Velva Sheen Days

On weekends, or when I return from work at night, one of my favorite forms of around-the-house attire is a set of comfortable sweats.  Sweat pants, a sweat shirt....ratty, over sized, cotton or acrylic--it really doesn't matter.  Fashion is not my concern and comfort is king with me when I am able to lounge around the house.
Over the recent holidays, I spent a lot of time in sweats.  Beer in hand, football on TV and dog at my side, comfy sweats rounded out the picture.  Unfortunately, I had to send off a 20-plus year old set of sweat pants to garbage-land when the drawstring broke.   And then it hit me...it has been so long since I actually purchased sweats, I wasn't exactly sure where to find a replacement!  Oh sure, I could go the the "brand name" stores and find what I wanted for a hefty price but, and here's the rub, I am used to finding my around-the-house wardrobe C-H-E-A-P.
The root of this habit can be traced back to my childhood where much of my clothing came from the Velva Sheen outlet store on Glenmore Avenue, below the K-of-C Hall, in Cheviot.  Velva Sheen, if you are unaware, was a Cincinnati-based purveyor of printed T-shirts, sweats and other garb.  Whenever they goofed up, the product ended up at the outlet store in Cheviot, where clothing was sold at a fraction of its normal cost.  Not to make fun of my thrifty mom, but it made great play clothing even though the regular mis-spellings messed with my school work when it came to the spelling of "Xaveir", "Stanfrod" and "Cincinatti."   Sometimes it wasn't the spelling that sent the clothing article to outlet banishment, sometimes it was a stray thread, or a silk-screen that was too light, or arms that were too long or too short.  Whatever the flaw, a good deal is a good deal and Velva Sheen was one of my first learned words (by the way, you could tell an outlet sale item because they'd clip a "V" out of the tag so you couldn't return it!)
Inspired by these fond memories, I wondered whatever happened to Velva Sheen, so I did a little investigating and found out that the company was founded in 1936 by a guy named Oscar Schroeder and really developed and expanded by brothers Bob and William Reilly.  They eventually grew into a national company and a pioneer in securing licensing agreements from major companies for popular characters, images and slogans.  The brothers sold the company in in 1994 to Brazos, who went out of business by 1999.  Curiously, the label and name were resurrected by a California company in 2009 and apparently exists today in a line of retro clothing.   Good for them.
I'm still pretty tight with a buck and found a local clothier who carries second run sweats, so I'm good for another 20-years.   But I kinda miss Velva Sheen and the days when I proudly wore T-shirts proclaiming my devoting to the "Univresity of West Verginai."

Tall Stacks 201?

Recently, the powers that be decided to postpone the next Tall Stacks celebration to, possibly, 2014.  For those not in the "Cincinnati know," Tall Stacks is the bi-annual or quad(?)-annual Ohio River history celebration featuring "authentic" steamboats, people in period clothing and lots of commemorative souvenirs. 
Being a history geek, I like Tall Stacks--don't get me wrong--and have attended, in some form or fashion, every edition since the very first event in 1988.  Ah, 1988!  I remember it well!  By far the best Tall Stacks, 1988 was focused mostly on the boats and less on the schleck.  In addition to the Delta Queen and Belle of Louisville, there were boats from from New Orleans, Pittsburgh and the upper Mississippi.  The star of the show, in my mind, was The President--a huge, lumbering excursion boat based in St. Louis.  The President was built in 1925 and was the sister ship to Cincinnati's beloved Island Queen, which ran to and from Coney Island until she blew up in 1947.  The President had undergone some poor updates over the years, but one trip across its huge dance floor and a young geek like me, born nearly two decades after the Island Queen, could get as close as possible to the experience of my parents.   It was an absolute thrill!
Which leads me to another great thing about 1988--visitors would buy a "passport" that would actually get them onto the boats for guided tours.  Sure some people just had their passport booklets stamped with the insignia of each boat for a collector's item, but I was there every day waiting in line to tour each and every boat.  I had been on the Delta Queen before, so I focused my efforts toward getting on the other boats, such as The President, et. al.  I remember the tour on the Belle of Louisville, built in 1914 and the oldest boat there, gave us visitors unbelievable access to the pilot house and the engine room.  That tour alone was worth every penny of the passport program.  I chatted with the captain.  I played a note on the calliope.  I snapped all the photos I could.
Alas, I suspect too many people joined me on the tours because they were eliminated from the next and all subsequent Tall Stacks.  Maybe some of the guests were unruly or they tampered with the fragile boats, ruining it for everyone else. Too bad.  I can't afford to buy an actual dinner cruise on each boat.
Which brings me to the "next" Tall Stacks--originally slated for 2009, then 2012, then 2013 and now 2014.  Organizers are having trouble raising money and, sadly, I suspect why.  Times have changed and people just aren't as interested in coming down to see boats from the river bank haul other people out on cruises while they are forced to stand and watch.  To improve safety, the boats departures are staggered, meaning rare is the time when they are all tied up on shore, killing any chance for a decent photo-op.

