’m sure it thinks is a lighthearted, nonthreatening tone, the library informs me that a book I have borrowed is significantly overdue and that I should consider returning it because other patrons might want to read it.

Oh, and by the way, the library has placed a “stop” on my card.

And what is the title of this great work of literature that I am accused of holding hostage?

“Japanese Decorative Art.”

Now I have nothing against the Japanese.

And I have nothing against art.

And I have nothing against decorations — as long as nobody is asking me to put some up.

But present me with a book that combines all three of these elements and you will see a yawn that is wide enough to easily accommodate the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

And I have a hard time believing that other patrons are clamoring to get their mitts on this opus.

But I need to make it clear to the library that I don’t have it. More important, I need to get the “stop” removed from my card in case I might someday want to borrow a book that is not called “Japanese Decorative Art.”

As I head to the downtown library, I suspect I know what happened.

In those days, whenever I took out a book, a clerk would open it and run a penlike device over a little code — the forerunner of what we now know as the ubiquitous Universal Product Code. I can’t help thinking that someone ahead of me in line borrowed “Japanese Decorative Art” and somehow it wound up on my card because the clerk screwed up. (Not to be uncharitable, but on previous visits to the library I have had the impression that when it comes to brightness, some of the clerks aren’t exactly operating at the highest wattage.)

But the woman in charge of the desk today obviously has no problems when it comes to brightness — or that pesky little thing called humility. When I tell her that I don’t have and never have had the book, she checks the stacks and says they still don’t have it. And when I tell her my theory about what really happened, she tries to humor me by saying that it could have happened, but it’s extremely unlikely. A computer making mistakes? Now really.

But she deigns to do me the great favor of taking the “stop” off my card anyway. “And if you happen to remember that you lent the book to your Aunt Minnie, you can return it then!”

Hmm. Here I thought I was supposed to be patronizing the library, not the other way around.

Some weeks later I present my theory to a longtime friend, a veteran librarian who works at the Albany Law School. She says that yes, the scenario I put forward is quite possible.

On later visits to the library, I never happen to see the woman who was at the desk that day.

Perhaps Aunt Minnie is holding her hostage.

A Portrait of the Blogger as a Young Wiseass

You never forget your first time.

I remember mine as if it were yesterday.

I was a sophomore in college, reading the local alternative weekly, when I saw it: a paragraph stating that the paper was looking for TV critics. It said those interested should write a review and submit it. At that time I knew a lot about network TV; I was the one in the family who, at the end of a show, would often say “Don’t turn yet — I want to see the credits!”

So I reviewed a new variety show hosted by Bill Cosby. I wish I could say that I wrote that there was something I didn’t like about the guy, that someday we’d all find out that there was something evil behind his mellow Jell-O vibe, but instead I concentrated on the behind-the-scenes personnel. I said the show’s director had previously directed “Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In” and that the Cosby show, while not as fast-paced as “Laugh-In,” did look as if it had spent a fair amount of time in the editing room as opposed to looking like a continuous performance, like Carol Burnett’s show. (Did I sound like an insider, or what?)

My “first time” came a couple of Saturdays later: an envelope from the paper containing a handwritten note from the editor, inviting me to write more, and, more important, A CHECK!

I doubt any writer anywhere would deny that the first time someone tells you that something you wrote is worth paying money for is a moment you never forget, no matter the size of the check.

Which, in my case, was $5.

As I continued to write for the paper, the checks grew to a whopping $15. I figured this was because the paper had just launched two other, short-lived editions in two other cities. Three editions times $5 equaled $15. Let the good times roll.

But this bonanza ended when the paper stopped printing my stuff. No one ever told me why, and I was too naive to call and ask, but I noticed that the paper’s “news hole” — the space reserved for editorial content — had been significantly reduced, apparently because of a shortage of newsprint, and I’ve always figured that this was why I was dropped.

But it was fun while it lasted — and more important, I now had what every budding journalist back then craved: clips that I could show to any potential employer.

And as a bonus, the paper gave me one of the best writing lessons I’ve ever received.

I had reviewed a syndicated sitcom called “Ozzie’s Girls.” It starred Ozzie and Harriet Nelson in a continuation of their long-running network show. The premise: Sons David and Ricky (now calling himself “Rick”) have moved out of the house, and Ozzie and Harriet decide to rent the boys’ rooms to two female college students.

