tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83109404483263013912024-03-05T08:05:10.698-05:00the Sixties, another Mr. Mustache blogThis is my second blog, after the artistic success and commercial failure of my librarian blog. It will look at the sixties as seen from the perspective of a kid growing up in New Jersey.Mister Mustachehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14780996455900743098noreply@blogger.comBlogger73125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8310940448326301391.post-17408752662770940212023-06-12T13:03:00.003-04:002023-06-12T17:46:08.423-04:00the chair<p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgeAKNC1qkK2KXE2qcKNVXFZZ-yvQd2lBDwf6t2EYV7ZX0qfbOaTyMBzp01VC4vUuC7hwIelr2y8zY66HsWPt1BSWiW2kz53h7QN_K100mqs3OKfZS0lOXfTZ-neoMBrImWc7zMgYvX0km0JFdCOhdM513Hg9_g-Vtu7BLRq6zyugIlltuvZLKxFwJwXQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="639" data-original-width="639" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgeAKNC1qkK2KXE2qcKNVXFZZ-yvQd2lBDwf6t2EYV7ZX0qfbOaTyMBzp01VC4vUuC7hwIelr2y8zY66HsWPt1BSWiW2kz53h7QN_K100mqs3OKfZS0lOXfTZ-neoMBrImWc7zMgYvX0km0JFdCOhdM513Hg9_g-Vtu7BLRq6zyugIlltuvZLKxFwJwXQ" width="240" /></a>Senior year in high school I had a girlfriend, Marge. We talked about this and that and one day she started complaining about how her new apartment lacked a decent chair. She had been living in a nice house in northern Bergen County but now, after her parent's divorce, she had to move to a garden apartment in Hackensack. One thing she missed was having a decent armchair.</p><p></p><p>I was walking home from school and I spied a nice old-fashioned chair lying at the curb for refuse. I jumped to the occasion and brought the chair to Marge's garden apartment. Marge was thankful and said "I'm sure Mom will love this chair!</p><p>An hour passed and I was home doing my homework to the sound of Dan Ingram. For some reason my father was mowing the front lawn. A late model Chevrolet Nova drove in front of the house. It stopped and Marge got of the car, went to the trunk and struggled to pull the chair out. </p><p>The next second, a comely lady got out of the car and my father rested the lawnmower. He looked surprised. They had a chat. Mother yelled, "Mr. Mustache you better get down here!". I ran to the curb just as Marge scurried to the passenger side of the car and it was off. Mother said I shouldn't give people trash from the street. </p><p>After that my father teased my mother. "That Mrs. Golbfarb is a nice-looking woman", he'd say at dinner. </p><p>"You better keep away from Mrs. Goldfarb" my mother would retort.</p><p>As I recount this story in my dotage, it occurs to me that Mrs. Goldfarb could have thrown that chair in her apartment bin. She didn't have to come to our house. She wanted to check out the family of that new boy.đ</p><p><br /></p>Mister Mustachehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14780996455900743098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8310940448326301391.post-5566256438909107552022-01-01T12:10:00.002-05:002022-01-01T12:10:53.144-05:00Top 100 records<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi85qYPLrPQ_i9KvPEZcT-3HTd11R0VRDQJK7Lo00mAxrrp5ZGFqQHT8wd9mT-Ippmb8-3pMZyjeBacwZJ8IRamgm7Fn10q_z_uu-UyC0hU_vbxhDln9ZPd0C0PuFG2OEI7-BYBtm5DtL1xeuSEta2gzU3GK3ti5eK6T-T-eXnRtrr3KlIwwVvoD8pr=s303" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="303" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi85qYPLrPQ_i9KvPEZcT-3HTd11R0VRDQJK7Lo00mAxrrp5ZGFqQHT8wd9mT-Ippmb8-3pMZyjeBacwZJ8IRamgm7Fn10q_z_uu-UyC0hU_vbxhDln9ZPd0C0PuFG2OEI7-BYBtm5DtL1xeuSEta2gzU3GK3ti5eK6T-T-eXnRtrr3KlIwwVvoD8pr" width="303" /></a></div><br />I remember the first time I discovered that radio stations did end of year lists featuring the top records of the year I was a passenger with my brother driving the Ford Fairlane. We were listening to WABC and were trying to guess which Beatles record would be no. 1. I guessed <i>She</i> <i>Loves You</i> because it was the no. 1 record for several weeks in March. It was quite a surprise when Louis Armstrong's <a href="https://www.musicradio77.com/Top1964.html#:~:text=The%20Musicradio%20WABC%20Top%20100%20of%201964.%201,Beatles.%204%20%22Where%20Did%20Our%20Love%20Go%22..............................The%20Supremes."><i>Hello Dolly</i></a> came out to no. 1. <p></p><p><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OgdXiva88U4">1965</a> was also an interesting <a href="https://www.musicradio77.com/Top1965.html#:~:text=The%20Musicradio%20%EE%80%80WABC%EE%80%81%20%EE%80%80Top%20100%EE%80%81%20%EE%80%80of%201965%EE%80%81.%201,Can%27t%20Help%20Myself%22................................The%20Four%20Tops.%204%20%22Downtown%22...........................................Petula%20Clark.">year</a>, I predicted <i>Downtown</i> by Petula Clark and much to my surprise <i>Satisfaction</i> was no. 1 that year. Apparently, millions of kids bought the record to hear the dirty lyric that was supposedly censored from radio play that summer. <i>Ballad of</i> t<i>he <a href="https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/8310940448326301391/565345762489651817">Green Berets</a></i> was no. 1 in 1966 and Lulu's <i>To Sir With Love</i> got the honor in 1967.</p><p>By 1967 though, the hip kids were listening to albums and hearing album cuts on FM. The era of teenagers and AM radio was coming to an end. Woodstock killed classic AM radio. </p>Mister Mustachehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14780996455900743098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8310940448326301391.post-80071873413920475982021-10-01T12:54:00.001-04:002021-10-01T14:57:26.646-04:00The town drunk<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiptrvG2VCA4hULPxorhA29ixTlqfB9lrEdsf2eUS-JbXrmt6bWxWcdpbESIo7xGX09bW5-7Zb0KPWAvlyCLxYFc-HS_rtczZlcySfgBnPa8vW4qMyoq1l1ncqrPSZ-1Bdj2DqKbsfYeo/s1044/vector-illustration-of-a-drunk-man-holding-a-can-of-beer-and-leaning-on-a-blank-sign-by-dennis-holmes-designs-466.