If your house caught fire and you could only save one thing ...

If your house were to catch fire and, once your family and pets were safely outside, you realized you had time to go back inside and rescue only one item, what would you choose?

At ten,  I would have saved my Lionel electric trains. They were destroyed in my teens by a basement flood during a rainstorm.

At twenty, I would have gone back for whatever my mother asked me to get. My father had died six years earlier and our family’s emotional wounds were still raw. She would have probably instructed me to get his overcoat she kept hanging in the front closet. 

At thirty, I would have rescued my portfolio. I was a writer for a New York ad agency and advertising professionals were expected to keep leather albums of their best work to show future employers in order to continue their way up the ladder to jobs at bigger and better agencies. When I retired, I threw away every sample of every ad, brochure, video and direct mail piece I had ever written. What was the point of saving them? I’m not going to be applying for copywriting jobs anytime soon.

The year I turned forty, I ordered a BMW convertible, picked it up in Munich, and drove it through five countries – Germany, Austria, Italy, Switzerland and Lichtenstein -- before dropping it off to have it shipped home. I would have backed that baby out of the garage to safety. Six or seven years later, when the top was torn and the transmission was going, I sold it to a used car dealer.

At fifty, I would have run back inside for the disk of my company’s financial records I kept at home, just in case something unforeseen happened at the office. You couldn’t have convinced me anything was more important.

At sixty, I would have tried to remove the framed poster hanging above the sofa in our living room. It was produced around the turn of the last century by the Deles-Paul Chocolate Company, and features six kids happily being drenched in melted chocolate. Over the years, we have accumulated an extensive collection of vintage French posters -- mostly travel -- but that was the first and it's still my favorite. It was in terrible shape when we impulse-bought it at a Montreal flea market in the summer of 1983. A previous owner had used Magic Markers to retouch paint chips that had flaked off. It was torn, creased, stained and moldy. We spent $1,000, a lot of money in those days of early parenthood, to have it restored. The guy at the flea market had no idea what he was selling. We would have no trouble selling it for five figures.

I am 73 as I write this. If our house caught fire today and I could only take one thing, that decision would be remarkably easy -- a framed snapshot of our sons, ages six and three, standing on the deck of a cruise ship in the summer of 1989.

We had decided to take a short test cruise to determine if a longer cruise was the type of family vacation we might enjoy in the future. Our room had three beds – a double for us and bunk beds for the boys. While there were many kid-friendly activities in which they could have participated, from swimming in the pool to arts/crafts classes to watching movies in the theater, the boys spent almost every waking hour of that cruise climbing, jumping and playing on those stupid bunk beds while arguing, wailing and ultimately coming to blows over who got to sleep on the top one.

The ship’s newsletter advised that, for the captain’s dinner the last night, passengers were expected to dress up. Before we went to the dining room I rousted the boys from the bunk beds on which they were climbing and jumping in their nicest clothes. The six year-old, a redhead, was wearing a seersucker jacket with a clip-on bowtie. His three year old blond brother was in a sailor suit.  Before dinner, I took them  to the upper deck to pose for a picture.

“Hold hands,” I ordered. They refused. “C’mon guys, pretend you like each other,” I cajoled. Again they refused. “Hold hands, dammit,” I finally barked, “or we’re not going to Disney World when we get back to land.” They reluctantly clasped each others’ hands for one brief moment, and I snapped the shot that has been displayed on a shelf in our homes ever since. They look miserable but damn, they are adorable. If I could relive one specific moment of my 73 years, that would be it.

Funny but I worked hard all my life to buy nice things and when it comes down to it, the most valuable possession of all  -- the one thing worth more than the rest combined -- turns out to be a photo that probably cost a dime to print at Walgreen’s.

A conversation with America's oldest living frat boy

T.D.: Hello.

Caller: Thomas Dryden please.

T.D.: Speaking.

Caller: My name is Lonnie and I’m calling on behalf of Kennedy & McDonald Publishing. We’re in the process of collecting information for the 2013 edition of the Delta Beta Upsilon national fraternity directory which will list more than 300,000 members. This call is being monitored for quality assurance. Is that OK?

T.D.: That's fine. Glad to hear from you.

Caller: Thomas, I’m calling to update your information as it will be listed in the directory. Is now a good time?

T.D.: Sure.

Caller: I have your name as Thomas Joseph Dryden.

T.D.: I changed it.

Caller: To what?

T.D.: Thomas Jamal Dryden – that’s J-A-M-A-L.

Caller: You were initiated into the University of Missouri chapter in January 1971. Is that correct?

T.D.: I don’t know where they got that. It was wrong in the last directory.
I was initiated in 1919. And it wasn’t Missouri. It was Yale.

Caller: But …

T.D.: I’d just come home from France after the Great War.

Caller: But that would make you …

T.D.: The oldest living DBU. I was honored last year at their convention.