The biggest change, for me anyway, is who will NOT be there next time.  The President, sadly, was carved up into little pieces and hauled to a lake in the interior of Illinois sometime in the 1990s.  Some guy plans to sew her back together and float her on a lake there but that will never happen.  Vandals have stolen most of the copper and brass pieces and the other chunks are rusting away in a field.   Of course, that's still a better fate than the Mississippi Queen (built in 1976,) which was tied up to a dock in New Orleans after her parent company went bankrupt only to be overrun with mold and mildew.  The only recourse was to entirely scrap her.  The Mississippi Queen no longer exists (the above photo was taken as she was towed to the scrapyard).   And then there's my personal favorite--the Delta Queen.  So sad.  The Queen is tied up in Chattanooga and will never sail again.  The Safety at Seas Law made sure of that.  Even if she could get a new round of exemptions (the law was made for ocean going vessels but frankly, what did her in was being a non-union boat during a Democratic administration, but I digress), she needs a new boiler, which is located deep in her hull.  She have to be taken apart, literally, just to replace the old boiler and that would be too expensive.   Frankly, I'm just not as keenly interested in the "newer" boats--you know the ones...built for excursions and powered by hidden diesel engines so its speed doesn't match the rotating, fake paddle wheel.  They're cute the same way fake kit cars are cute, but they can't replace an original.
So bring back Tall Stacks, I'll probably come down to take a look, but it won't be the same.  I even promise to spend a 20-spot on a souvenir mug or shirt or something.  Still, let this be a lesson.  Rather than try to recapture the magic of Tall Stacks V. 1 (or World Choir Games V. 1), it might be better to just remember how lucky you were to capture lightning in a bottle the first time and come up with an idea that's entirely new and untried and original.