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1044" data-original-width="1024" height="287" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiptrvG2VCA4hULPxorhA29ixTlqfB9lrEdsf2eUS-JbXrmt6bWxWcdpbESIo7xGX09bW5-7Zb0KPWAvlyCLxYFc-HS_rtczZlcySfgBnPa8vW4qMyoq1l1ncqrPSZ-1Bdj2DqKbsfYeo/w282-h287/vector-illustration-of-a-drunk-man-holding-a-can-of-beer-and-leaning-on-a-blank-sign-by-dennis-holmes-designs-466.jpg" width="282" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">When I was eight years old the folks took me to a football game at Hathenrock High School. My older brother played clarinet in the band, so in the support of him and the local high school we all sat in the bleachers and watched Hathenrock play Paramus High. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">It was a fun game, highlighted by the Paramus half-back who ran the wrong way and scored a safety for our team. At the game an older man kept standing up and shouting "Rah rah Paramus" in the middle of the home team stands. I asked my mother who he was. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">"Oh, he's just the town drunk. Don't pay any attention to him", I was informed by dear Ma ma. For the first time in my life I met up with a town drunk. I was so proud of my home town. We had a swell hospital, a swell high school band, a winning team, and our very own town drunk. </div><br /><p></p>Mister Mustachehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14780996455900743098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8310940448326301391.post-53278916511232140552021-04-18T08:58:00.001-04:002021-04-18T08:58:11.482-04:00The bicycle rack was good<p> Here's an <a href="https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/1418047664920075417/8653294375993174459">anecdote</a> from my other blog which is about my time as a Junior Leader in the 6th grade. </p>Mister Mustachehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14780996455900743098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8310940448326301391.post-5605578732262857062019-08-15T12:09:00.002-04:002019-08-15T12:09:29.075-04:00I missed Woodstock<a href="https://hardtimesmrmustache.blogspot.com/2019/08/i-missed-woodstock.html">https://hardtimesmrmustache.blogspot.com/2019/08/i-missed-woodstock.html</a>Mister Mustachehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14780996455900743098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8310940448326301391.post-36786286558095238232018-10-27T13:43:00.001-04:002019-02-22T08:50:41.316-05:00Mr. Leech<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWEIJXLCok22KgIgbmlglTwJFeOaGFpynmxPV2dHxiFO3JrL6BZC8Y5Y4vjVpDJ6bU-86KpabPXjrcY0mEvBMkZRNLLRbHaiHqKerKjDdAI0pz2_JX_eo_5Gir0bXG6YJxkpkoSW3chUA/s1600/DSC0486-1-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWEIJXLCok22KgIgbmlglTwJFeOaGFpynmxPV2dHxiFO3JrL6BZC8Y5Y4vjVpDJ6bU-86KpabPXjrcY0mEvBMkZRNLLRbHaiHqKerKjDdAI0pz2_JX_eo_5Gir0bXG6YJxkpkoSW3chUA/s320/DSC0486-1-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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On rare occasions as a high school student my father would invite me to go the museum where he worked. Perhaps my mother wanted to get rid of me during my school vacation or perhaps my father wanted to instill in me the joys of being an adult in the working world.<br />
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I did get a walk around the place and got to see an expert art restorer, Mr. Leech, at work. He had a painting and he was working with a cleanser and seemed to make the colors much brighter.<br />
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On snowy days when the buses weren't running I remember him calling the house. He lived in the Garden State like us and he was probably calling to ask dear old dad for a ride. He must have been in his eighties and I could hear his raspy German accent. Like all people who answer the phone and realize it is an unwanted call I had a distinct joy in my voice as I said, "Dad, it's Mr. Leech!"<br />
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Mr. Leech had a special cake he gave us every year. It was called a "poor man's cake" and apparently it was a vestige from the war when butter and eggs were not available. We ate it every Christmas.<br />
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I asked the old man why he gave us this treat every year. "It's because I always give him his check the day before pay day". The advantages of being an accountant.<br />