It was an awful show. And as a young smartass, I relished the chance to disembowel it. I began with two or three paragraphs that I was sure were so clever that I almost stopped in the middle of typing them so I could shake hands with myself.

When the next issue came out, I eagerly turned to the review to see what the copy editor — the paper had a good one — had done with it.

When I found the review, my jaw went into free fall: Those golden grafs were gone — it was as if someone had lopped off my head.

And I realized that I deserved it — those paragraphs were merely me goofing around in print.

I believe that copy editor is still around. If I ever meet him, I’ll thank him and ask him to dinner. I’ll foot the bill, of course.

Even if it’s more than $15.

Newsroom Memories: Another Sunday night

It’s near the end of another Sunday night in the newsroom, more than 30 years ago.

Once the first edition is done, Sunday shifts are usually dull; my job at this point mainly involves sticking around in case something breaks, especially something that needs to go on Page One. Aside from the Sports folks, the staff at this point consists of me; a guy named Woolsey, who is night city editor; and a reporter named Grogan, who’s covering the late-cops beat.

About a half-hour after midnight, I see Grogan, notebook in hand, hurrying out of the newsroom.

Something’s up.

I ask Woolsey what it is.

“Stabbing at the Clinton Street News!”

The Clinton Street News, a few blocks away, sells newspapers and magazines. Behind a curtain behind the counter, it sells a lot more: an assortment of toys that consenting adults can use to amuse themselves at home after they’ve finished reading the newspapers and magazines, assuming they bought any newspapers or magazines after they visited the back room.

I’ve visited the Clinton Street News only once, but without going into the back room. I may be the only person who has ever bought a copy of The Washington Monthly at the Clinton Street News. I bought it just to be nice because I happened to be visiting the guy behind the counter — my older brother, Michael.

Who is probably there tonight. And my blood pressure spikes as I realize that he may have been at the wrong end of that knife.

I tell Woolsey this.

“Great! Call him!” says Woolsey, who, had he been born earlier, might well have auditioned to play Perry White on the “Superman” TV show or Walter Burns in any of the incarnations of “The Front Page.”

I look up the number and dial it. To my relief, Michael answers, which he probably wouldn’t do if he were bleeding to death. He confirms that someone was stabbed outside the store. I try to get him to give me details, but the investigating cops are almost surgically removing him from the phone, so he has to hang up. I don’t mind; at least I know he’s safe.

Turns out the victim isn’t seriously injured, so the story won’t go on Page One; more likely, Woolsey will make it a brief in the Local section.

As I type this I feel as if I am describing something from the Stone Age. The newsroom is no longer a newsroom but is part of an ad agency that took over the space after the newspaper company sold the building. (Not long ago the agency advertised for a proofreader. I was tempted to apply, just to see if I could get a look at what the place is like now, but I was afraid they’d hire me and I’d wind up spending another few decades there.)

Grogan is now an editor. Woolsey has since gone to that big City Desk in the sky.

At some point the Clinton Street News closed, leaving my brother unemployed. He eventually died of COPD.

And I don’t know whether any local store sells The Washington Monthly these days — with or without a dildo to go.

Newsroom Memories: Dan Carey

I last saw Dan Carey 45 years ago and I knew him for only a year, but I remember him more vividly than I remember many people whom I worked with longer.

If you were new to the newsroom it was hard not to notice Dan as he walked down the hall. Below the waist he looked pretty much like any other guy, but the upper part of his body was smaller and always bent to one side as he walked.

Dan had polio. Only one of his lungs worked. What to you and me would be a simple cold — a pain in the ass, but you’d get through it — could be a disaster for him.


I’m sure he knew how unusual he looked to the new hires, especially the younger ones. I’m told that sometimes, to put them at ease, he’d ask them where they went to school, then say something like this:

“After I got out of college I applied for a job as a piano mover. They rejected me. I sued them for discrimination. I said they were biased against me because I was Catholic.”

I can hear him saying this in his usual, rapid-fire delivery, out of the side of his mouth. His voice was soft and you sometimes had to strain to hear him, but it was worth the effort because he was funnier out of the side of his mouth than any loudmouth comic with a full set of functioning lungs.