My curious bank

Recently my banking establishment, which shall remain nameless, introduced an advertising campaign proclaiming that it is a "curious bank."  That's curious to me.
First of all, I am very happy with my bank and have no intent to switch...they are convenient and pleasant and, when I was 20, gave me my first car loan when a now-defunct bank named "Provident" wouldn't.  I'm a loyal customer.  But I have to scratch my head sometimes about my "curious" bank!
It began several years ago, when this bank started closing their traditional, Indiana-limestone, pillared, "bank-looking" banks in favor of banks that look more like "houses."  Frankly, I like old-style banks (see St. Bernard) with tall ceilings, brass teller windows, marble floors, mahogany desks and an air of quiet mustiness.  I like a big, thick bank vault door with lots of brass.  I want my money, what little I have, to be safe and secure and happy.  If I want someone else to keep my money in a "house," I might as well keep it in my own house.  There's nothing intimidating about a "house."  I want intimidating and impenetrable. 
Another vent, (and I've been saving these up by the way) a few years ago my curious bank decided to switch its colors and logo from "red, black and white" to "blue and green" because, apparently, some consultant felt that blue and green are "softer" and "friendlier."  Consultants, by the way, are largely fools and are the bane of not only the banking industry but also radio and television, but I digress.  In addition to laughing at the supposed pent up demand of those potential customers wanting a soft and friendly bank, I balked loudly at the expense of changing every sign, replacing every ATM machine, substituting every ATM card, etc, etc., because of the previously mentioned "consultant" who thought it was a good idea.  Red, to me, means "STOP!"  As in, if you're thinking about robbing this bank, you'd better STOP and go somewhere else, you criminal creep!
Consultants do that, of course.  They are paid to make changes, no matter how poorly thought out.  If they fail to make a change, they are not paid, so consultants are anti-status quo.  Ranking only slightly ahead of lawyers and insurance companies, consultants have an inane talent toward reckless decisions and unnecessary expenses because they are great salespeople.  They "sell" themselves as being some sort of authority on some subject, even though they might have never had much real-life or work experience themselves. 
Which brings be back to my "curious" bank.  Somewhere is a young 23-year old from XYZ Ad Agency, wearing an ill-fitting suit and requiring someone to help him tie his tie, who made a presentation in a dark-paneled boardroom about how a major banking company should buy into his idea about being a "curious" bank.  He was paid handsomely for his young wisdom by several senior 27-year old executives, who mainly acquired their positions because they attained an MBA degree and, thanks to attrition, some 62-year old retired, opening their executive position.  But, ah youth!  Think a little harder, my young friend!   Follow me, here...When I think of someone who is "curious," I think of someone who is "uncertain"...who is "learning" and who would like to "experiment" with my savings.  As in, "hmmm, I wonder what would happen if I invested our profits in mocha frappe futures?"  I don't want "cute inquisitiveness" in my bank...for my kitten maybe, my black lab, yes, but not my bank.  I want a slogan like, "we want your money and we promise to lock it away and keep it very, very safe in our vault-like, solid bank, made of thick Indiana limestone and sporting very sturdy brass teller cages so you'll know that your money is safe and secure with us and will be there when you need it!" 
And I want it painted red and white and black in bold, unfriendly letters.   30.

Casey at the Bat

The local AM sports station is trying its best to create a buzz about the possibility of Reds Hall of Famer Sean Casey lacing up the cleats and returning for an on-field encore while Joey Votto recovers from knee surgery.  Casey, who is 38 and retired two years ago, has been pretty adamant about the rumors being false but hasn't completely denied it.  I, for one, think there's no way he could get back in playing shape in time to help the team.  Votto will be back, hopefully, the first full week of August.  But it is an interesting idea and very reminiscent of 1940, when catcher Willard Hershberger shocked everyone by committing suicide.  The Reds, en route to their first World Championship in 21 years, had been relying on Hershberger after Ernie Lombardi went down with an injury.  Hershberger suffered from depression and blamed himself for two Reds losses to non-contending teams and took his life in a hotel room before a game.  Needing a catcher in an emergency situation--in the heart of a pennant chase--retired catcher and then current coach Jimmy Wilson volunteered to play.  Wilson enjoyed a solid career and kept himself in pretty decent shape but at age 40, clearly he would have difficulty with the daily routine of baseball's most physically challenging position.  But Wilson did it anyway and, lo and behold, did well.  Lombardi returned and finished most of the regular season but in the World Series, against the Tigers, the Schnoz injured his ankle and Wilson was pressed into service on the biggest stage of his life.  The result?   Jimmy hit .353 and had a key RBI in one of the games.  I guess old guys aren't necessarily useless after all.
Incidentally, Sean Casey was a part of one of the most bizarre Cincinnati Reds' Hall of Fame inductions recently.  Bizarre and certainly awkward.  Three first basemen were inducted:  Casey, 1970s Big Reds Machine player Dan Driessen, and 19th Century player John Reilly.  Reilly wasn't there for his induction because...well...he died 70-years ago and Casey was all over the local media in the days leading up to the induction being interviewed by anyone with a microphone or camera.  Casey's great, by the way, and has a certain charm and humility and freshness lacking in other players.  And then there was Driessen. 
There's an old saying that you never want to be the guy that follows "the guy."  Bob Braun had trouble taking over for Ruth Lyons, Steve Stewart couldn't quite keep Joe Nuxhall's fans happy and does anyone remember Al Schottelkotte's replacement, Pat Minarcin?  So when "the Big Doggie," Tony Perez, was unceremoniously traded by the Reds in 1977, Driessen, who had been Perez's understudy since 1973, suddenly found himself trying to fill some very big shoes.  Driessen went on to have a nice little career; anchoring first base, hitting home runs and stealing a lot of bases well into the 1980s, but to many, he only reminded fans that he was not "the Big Doggie."  So Driessen kept his distance from Cincinnati over the ensuing years.  And during the recent HOF induction I saw only one interview with him and he said he was honored but a little surprised.  He admitting never attending any Big Red Machine reunion events and, frankly, didn't give Cincinnati much thought over the years.  He appreciated the award but, clearly, given Casey's dominance in the media that week, it was awkward for Danny and his fans.  And Danny does have fans--I remember a childhood friend--also named Danny--who thought the world of Driessen.  But I can't stop thinking that somewhere Driessen is sitting in his office admiring his plaque and asking "what just happened?"  I get the feeling that the Reds have reached the point where they're starting to struggle a bit coming up with Hall of Famers.  Bill Plummer and Ed Armbruster may soon be getting a call.  Go Reds!  Joey, get well soon!  By the way, in 8th grade, I briefly played first base and feel, with a little bit of work, can probably get into "playing shape" if you need me.  Although, now that Jamie Moyer's gone, I'd be the oldest person in the league.

