AUGUST 18

Several years ago I found myself in a second-hand bookstore in Independence, Missouri. A small, storefront kind of place on the town square, within shouting distance of Harry Truman's home. I wasn't looking for anything in particular. A used bookstore just seemed the right place to be in a town with as much history as this. 


In between the shelves and stacks of books, shoved against a faded brown wall, I saw a couple of bins of old photographs. I'm fascinated by those old black and white shots. They carry an innate power that transcends the decades, as though the people and places still exist in some other realm. I flipped through one bin, stopping occasionally to examine a face or a building. Then I noticed that the other bin held some panoramic photos. The long kind, taken with a special camera. I took more time to look at these.


That's when the line of doughboys stopped me, held my attention. Here was a picture of a company of American soldiers about to embark for Europe and the bloodletting of World War One. The date on the photo was August 18, 1917. America was entering the war, about a year before it ended. I bought it.

When I got home, I framed the picture. It hangs on the wall in my office, where it's been for the past 15 or 20 years. I remember the date. It's today. A special day for me. Today the picture carries more meaning than ever, because I have just finished reading a new history of WWI. "To End All Wars" by Adam Hochschild. Powerful stuff, beautifully written, important. 


One of the poets to write of the War was Siegfried Sassoon, who served valiantly in the British army. Here is the final stanza of his poem "The Troops": 


"...And through some mooned Valhalla there will pass
Battalions and battalions, scarred from hell;
The unreturning army that was youth;
The legions who have suffered and are dust."


And I wonder how many of those beautiful young men from Company A, 1st NY Infantry, at Utica, NY, all smartly uniformed and fit and ready to fight, I wonder just how many came home, sound of body and mind. That company of men all in a row on that special day. August 18. My birthday.

  

The Day She Came Back

Two weeks ago, on a hot Saturday morning, Shawn called from KC. "I'm on my way," he said. True to his word, he was bringing the Olds to St. Louis. I wasn't sure what to do for the next 4 or 5 hours. Usually it's like straighten up the living room, vacuum, stuff like that. But this was the first time I'd ever prepared to welcome a car. And an old one, at that. Given the hot day - climbing into the mid-90's - I was worried about the car making it the 250 miles. So I straightened up the driveway, picked up some dead branches. I probably would've vacuumed it if the cord would've reached.


At 2:30 he called. "I'm at the Loew's parking lot in Kirkwood," he said. "I'll be there in a few minutes." Loews? What did he do, come to St. Louis to go shopping? Turns out, he trailered the car in. Smart move. He wanted to drive up to my house in the car.


A half hour later I was standing at the top of my driveway, waiting, listening, remembering. How would she look? How would she sound? How would I feel about someone else driving her? I waited and sweated, held the camera at the ready. Before long I heard the deep purr of a not-new car. A deep rumble. And there, around the bend in our street, came the '65 Olds Jetstar. 


If you've ever gone back to the house where you grew up, the grade school you attended, met an old girl friend you'd lost contact with, even pulled out a high school year book or an old baseball glove.... if you've ever done any of those, then you know how I felt. Joy. Sadness. Excitement. Longing. A feeling that all is right with the world, that some of the good things of life will always be there for you. And one other compelling feeling that I come to experience more often these days. The feeling of time gone by, all too quickly. 


A poem came to mind, days later.

            "Across the fields of yesterday, 
             he sometimes comes to me. 
             A little lad just back from play, 
             the boy I used to be."


Not to belabor this nostalgic event, I'll just say the car was all I had hoped it to be. And Shawn was the right person to own it. For he deeply cared about it, wanted it to be perfect, had worked hard to recreate its beauty, knew more about cars than I did. I had forgotten how well designed the car was, a low, streamlined, powerful presence. How magnificent the dark and light blues were. I drove it around the neighborhood, feeling strangely comfortable in it. Shawn and Mary Lee and I visited for a long time. He told of his endless search for parts, his efforts to restore it as close to the day that I bought it, the same year Mary Lee and I were married. 

That evening we drove to Blueberry Hill for dinner. Top down. Shawn was behind the wheel; I didn't want to risk hitting something. The 3 of us sat in front. You could do that in those old convertibles. Drove up and down Delmar afterwards, ala "American Graffiti." Then hamburgers for dinner. 


The evening ended too quickly, and Shawn decided he was going back to KC that same night. After taking Mary Lee home, I followed him to Loew's and helped him put the Olds back on the trailer. We shook hands, promised to stay in touch, and he said he'd bring her back when he had finished all he wanted to do. Then, for the second time in my life, I watched her roll away, into the night at the edge of the parking lot.


One reassuring thought stays with me. After 46 years, both my marriage and my Olds are still running. It doesn't get much better than that.

Is You Is or Is You Ain't?