One Sunday afternoon at work, he told me he’d been to Mass that morning. That day’s Gospel, printed in the missalette, was the one about the Sermon on the Mount, in which Jesus says: “Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself.” This was followed by the sermon, which included a pitch for money.

In response, “I tore the page out of the missalette and put it in the collection basket.”

I’ve also heard about the time Dan’s alma mater called him at home to hit him up for money, inspiring Dan to pose as his own father.

“My son is dead. He died of syphilis. He caught it at your school.”

A pause.

“Well, sir, would you like to make a memorial donation?”

After I’d been at the paper for almost a year, Dan taught me the basics of newspaper layout; our boss wanted me to be able to fill in for Dan when he went on vacation. He was a calm, patient teacher, and I’ve always been grateful for his lessons.

A few weeks after he taught me, Dan got sick and I had to fill in for him. He was back the next day, but a few days later he was out again.

On a Saturday morning soon after, I received word that he had died.

Dan was from Alexandria Bay, and his mother still lived there, so a few days later some of us got up early and went up there for his funeral.

The priest had known Dan, so I was grateful that Dan didn’t get one of those one-size-fits-all eulogies. I don’t remember many details, but I think the priest captured Dan well, the way I have always remembered him, as someone who met the huge challenges of his life with courage and an invincible sense of humor.

I do remember what the priest said at the end.

One day, he told us, Dan would walk straight.

I must have been clueless to do this

I’m sitting at a table in a hallway at a hotel in Baltimore. Bouchercon, the annual gathering of mystery writers and fans, is underway. This isn’t my first Bouchercon, but this time I’ve volunteered for a stint at the registration table, just to be a good guy and maybe meet some people. I and a few other volunteers are supposed to greet new arrivals, sign them in and tell them what they need to know.

Next to me is a woman I have been paired with. We make pleasant conversation and greet newcomers until a friend of hers stops by and she decides to take off with her and blow off the rest of the shift, arguing that things don’t seem that busy. I could try to find a rope and tie her to her chair, but I figure the hell with it.

At one point a writer whom I’ll call Floyd comes by to register. I’m thrilled to meet him — I’ve read a lot of his work, including one book that became a movie — and he reacts to my gushing with a warm smile.

I also notice that Laura Lippman is talking to another registration volunteer a few feet away, and I’m hoping she’ll come my way and introduce herself — she’s an ex-reporter and now a major writer. Her husband, also an ex-reporter, created “The Wire.”

But things get busier. A continuous tide of people, heading this way or that, keeps the hallway full. One of them, a young man, detaches himself from this maelstrom to report that he has lost his iPod. We tell him we’ll let him know if anyone finds it.

At some point Floyd returns. He wants to know if he can leave his luggage behind my table. I hesitate, not sure that this is a good idea, and his smile is replaced by a dark scowl; I have morphed from adoring fan to disobedient lackey. Intimidated, I say OK.

Another figure emerges from the crowd: Someone has found the iPod. We thank him and hold the device for safekeeping.

Across the hallway, outside one of the meeting rooms, a woman is beckoning to me. I cross the stream of people and walk over to her. She points to one of the lights in the room. It’s flickering. I say I’ll mention it to someone, but this doesn’t seem to satisfy her. I don’t know why she’s so bothered about it; I don’t think she’s a presenter, and besides, I barely know a circuit breaker from a salami. And now, as I glance at the passing parade, I see the guy who lost the iPod.

Excusing myself, I run over and grab him, and the man and his music are reunited.

Judy, the woman who is in charge of the volunteers, stops by to see how things are going. I tell her about Floyd’s luggage, and she seems OK with it. I also tell her about the lady who’s upset about the light.

Turns out the lady has been bugging Judy about it too.

I’m then assigned to spend the rest of my shift standing guard in a room that is filled with bags of free books; each attendee gets one bag.

It’s much calmer here, and it occurs to me that I hadn’t worked so hard since I left my newspaper job, where I had to meet five deadlines a day.

I never do get to meet Laura Lippman. As for Floyd, I haven’t read any of his new books because he doesn’t seem to have written any. Maybe he has writer’s block.

Gee, wouldn’t that be too bad?