Rock Star

Having grown up in the rock-and-roll era of the 70s and 80s, I have a particular fondness for certain rock artists.  I enjoy all forms of music, mind you, but growing up rock was everywhere.  I also feel that the era has largely ended and that modern music is not "rock." But I digress. 
Growing up in the "rock era" it was not difficult to perceive a degree of outward disgust from those interested in, what has been termed, "fine arts" music.  The classical folks certainly distanced themselves from the rock folks.  In fact, I've detected a general snootiness regarding anything related to "that" generation.
So I find it very, very funny when the "fine arts" crowd apply Rock Star status to anyone or anything even remotely associated with popular culture.  Pianst Lang Lang, who recently appeared with the Cincinnati Symphony Orchestra (I was there), has been dubbed the "rock star" of classical music!  My music appreciation teacher in school told me Mozart was the "rock star" of his era.  Recently protesters appeared at the Cincinnati Art Museum lamenting the departure of curator Benedict Leca, the "rock star" of the art world. Do a google search...Iestyn Davies is apparently the "rock star" of opera, Dr. Eric Topol is the "rock star" of science and there are "rock stars" of politics, economics and ballet.  Heck, Bo Xilai has even been dubbed the "rock star" of Chinese politics!   The only thing we don't seem to have anymore are rock stars of (real) rock music!
And what did they call people before we had rock-and-roll music?  Was Ernest Hemmingway the "jazz star" of his age?  Or maybe F. Scott Fitzgerald was the "vaudeville star" or the "impressionist star"...   And what will they call the popular culture celebrities 50-years from now?  One can only wonder.

Keep on Throwin' Heat, Jamie Moyer

One of the strange yet typical mid-life moments is the realization that your favorite sports team isn't going to call you up to the big leagues.  This happens as you become older than everyone playing in the sport.  In fact, you realize you've become older than everyone coaching the sport (for example, the D1 head coaches at all the local universities are all younger than I am.)  In the pro ranks, such an event, for me, occurred many, many years ago in basketball, football and hockey where sports' careers usually end before 30.  (Thank goodness for golf, by the way, where occasionally a Freddie Couples or Tom Watson leads a major in the third round--even if they run out of gas and end up losing in the final round, but I digress....)  In baseball, however, my new favorite player is Jamie Moyer.  I started following baseball's oldest player a couple of years ago when, pitching for the Phillies, he was even then the last remaining player older than I.  Moyer messed up his elbow and sat out the entire season last year but promised to try and make a comeback.  I kinda had my doubts about such a bold statement, but I nonetheless cheered him on.  Sure enough, the 49-year old Moyer showed up at Colorado's spring training and ended up cracking the starting rotation.  I should point out that when Jamie entered the big leagues in 1987, the Rockies didn't even exist.  Anyway, Moyer started the season with a couple of losses, but earlier this week he beat the San Diego Padres fair and square and broke an 82-year old record by becoming the oldest modern era pitcher, at 49-years and 150-days, to win a game.  Although his fastball rarely tops 78 mph, he gives us old pharts hope that maybe there still a chance, still a call in our future by some team who is desperate for a light hitting first baseman with a bad back...  Anyway, by all accounts, Jamie is a nice guy, too, and gives freely of his time towards a charity he and his wife oversee.
Meanwhile, if perchance I meet him on the street, I might even ask for his autograph someday...that's because he still fits in my own personal autograph rule:  "I will not ask someone younger than me for their autograph."  Obviously, I'm quickly running out of potential signees (however, there is an asterisk for "superstars"...if Tiger is standing next to me at the Piggly-Wiggly in Boca Raton, I reserve the right to make an exception to the rule!)
So three cheers and a tube of Ben-Gay for Jamie Moyer!  Keep on mixing up those pitches as long as you are able.  And to baseball GM's, if you're looking for someone to suit up to be the "second oldest guy in baseball," I look pretty decent in a uniform--of course, you'll need to get past the whole "belly thing."  