I admit, I like non-alcohol beers occasionally. I like the taste, and I like not falling asleep shortly thereafter while watching TV. However, I noticed something rather unusual recently on an O'Doul's label. Not only unusual but contradictory. I think. O'Doul's label says "non-alcoholic." (see photo above) 

It also says, in smaller type, "contains less than 0.5% alcohol by volume." (see second photo above) Now that says to me it contains alcohol, it's just less than .5%. Does that mean if I drink 10 O'Doul's (or any of the other "non-alcohol" brews), I'll have drunk the equivalent of a "real" beer? There is probably a legal description or escape clause somewhere that helps legitimize this. Granted,  I don't fall asleep after having one or two. Another non-alcohol beer is high on my list of favorite brews: Buckler. It's made by Heineken. Talk about full, rich beer taste. I think it's what Joe Biden drank in that strange presidential beer blast last year.  Buckler, too, "contains less than 0.5 etc". Not a big deal, really. Just wondering if anyone has any insight into that category. 

Immortality on the Can

The bright blue can sits in front of me, next to my plate of BBQ ribs, slaw and 3-bean salad. The occasion is a group of friends who have gathered at our house for a last-minute pre-July 4th celebration. Which means eat and drink, with only verbal fireworks. 

I’m a black belt master of BBQ, which is evidenced by my rub, my sauce, and my backhanded basting technique. All I will tell you about the rub is that I use garlic powder, paprika, ground black pepper, chili powder, and a couple of secret ingredients from the lower shelves at Schnucks. My sauce is classified, right next to the government file on time-travel experiments.

But I digress.

I pick up the blue can with the red and blue letters and a picture of a glass of beer. Large beads of sweat trickle down the can. St. Louis humidity makes for an appetizing product shot. I read the label while someone at the table tells a story about being questioned by the FBI in some sort of real estate scam. The financial concepts are beyond me. So I stare at the can and four words capture my attention. Four simple words. Two separate thoughts. One immortal marketing campaign.

And my imagination takes off. 

Return with me now to those thrilling days of yesteryear. But don’t cue the thundering hoofbeats of the great horse Silver. This is a different yesteryear.

Once upon a time, in an office far away, a young copywriter - at least I picture him as young - and as a “him” - sat at his desk and pondered his assignment. Ideas were due the following day. Lines, themes, concepts. Anything that might sell the product.

In front of him, next to his note book and index cards and layout pad and felt tip pen, sat a can and a bottle of Miller Lite Beer.

The year was 1972. The agency was McCann-Erickson. And the category of “light beer” was an invisible blip on brewery radars. Guys drank real beer, like Bud and Schlitz and Pabst and Miller High Life. Light beer was for wusses and women.

The copywriter stared out the window at the fading day. The question nagged at him: How do you get real guys to drink light beer? Specifically, Lite Beer from Miller? Well, he thought, what if you had real guys with the beer? Like athletes. But pro athletes couldn’t appear in beer ads. So... maybe retired athletes. Famous guys connected with sports or some facet of masculinity. 

Add some conflict. The guys argue. About the product. About two differing points of view of what’s so good about Lite beer. Put ‘em in a bar. Maybe some chicks hanging around.

Yeah, that’s it. He feels the surge of breakthrough. He stands on the precipice of beer history. The view is glorious. He writes down four words on the layout pad. Four words in bold, black felt tip.

“Great taste. Less Filling.”

And a category is born.

At least that’s how I picture the birth of this great campaign.

I have but one wish for that copywriter. That he’s alive today, in good health, and surrounds himself with the comforts and joys the world has to offer, including a winter home on St. Bart’s, a summer home in Boulder, and a vintage 1972 Corvette in cherry condition. I hope he was paid well, had a sizable stake in profit sharing, and made a killing when the agency merged. And that he got out with his nerves and digestive system intact. 

Before I return to the ribs and slaw and get ready for the watermelon and peach cobbler, I have one more really deep thought. It’s this: Copywriters are the Shakespeares of our culture. They create the words that can live forever. Maybe not as lofty as the Bard’s, but certainly more pervasive. “Just do it.” “This Bud’s for you.” “Think small.” “Finger lickin’ good.” 

And “Great Taste. Less Filling.” Maybe those words will still be on the can a hundred years from now. And someone else will ponder the state of our culture. 

Travel Down This Road With Me

The lives of men can be measured by the cars they once owned. Every guy I know can tell you what kind of car they had in what year and where they lived and who they were dating. They even know the horsepower, the mileage, the cost of gasoline then, and what songs they listened to while cruising down the road. Cars don’t only take you somewhere in space. They travel in time.

A phone call I received a couple of days ago turned out to be a bridge to the past. Here's a bit of back-story to set the scene.

My first car was a brand-new 1956 Chevy Bel-Aire convertible. My dad bought it for me at Barford Chevrolet two years before I graduated college. This beauty was white with a black top, white sidewalls, automatic transmission, and an AM radio with buttons. It was - and still is - one of the sharpest looking cars to ever grace the road. At least in my eyes.