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<i>Editor's note: </i>Now available is my first Kindle <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Sixties-notes-kid-growing-Jersey-ebook/dp/B07NVS7RBH/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1550841884&sr=8-1&keywords=don+carlo+sixties">book</a>.Mister Mustachehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14780996455900743098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8310940448326301391.post-36663399907846985762018-03-21T11:51:00.003-04:002018-03-21T11:51:21.851-04:00Snow daysHere is a post about being a kid and getting a <a href="https://hardtimesmrmustache.blogspot.com/2018/03/snow-days-part-2.html">snow day</a>.Mister Mustachehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14780996455900743098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8310940448326301391.post-11524951888662880422018-01-06T17:01:00.001-05:002018-01-06T17:01:30.722-05:00The man who knew HunckeThis is a<a href="https://hardtimesmrmustache.blogspot.com/2017/12/the-man-who-knew-huncke.html"> blog</a> I wrote for my Hard Times blog but I thought some of you might find entertaining, although it is definitely 1970s. It is an embellished version of how I moved to Denver.Mister Mustachehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14780996455900743098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8310940448326301391.post-44988515522456865332017-08-08T17:47:00.000-04:002017-08-08T17:47:19.166-04:00the Eclipse of July 1963<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7opSg5QlPNMt6nqCCmd-_tlXBjETtbjy2idGiIzqIdMb-lM-qbA5_RpYroUEsXIz3K_HA9jvnhqAhyphenhyphenrndMVjgIBvon3nd93RQ_nUmHW5zOCDABG52ExbjwqkPrtBx8CMee37E62u6UdQ/s1600/images+%252827%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="121" data-original-width="416" height="93" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7opSg5QlPNMt6nqCCmd-_tlXBjETtbjy2idGiIzqIdMb-lM-qbA5_RpYroUEsXIz3K_HA9jvnhqAhyphenhyphenrndMVjgIBvon3nd93RQ_nUmHW5zOCDABG52ExbjwqkPrtBx8CMee37E62u6UdQ/s320/images+%252827%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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As a kid, I always listened to what I was told, especially on the radio and TV. I remember I heeded all the warnings and hid in the basement one Saturday in July of 1963. The story was if you so much as glimpsed at the sun during that fateful afternoon you would be blinded for life.<br />
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My father and older brother somehow missed the advice. They were working on a trellis in the front yard when they noticed the sun looking weird.<br />
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"Look up at the sky!" my brother yelled. My father looked up. Several of the neighbors looked up.<br />
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"Doesn't the sun look weird!" my father said. They came and told me after the eclipse was over. I hate to admit it but I was a little disappointed that I wasn't the only sighted one in the family after that. Rather, things went on normally.<br />
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<i>Editor's note: </i>Don't look up at the sky on the 21st without the right eye ware. Prudence is the better part of valor.Mister Mustachehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14780996455900743098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8310940448326301391.post-68845896562964378222016-05-30T12:08:00.001-04:002016-05-30T12:08:22.148-04:00Memorial day paradeHere is a post that describes <a href="http://hardtimesmrmustache.blogspot.com/2016/05/boys-in-uniforms.html">Memorial Day</a> in Hackensack.Mister Mustachehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14780996455900743098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8310940448326301391.post-90016274932039882812015-05-10T08:12:00.001-04:002015-05-10T08:12:38.826-04:00Muhammad Ali vs. Brian London<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLY4YFW1_-pgAnluwtQC6glOpdZjM9PlyDgPJTkji5IX-MgAfVhL_7ADmjj7V4SZQbzyQjicseb6mjX-6Wx4yYM2U0zYFfWIx0uGB9XNk1PcJDOczaMqbP_x0xwfpiuJ95d0XMQx8toX0/s1600/Brian-London.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLY4YFW1_-pgAnluwtQC6glOpdZjM9PlyDgPJTkji5IX-MgAfVhL_7ADmjj7V4SZQbzyQjicseb6mjX-6Wx4yYM2U0zYFfWIx0uGB9XNk1PcJDOczaMqbP_x0xwfpiuJ95d0XMQx8toX0/s320/Brian-London.jpg" width="203" /></a></div>
Last week I heard about the Maryweather- Pacquiao fight after it was over, just like I discovered who Nirvana the band was after Kurt Curbain died. I'm not always up on major cultural events. I did, as a youth, follow heavyweight fights, and as a listener of Howard Cosel's radio minute, "Speaking of Sports" I was even a bit knowledgeable about the fighting world.<br />
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I first heard about Cassius Clay when he recited poetry on the Jack Paar Friday night show. Then I listened to the first Clay Liston fight on the radio with my father and brother. By that time most sports events were on tv but this was a throw-back to an earlier time because it was only on the radio unless you wanted to spend money at a theatre.<br />
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The 1967 Ali Brian London fight brought me a moment of glory in gym class. Probably the only moment of glory I ever had in that institution, as I sucked at all the activities (except maybe Jumping Jacks) that one partook of in such a place.<br />
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It was my knowledge of radio and <a href="http://www.dxing.com/amband.htm">dxing</a> that brought me that moment of glory. It was the locker room after the showers and the young men were complaining about not being able to watch the fight the night before. I piped up, "I heard the fight on the radio!"<br />
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"It wasn't on the radio!" interjected Brave-heart.<br />
"Yes it was, I picked it up from a station in Canada."<br />