So long, Cal!

Even his first name was cool.  Cal Higgs died the other day.  Cal was 96.  I hadn't seen him for awhile and was wondering if he was okay.  Cal lived at Maple Knoll, home of our radio station, and would occasionally take a wheeled "stroll" on his maroon/red scooter with a headlight.  He wasn't one to chat very long and came off as a little gruff, but I think he welcomed those times when I spied him tooling down the hallway outside the station and I'd come out to visit a spell.
Most of us know a few Cals--people who have lived incredible lives or had incredible talents that otherwise would go unnoticed.   That was Cal.  On first glance, he was a gentle, bear-sized fellow with bulldog jowls.  It wasn't until I really got to know him that I was truly amazed about Cal.
In 2007, I decided to commemorate the 60th anniversary of the demise of the Island Queen steamboat.  I learned about a fellow named Cal Higgs who was there when the boat blew up lived upstairs.  Cal was the bass played for the Clyde Trask Orchestra, the boat's house band.  Armed with a recorder, mic, and script, I happily trudged upstairs.  Cal, of course, gave a great interview despite a quivering voice.  He was a little reluctant at first to be interviewed, as many older people are, but gradually relaxed.  By the end, I think he wanted me to stay awhile, recorder turned off, to chat--so I did.
Cal's apartment was lined with fantastic paintings.  Almost everyone an oil, they ranged in size from post card to the kind one sees over a couch.  Not too fond of "modern" art, I loved these paintings because they were very, very realistic.  In fact, some where so "real," it took a close examination to note that they were indeed paintings and not photographs.   The paintings were largely set around Cincinnati;  Hyde Park Square during the day, Over the Rhine circa 1950, the Cincinnati fountain at night.  They were magnificent.  I'm sure you have guessed by now that Cal painted each and every one.  After service in the war, Cal came back to school and in addition to his musical interests, he refined his longstanding love of painting.  The private gallery of Cal's art wasn't seen by many people--perhaps his housekeeper or maintenance man.  He routinely declined to participate in Maple Knoll's occasional resident and professional art shows.  None of the paintings was for sale.  With no children, I wondered what would happen to them someday.
By the time I got to know Cal, he had Parkinsons and his hands shook uncontrollably.  I thought of what a cruel trick for a man with such talent.  His paints and easel stood at the ready in a corner of his living room but he admitted he hadn't picked up a brush "in many years" and, indeed, his oils were probably all dry.
As someone who always wanted to learn oils, I blurted out that maybe he could give me lessons.  I could come up once or twice a week for an hour and I'd even pay him something.  He thought about that and said he'd "let me know."  It never came to pass and, to be honest, I'm sure such an arrangement would have violated some workplace employee/resident rule.  But it seemed like such a waste to let this talent go untapped.
The last time I ran into Cal was about a year ago.  There was an exhibit in the hallways from the Cincinnati Art Club and I could see Cal giving his careful scrutiny of each work.  "Your paintings are better than these," I offered.  "I think you're right," he not-so-modestly-but-honestly replied.  We never crossed paths again. 
I hope Cal is sitting on some heavenly street scape with his canvas, palette and some fresh oils.  His hands and arms are strong and fleet and precise and he is creating another masterpiece.  So long, Cal...I wish I could have know you better.