Since that first car, I had never been without a convertible. Until now. The Chevy was followed by a ‘60 Corvette, then a ‘65 Olds Jetstar, an ‘84 Dodge Dart - an embarrassment - and finally an ‘88 Mazda RX-7. All convertibles. I sold the RX-7 two years ago, which ended my mobile time in the sun.

Those old cars have the same power over me as old girlfriends and beloved dogs. A fleeting image, a scent, a setting, a song - wham, I am back in the past. Which is where I ended up when I got that call. A young man’s voice inquired, “Gerald Mandel?”

“Gerald?”, I thought. He must be making cold calls, reading my name from some purchased list of potential suckers. He’s going to try to sell me a weekend on Arkansas lakefront property, or season tickets to the Rep. “Yes,” I said, just seconds away from adding, “I don’t buy anything over the phone” and hanging up.

The voice continued. “Did you used to own a 1965 Olds Jetstar convertible?”

Whatever he was selling, I was ready to buy. “Yes, I did.” He couldn’t see the smile of wonder on my face. “Why?”

“I own it now, Gerald.”

“Gerry. Please.”

“Gerry. And I just wanted to talk about it.”

Which we did. For the next half hour. His name is Shawn. He lives outside Kansas City. He found the car through Craigslist, covered in dust in some guy’s barn. It didn’t run. Shawn bought it, towed it to his house, replaced the engine with a Delta-88 425 hp rebuilt job. The car now runs. Pretty well. He’s still working on it.

I, in turn, told him some of my Olds’ stories. How my daughter drove it in high school, called it her Bat Car. (It was dark blue). How I put our two Golden Retrievers, Chelsea and Abbey, in the back seat and went to Ted Drews almost weekly (“cholesterol” wasn’t in my vocabulary yet). How I had to add a can of some STP chemical to the gas tank when they stopped making leaded gas. How I got married in 1965, so the car and my marriage are both 46 years old. And still running. How I still feel the pain of separation when I think about the day I sold it to some guy from Illinois and watched him drive away. It was the last time I ever saw my Olds.

Until the day Shawn called. He emailed me some photos of the way it looks now. It’s gorgeous. I wish I still owned it. Great body, smooth lines, exquisite detail, no dents, bruises, rips or rust. Here’s the clincher. Shawn gets into St. Louis occasionally.

“I’d love to see it,” I said quickly.

“I’d love for you to see it,” he said, “and have you drive it. And get a picture. You and me. The first owner and the last. And the Olds.”

I’m ready to roll. I’ll even buy Shawn a large concrete at Ted Drews.

Now if only someone would call about that white '56 Chevy.

My son Gregg with the '65 Olds, circa 1983.

Same Olds, today, from new owner. 

A Sign From Above

High marks for a beautiful sunset on Sunday evening. Or maybe it's the latter day Scarlet Letter.

Better Than Good. And Even Best.

Mark Twain urged caution about choosing the right adjective. He said "A man's character may be learned from the adjectives which he habitually uses in conversation." If you listen to how people talk, you know what he means. The same can be said of how a writer writes: check out his adjectives. For me, that's one of the most difficult parts of writing (hardest? stressful? laborious?) And too many times I find myself drifting back toward the old stand-by's "good" and "great" and "fast" and "tall." All those vague and tired words. (Are "vague" and "tired" vague and tired? I don't know.)

So it was with relief that I came across, while enjoying a bowl of Shredded Wheat, some marvelous adjectives in a recent New Yorker magazine. "They sure have a way with adjectives," I thought. "I should share these." So, here they are. They were used in the magazine's capsule reviews of "Recitals." I don't know why I was looking in Recitals. I'm not interested in going to one. Most of them are painfully long. And I don't even have plans to go to New York. Shows you how Shredded Wheat can dull the mind.

First there was an "admired violinist" from Japan at Zankel Hall. I wonder who admired him.
Then there was "The superb Baroque ensemble" at Columbia University. I firmly believe that a Baroque ensemble must be "superb" at the minimum to hold an audience for more than six minutes.
Next was the "magisterial pianist"who has thrilled audiences for more than four decades. He's at Carnegie. Is he "magisterial" in the way he plays? Or maybe how he walks or how he dresses. In a cape, perhaps.
Their imagination began to wane here, because the next act was a "superb young British foursome" doing their thing at Alice Tully Hall. I assume "superb" is the minimum price of entry into these pages.
After that came "the renowned group"that performed music by 3 composers I've never heard of, also at Alice Tully Hall. Again, renowned where? New York? London? Zaire?
And finally we have "three distinguished keyboard colleagues" appearing with "the musical major-domo" of something or other. I'm not sure what a "major-domo" is, but it's got to be worth seeing.

You've got to admit, those are better choices of descriptors than "interesting" or "fine" or "really good," even surpassing "popular" and "cool." All you need is the right word to fire the public's interest. Again, to quote Twain: "The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between  lightning and a lightning bug." Ladies and gentlemen, choose your words.