"Really?" Suddenly Willie Bassett, Buba Davis, and Leroy Williams all looked at me and were impressed. My one moment of glory in gym class.Mister Mustachehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14780996455900743098noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8310940448326301391.post-74145298792877693042015-03-02T17:48:00.000-05:002015-07-22T07:44:29.662-04:00the Von Steuben House<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1D_QBbcJElaUuF3ORXeUEQ0Zw30vUg-cSbohkN3GapqDrEizoZBszCQrdzTsTwbPvJ5d2hqO1mKqJZPnVIDz_j6RdgFAvxLuBfsZjFLC6sMPH55iDoadQhyIFrOf2Y6zy7YGpOPTyBXU/s1600/download+(7).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1D_QBbcJElaUuF3ORXeUEQ0Zw30vUg-cSbohkN3GapqDrEizoZBszCQrdzTsTwbPvJ5d2hqO1mKqJZPnVIDz_j6RdgFAvxLuBfsZjFLC6sMPH55iDoadQhyIFrOf2Y6zy7YGpOPTyBXU/s1600/download+(7).jpg" /></a></div>
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New Jersey has plenty of places where George Washington slept and when I was in the Cub Scouts I had the priviledge of going to the <a href="http://www.bergencountyhistory.org/Pages/steubenhsehistory.html">Von Steuben House</a> and seeing one of his haunts. Cub Scouts was a good introduction to the world of clubs that would occupy us baby boomers as we descended through life. I was part of Pack 19, affiliated with the Church on the Heights in Hackensack. My pack was led by Mrs. Fontanella. My mother had been a Pack mother earlier and she was tired of kids tearing up her house. It was better anyway, for me, to have a non relative as my leader.<br />
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Cub Scouts was okay. I can remember making lanyards. I was also cajoled into doing my Kennedy impersonation at one of the monthly pack meetings. I remember my one joke. "I lost my marbles. But I lost them with vim and vigor".<br />
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At any rate a group of maybe six of us made it to the Von Steuben House north of town. I remember there was an older woman who promised us that if we were good boys she would take us to the dungeon. I guess we were good because I remember we saw the jail and rack where they tortured prisoners. A colonial version of Fifty Shades of Grey.<br />
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<br />Mister Mustachehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14780996455900743098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8310940448326301391.post-82587350518092854732015-02-05T19:10:00.000-05:002015-02-09T19:16:09.514-05:00Radio Shack<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirQPghYpOc2LJdvwJjDBT4xWHf4l4L_5qPaq7ZePD6mmI-GPaW15vI9jY7NrbTls27ooh5NYUqaFtDadxYcXEWITX-vgAS9Bc1LzSgkSyv9oM27cGhIyQ84-Q32nX5DcxdF9fciQ7ww8w/s1600/radioshack.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirQPghYpOc2LJdvwJjDBT4xWHf4l4L_5qPaq7ZePD6mmI-GPaW15vI9jY7NrbTls27ooh5NYUqaFtDadxYcXEWITX-vgAS9Bc1LzSgkSyv9oM27cGhIyQ84-Q32nX5DcxdF9fciQ7ww8w/s1600/radioshack.jpg" /></a></div>
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It's official. Radio Shack is now gone. All those swell Radio Shacks we grew up with are now history. If you want to be nostalgic, here is a 1961 <a href="http://www.radioshackcatalogs.com/catalogs/1961_small/">catalog</a> you can browse through. I remember as a kid buying a transistor radio there. They were also a good place to find cables and I remember buying RCA to transistor plug converter cables there, which I still have.<br />
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Mostly I remember going to the Radio Shack in Paramus with my big brother to help him test tubes. My brother was the electrician of the family and I remember going with him with all the tubes from the radios and the television set in the house in a brown paper bag. At Radio Shack we would test the tubes, occasionally finding a bad one that needed replacing. I never remember them being out of any tube we needed.<br />
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Radio Shacks were inviting to a male teenager in a way most other stores weren't. The fluorescent lights were bright and the mostly young male crowd seemed intent and knowledgeable about radio, tape decks, ham decks and that sort of thing. Hobbyists now buy most of their gear online, but it will never be quite the same.<br />
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<i>Editor's note: </i>I also remember going to Leonard Radio on Route 4.Mister Mustachehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14780996455900743098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8310940448326301391.post-9067560717104431532014-09-09T20:27:00.000-04:002018-01-06T17:13:05.837-05:00Clams<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The other night I dreamt about clams. My father and a few of the men were in the basement of the Mills house gorging themselves on raw clams. Outside in the backyard the more refined people were eating steamed clams. Clams must have been lots cheaper in 1962 than they are today. I seem to remember my father and Mr. Mills going to a seafood place in Maywood and buying twenty gallons of clams.<br />
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The occasion for all this clam ingestion was the annual Labor Day party, peopled mostly by members of the local Democratic club. I remember there were lots of kids. We played horseshoes, played on the swings, and ate clams. The adults talked politics and drank beer, whiskey, Martini's and ate clams. Perhaps the clam thing was tied to the Kennedy's and their Hyannis Port vacations where they presumably ate shellfish. </div>
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My father actually invented a clam knife with a wooden holder where the unfortunate live clam was placed before being shucked. He never patented it but it came in quite handy. Hot sauce went along with the clams on a half shell. </div>
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Mister Mustachehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14780996455900743098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8310940448326301391.post-18677590486901590332012-06-14T14:59:00.000-04:002012-11-27T20:02:05.561-05:00The family's first stereo<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;">
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As a tot I remember playing a record player in the basement. I bought mainly singles but occasionally an album got played.Then suddenly my father decided to get a real stereo. I don't know if my father got a raise, my big brother got a scholarship, or the old man was ashamed when he realized his friends and neighbors had real stereos and color tv's. He went for quality too. He had me go through the Consumer Reports and we picked out a Dual turntable, a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Fisher">Fisher</a> amplifier and speakers. He bought them all in New York at a discount stereo store he had discovered. For the first six months the turntable was in the living room. Then it was moved to the basement. Apparently Mother did not want me sitting on her good furniture playing records.<br />
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The old man strung wires throughout the house, connecting the living room (the amplifier-tuner), a speaker in the kitchen, and the phonograph in the basement. He bought a second set of speakers for the basement (of lower quality than the ones in the living room), but not bad. When I wanted to play records I had to turn on the Fisher in the living room and then go dowstairs to the basement. If Mother was cooking in the kitchen she could flip off her switch so she didn't hear my rock and roll records. Later when I was finished, the radio went on (usually on WPAT-FM) and the switch in the kitchen was pulled.<br />
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In other words, my father was okay with buying one amplifier but wasn't about to spring for two. I guess he was an early progenitor of what is called networking.<br />
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One of the things about surviving your relatives is that stuff from your childhood comes back into your life. The turntable has returned to my life and will sit next to that ugly green tree lamp in my living room. It is of pretty good quality and you can fine tune the speed and play 78's. After a few beers the lamp sways to the music, just like when I was visiting home from school.<br />
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<i>Editor's note</i>: The turntable played singles and monophonic records well but after awhile I noticed the mixing on stereo recordings was off. I think it needs a new cartridge, since the plugs are lose. I also noticed that it skipped every time I walked by. Sad to say, the Technics is now back where it was and the Dual is now disconnected, another project I'll get to one day. Sometimes it's better to leave well enough alone.Mister Mustachehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14780996455900743098noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8310940448326301391.post-6648679466791793772012-03-12T07:28:00.001-04:002012-03-15T08:30:36.590-04:00the Monkees<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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I grew up in a different age when the parents controlled the tv set and what activities a young person participated in. I never saw the Monkees show until well into the seventies when they were in re runs. Monday night I went to <a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=8310940448326301391#editor/target=post;postID=4855127538005124075">Monday School</a>, or the Confraternity of Christian Doctrine. When I was home on Monday nights Mother dictated that we would watch CBS not NBC. It wasn't until this week that I realized that I missed out on one of the essential elements of growing up in the sixties. The phenomenon of the Monkees. I missed the whole thing. </div>
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<i>Editor's note: </i>A follower of this blog may wonder why I was able to watch Shindig and not the Monkees. It was because Wednesday nights my parents went to Democrat meetings, leaving their son alone in the house with the tv. Cuando el gato esta, los ratanos hacen una fiesta.</div>
<br />Mister Mustachehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14780996455900743098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8310940448326301391.post-3885158762683061472011-02-03T18:05:00.001-05:002011-02-03T18:06:28.533-05:00Jean Luc GoddardThis tale stretches into the seventies but you might enjoy <a href="http://hardtimesmrmustache.blogspot.com/2011/02/jean-luc-goddard.html">it</a> too.Mister Mustachehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14780996455900743098noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8310940448326301391.post-43130887119263652082011-01-17T08:49:00.006-05:002011-01-17T12:58:37.591-05:00Where's your tie<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr_e6U43Vayd1gtKePX2nsClSArGWTsHT0XxjFnIamemgbrDKJpvVva1S1CaCvgZi7Krwplo1yXPrAHuk_6EcZF4bsR7-AqKxhctePdht4Amk_nositUjMThdpLYQNQjWqF39I_SJdfAc/s1600/tie.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 100px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 160px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563213413467223234" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr_e6U43Vayd1gtKePX2nsClSArGWTsHT0XxjFnIamemgbrDKJpvVva1S1CaCvgZi7Krwplo1yXPrAHuk_6EcZF4bsR7-AqKxhctePdht4Amk_nositUjMThdpLYQNQjWqF39I_SJdfAc/s320/tie.jpg" /></a><br /><div>Recently a friend was telling me how cute it was when her older son was showing his little brother how to make a tie for a job interview. It made me think of when I was a kid and my older brother showed me how to tie a tie so I wouldn't get beat up on the first day of junior high school. All summer the rumors intensified. The terrible things that happened to new seventh graders on the first day of school not wearing a tie. Kids who were found dead in the Hackensack River. Kids who had to wear crutches until Christmas. Like most entering seventh graders, I didn't believe the most grisly stories, but was of the prudence is the better part of valor disposition. </div><div> </div><div>On the big day I trudged through the depressing halls of the junior high school and the even more depressing home room classroom. In it there was a loudspeaker with the Principal's voice saying that no hazing was permitted in this school and no special articles of clothing (he didn't say ties) are to be worn to school by any students. All the male students, save one, wore ties that day. It was the best dressed group of students the teacher had seen since the previous September. </div><div> </div><div>Coming home from school, three kids chased after me shouting, "Where's your tie?" Seeing my tie they all shook my hand and wished me the best of luck in my educational experience. It was a quite moving moment and in it I knew I was no longer a boy but had become a man. A man wearing a tie. </div>Mister Mustachehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14780996455900743098noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8310940448326301391.post-29363454837251071272010-02-26T08:14:00.018-05:002010-02-26T08:41:09.732-05:00Brigitte Bardot<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9ybJo0T6qTSjT7LuFrKguoaNJDWfPeAVtSi3OM2wHisIJgzesYuXOqiqe8sCPUGFc5K-IdezGRCc-jN3USvY6GrKMbulMzZNqMIncYcnDjPLWs9z_-z2tRqh3pPv7gT0qHgaadpg3EFM/s1600-h/e4d7769faea90024.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 100px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 140px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442544812621763202" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9ybJo0T6qTSjT7LuFrKguoaNJDWfPeAVtSi3OM2wHisIJgzesYuXOqiqe8sCPUGFc5K-IdezGRCc-jN3USvY6GrKMbulMzZNqMIncYcnDjPLWs9z_-z2tRqh3pPv7gT0qHgaadpg3EFM/s320/e4d7769faea90024.jpg" /></a><br /><div>In the early sixties, our family subscribed to <em>The Advocate, </em>a weekly publication of the Newark Archdiocese. A Catholic publication, it always included a column that ended "yours in Christ". The major feature of the paper, however, was the Catholic church's weekly movie <a href="http://home.sprynet.com/~inniss/movies.htm">ratings</a>. It was this column I would rush to every week. Preceding the film industry motion picture ratings by decades, it listed movies currently showing and informed the laity of the appropriateness of the films for them and their families. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The best part of the list, at least for all the Catholic boys in New Jersey, was the listing of movies that were "condemned". Anything French, for example, was always condemned. Even relatively innocent films like <em>Irma La Deuce, </em>which had a French name, was condemned. <em>Never on Sunday</em> was condemned, perhaps for suggesting the presence of other attractions for that day besides mass, baked goods and dinner. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Needless to say, any film starring <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000003/">Brigitte Bardot </a>was condemned. Perhaps because of this, among the boys in my fifth grade class, there was constant conversation about the French actress. Surprising in a way, since none of us had ever seen any of her movies. For that matter, I doubt if any of them were shown outside of art houses east of the Hudson River. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>It was probably the name. Brigitte Bardot sounded so forbidden, so much more alluring than Jayne Mansfield or Marilyn Monroe. These American actresses could never compete with the mystique of le Brigitte. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Today, thanks to Netflix, I am seeing some of her movies for the first time. So far, except for the frontal nudity, the movies are rather dull. They are almost like a Jack Lemmon type movie, but with subtitles and lots more smoking. Oh yes, and of course Ms. Bardot. </div>Mister Mustachehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14780996455900743098noreply@blogger.com31tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8310940448326301391.post-22385868045484235172009-01-17T10:36:00.012-05:002009-01-18T08:52:12.138-05:00Marching band<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRiD1ecfdW_4J5dJvX8z9406PkYrccmsOQyTbabd09wZKuWZlPVTRfmhbugDeHIloMygmpVnbJB9qWGWDVHtuy2emi9sZfAJaqMeylAqnX5hSedpagVeDU6Y1-uRd_cZmuJ-cSyvVaY_k/s1600-h/TERRYM~2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5292287318408272834" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 230px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 211px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRiD1ecfdW_4J5dJvX8z9406PkYrccmsOQyTbabd09wZKuWZlPVTRfmhbugDeHIloMygmpVnbJB9qWGWDVHtuy2emi9sZfAJaqMeylAqnX5hSedpagVeDU6Y1-uRd_cZmuJ-cSyvVaY_k/s320/TERRYM~2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><p><br />The first day of high school is one of those times when you feel you are gaining entry to the larger world. Confirming this fact was my class schedule.There, at the last period of the day was band. I would march at football games. I was in the band.</p><br /><p>I had been warned that there was this scary man with a glass eye who ran the thing and he took no guff from anybody, especially the new students. Within ten minutes I was told to put that flute away and he handed me a trombone. I had met the bandleader, Mr. <a href="http://www.northjersey.com/obituaries/Master_of_Jewish_Humor_Terry_McGrath_dies_at_82.html">McGrath.</a> For the next three falls I would attempt to play the trombone in marching band. And witness one of the more colorful figures at Hackensack High.</p><p>Junior year I decided to audition for the school play, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carousel_(film)">Carousel,</a> and who was the director but Mr. McGrath. I was given the role of Mr. Bascombe, the wealthy amusement park owner. In the script, I (125 pounds) was to be the victim of an attempted robbery by Jiggs (250 pounds and a linebacker in the football team). I was to overpower him physically and escape from the situation. My attempt drew guffaws from everyone there that day. Mr. McGrath had the wherewithal to change the script, giving me a gun. Now the script would be believable.</p><p>I was also there when he introduced the humanities class to Joe Smith of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Smith_&_Dale">Smith and Dale</a>. Mr. McGrath died a few weeks ago. </p><p></p><br /><p></p><br /><p><br /><br /><br /></p>Mister Mustachehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14780996455900743098noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8310940448326301391.post-89654216210212834162009-01-04T15:27:00.002-05:002009-01-04T15:29:50.072-05:00A New BlogAlthough I haven't finished with the sixties yet, most of us baby boomers never really got over that decade, I've started a new blog, aimed at the times we are living through now. It's called <a href="http://hardtimesmrmustache.blogspot.com/">Hard Times</a>.Mister Mustachehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14780996455900743098noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8310940448326301391.post-69088902311939637162008-11-11T08:38:00.013-05:002008-11-11T09:22:17.125-05:00Thanksgiving in the SixtiesIn the late sixties, many young people suffered major transformations at Freshman year at college. Happy go lucky, polite, well groomed young <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI26co8ze08cyVmvdjfZghiPHS-FzPv10Zr4ZSIzgsi7-LLderhbCDfWnvajTQx2UwSNxEXF_dIqCjzU0s5MsJaHb0yWqmnCACyf0Z9HuIgbsVUUMK4xmOBraEA1SUohJ_uXtjZ1NQWyE/s1600-h/3058338962.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267394580315993890" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI26co8ze08cyVmvdjfZghiPHS-FzPv10Zr4ZSIzgsi7-LLderhbCDfWnvajTQx2UwSNxEXF_dIqCjzU0s5MsJaHb0yWqmnCACyf0Z9HuIgbsVUUMK4xmOBraEA1SUohJ_uXtjZ1NQWyE/s320/3058338962.jpg" border="0" /></a> people the previous June, they went off to college and contracted bad cases of college-itus. Their hair grew long, they sported beards, they smelled like pot.<br /><br />As was the tradition at my school, the previous senior class wandered the halls of high school the day before Thanksgiving. And look at them! Enough to bring many a high school teacher to tears. "All that work we put in on their educations and three months at State and look what happened to them!"<br /><br />I was recently listening to the Beatles' Revolver and can see a similar transformation. Young clean cut men, previously loyal to their Queen and Capitol Records, smoked a joint and got sour outlooks on life. It sounds like they ate a meal that didn't agree with them. (Or got their tax bills).<br /><br />Editor's note: <em>One of the icons of the sixties, the cartoonist R. Crumb, has an interesting show of original ink drawings at the Philadelphia<a href="http://www.icaphila.org/"> Institute of Contemporary Art </a>at on the Penn campus. Throught December 7. Wed-Sun. Free.</em>Mister Mustachehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14780996455900743098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8310940448326301391.post-67960240876329144772008-11-01T08:51:00.006-04:002008-11-01T09:10:12.547-04:00Route 80<p align="left"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhghmt7i79cpa4iodb6RaKC5w2m7gl4bThymjl4PxCU0zUAQy-WSVV0e98lbeUGzzOJCCjS-05CyEYRt9Ui2pxBylL9s341BvHKsZHB4-ZH9ocZBIRK7CNjsodr2Ixz5_-RZFOUXELVNXc/s1600-h/img17.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5263671222257989058" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 334px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 168px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhghmt7i79cpa4iodb6RaKC5w2m7gl4bThymjl4PxCU0zUAQy-WSVV0e98lbeUGzzOJCCjS-05CyEYRt9Ui2pxBylL9s341BvHKsZHB4-ZH9ocZBIRK7CNjsodr2Ixz5_-RZFOUXELVNXc/s320/img17.gif" border="0" /></a></p>Northern New Jersey was late in getting the major interstate highways. For years anyone wanting to go to the Pocono's had to take Route 46 through Hacketstown, which was always crowded. Hackensack finally got <a href="http://www.nycroads.com/roads/I-80_NJ/">Route 80 </a>in 1964.<br /><br />One Sunday afternoon I was traversing my way through the comics in the Herald Tribune. I was past "Peanuts" and entering the more parochial world of "Miss Peach" when my father asked if I'd like to take a bicycle ride. This was a new development in family life up to this point so I said, skeptically, "okay".<br /><br />I rode my trusty bike and my father rode my older brothers'. He was at college and would never (until now) be the wiser. We headed onto Route 80. Scheduled to open the following day, the highway was magnificent and empty. It had a wonderful view of New York and the Empire State Building. We went as far as Bogota.<br /><br />In Bogota we visited my father's friends. I had a coke and he drank a few beers. On the way back he swerved a bit on the road but I held up the rear. The next day Route 80 was opened up to the trucks and traffic jams for which it would become famous.Mister Mustachehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14780996455900743098noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8310940448326301391.post-4170436835265733752008-10-23T18:11:00.003-04:002015-04-04T11:38:05.782-04:00Arnold Constable<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDEgL2_p83ln1NwLcVvqfr_PRUlpus-5twESMk-gxvvHGqHZjSIXzaveC-ko-LbpbYuv7cKby8JjQ_16GtqyC5KoV1JYB7jzt-do8yiiDKidmPKvzPJii7ixF3QM_-lKaZluTz1391_4w/s1600-h/untitled.bmp"><br /></a>
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Among my earliest childhood memories are being dragged by my mother to âthe storesâ. At that time, the malls had not<br />
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yet arrived in Bergen County New Jersey so people still went âdowntownâ which in our case meant Main Street in Hackensack. Not yet in Kindergarten, I visited Packardâs, Woolworthâs and that perfume laden place, Arnold Constables. It was what my mother called âa ladyâs storeâ. The whole place reeked of perfume and I can remember smelling like Chanel No. 5 the rest of the day, or possibly until the next day when I changed my clothes. One nice thing about going to school was that I missed out on these daytime excursions in the world of womenâs shopping.<br />
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As a twelve year old, Arnold Constables re-emerged once in my life as the location of a special appearance by Cousin Brucie aka Bruce Morrow, the disc jockey. I remember the place was full of kids, and most of them did not smell like perfume. This one girl I didnât know started talking to me about music. I held my own, showing off my knowledge of the Animals and the Stones. My first exposure to the faster set that traveled at will to see music celebrities.<br />
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Bruce Morrow showed up. There was lots of screaming. I donât remember what he talked about. Presumably it was to promote his radio show on WABC and perhaps a few products.<br />
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Today long gone, Arnold Constables in Hackensack is now a campus of Bergen Community College. Bruce Morrow does oldies shows for public television âpitch weekâ.<br />
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Editorâs note: <em> This post is mentioned in the <a href="http://www.hackensacknow.org/index.php?PHPSESSID=9cbfc30169d0b0f4460868d12250bdc7&topic=945.0">Hackensack Community </a>Message Board. Interesting site for Bergen County history buffs. </em></div>
Mister Mustachehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14780996455900743098noreply@blogger.com100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8310940448326301391.post-74508688584075584822008-09-26T09:21:00.015-04:002008-09-26T10:05:50.557-04:00The Beatles White album and the new bed<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHLUp8OmwJYtqtJBSrE6e7YCVR5pHMYZMumG3Q13jtijrehAkQmuPwzfTSbMQjcGHduzKpNnCsA3BWb5gcocNycU7i6KxYalcum_xvkFG-FEbxdFhjLBMAYq63D4Er3h7vIz7RneKCRlU/s1600-h/1983719361.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250320188374134786" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHLUp8OmwJYtqtJBSrE6e7YCVR5pHMYZMumG3Q13jtijrehAkQmuPwzfTSbMQjcGHduzKpNnCsA3BWb5gcocNycU7i6KxYalcum_xvkFG-FEbxdFhjLBMAYq63D4Er3h7vIz7RneKCRlU/s320/1983719361.jpg" border="0" /></a> The Beatles "White Album" was long awaited and there were rumour mills about it long before it hit the stores. One story was that it featured "Hey Jude" and songs from an upcoming movie. Another story that a radio DJ repeated was that the second disc was a jam, similar to Grape Jam by Moby Grape. In gym class I learned that the cover featured John Lennon and Yoko Ono sitting on toilet bowls.<br /><br /><br />Finally the album found its way to FM radio and Murray the K announced that he had, once again, gotten the album first and would be featuring it on his Saturday night program on WOR-FM. Homework done, chores done, I was looking forward to an evening listening to this historic album for the first time.<br /><br /><br />The radio was on in my room. Murray the K had just started the show and there was a knocking on my door. It was my father.<br /><br /><br />"Master Mustache, come on, Mr. Mills has the bed he's giving you and we need to bring it over before he changes his mind."<br /><br /><br />"Bed, what bed, I don't need a bed. I have a bed." Even then, I was resistent to change.<br /><br /><br />The rest of the night it was up and down Kaplan Avenue. We carried mattresses, box springs, bed boards. It must have taken ten trips. We disassembled the bed at the Mills bedroom and reassembled it in my bedroom. I got to hear snippets of the Beatles behind the grunts and swear words accompanying the bed assembly. My other bed was then removed and planted on the curb.<br /><br /><br /><br />After the bed was set up, Mr. Mills brought a bottle of champagne which both families drank, sitting on my new bed. Thus the bed was christened.<br /><br /><br />Finally the Mills family went home and I got to hear the last two Beatles cuts, "the End" and "Good night".<br /><br /><em>Editor's note: </em>We actually drank the champagne on the back porch.Mister Mustachehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14780996455900743098noreply@blogger.com4