Caller: I see. I have here that your profession is advertising. I take it you’re retired.

T.D.: Not at all.

Caller: What is the name of your company?

T.D.: My son Ben, his wife, Heidi, and my other son Stuart.

Caller: I’m not sure I understand what…

T.D.: They’re upstairs sleeping now. I probably shouldn’t call them company, they’re family, but they’re visiting for the weekend.

Caller: I have your address as …

T.D.: 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, DC. I live with my granddaughter, her husband and their two daughters. Those girls are the light of my life, let me tell you.

Caller: And what’s the zip code?

T.D.: I’m not sure, you’ll have to look it up.

Caller: OK … your spouse is, I have her listed as Judith. Is that right?

T.D.: Not any more, we divorced and I’ve remarried.

Caller: What is your current spouse’s name?

T.D.: Gary. But don’t list that. DBU is very conservative. There are lots of Republicans in that outfit.

Caller:: Can I use this telephone number as your primary number?

T.D.: Yes.

Caller: And do you have an email address?

T.D.: What’s that?

Caller: You know – email.

T.D.: Never heard of it.

Caller: Thomas, the 2013 edition of the DBU directory will contain contact information on more than 300,000 brothers by chapter, occupation, and geographic location. I’d like to give you the opportunity to pre-order it for just $49.95 plus applicable sales tax.  If you provide your credit card information today it will arrive no later than November 15, 2013, with a purple and gold 100 percent cotton DBU t-shirt and a genuine leather binding.

T.D.: I don’t wear t-shirts.

Caller: There’s a less expensive package. For just $39.95 plus applicable sales tax I can send you …

T.D.: I don’t want it.  

Caller: OK then, thank you for your time.

T.D.: You’re welcome, call back any time.

Who says you can't take it with you?

I am a pack rat. Always have been.

My mother says I clung to the placenta in which I arrived for a week after my birth, and wailed like a banshee when the doctor finally pried it away from my tiny hands.

Six decades later nothing has changed. I still can’t bring myself to part with things on the off chance I might need and/or want them someday, even though I know my children will, after I’m gone, curse me for leaving them to wade through belongings they won’t understand why I kept.

“WTF is this?” one will ask, pulling a musty multi-page document, stapled between two sheets of faded red and green construction paper, out of a box.

“I dunno and I don’t care”, the other will respond, grabbing it and hurling into a garbage bag the December, 1960, issue of Tiger Tales, the mimeographed school newsletter from the Auxvasse Elementary/Jr. High/High School for which I was personally chosen that month by my teacher, Mrs. Scanlon, to report the Fourth Grade Class News, one of the first bylines I ever earned.

I sometimes wish I weren’t a pack rat, especially now that my wife and I are packing up the Connecticut house in which we’ve lived since 1991 – more than one-third of our lives. It has sold and, according to the contract, we’re supposed to leave it “broom clean” when the buyers take possession September 26.

Fat chance. Maybe by September 26, 2017, but no way we're going to be able to cull through all that stuff in a month. We’re simply going to have to move it all to Florida with us.

While it’s well known that pack rats generally marry neat-niks who toss things they won’t be needing within the next week into the trash, our marriage is an exception. My wife is a pack rat, too. It’s just that we’re pack rats about different things.

She’s a pack rat about clothes. For instance, she is moving 300 cashmere sweaters – all of which look exactly alike except for slight color variations – to Florida. I point out it is hardly ever sweater weather in Florida ­­– even in January – and that, if she wears a different sweater on each of the 30 cool evenings Florida gets in any given year, she can wear a unique one each time for a decade. She ignores me.

Just as I ignore her when she complains about all the photos and documents I insist on bringing with us. So far I have filled five 18 x 24 x 12 boxes with them and that’s just from the second story – I haven’t moved down to the first floor yet. Amazing when you consider we haven’t taken a picture that has been printed on photo paper this millennium.

Dozens (and dozens and dozens) of those photos, naturally, are framed and I’m packing the frames, too, but it’s not like they’ve been on display. They’ve been stashed at the bottom of closets and behind bookcase doors. Most were moved in 1991 from our first house here in Wilton, Conn., to which they had been moved in 1985 from our condo in Norwalk, Conn., to which they were moved in 1983 from our apartment in Manhattan to which they were moved in 1978 from our Chicago high-rise.

I can’t bring myself to throw away precious treasures like the framed photo of our first dog, a corgi-dachshund named Sybil (who went to that big boneyard in the sky 27 years ago), and me accepting a ribbon for Sybil’s second-place finish out of a field of 80 dogs at a Chicago obedience school. She would have won first had she not suddenly sat bolt upright through her 60-second “down-stay” command. I was so proud – every bit as proud as when I later watched one son cross the stage to accept his law degree and the other his Master’s.

I have no photos of those events, naturally, because they took place in the digital age.  

But Sybil’s framed graduation pic? I’d like to be buried with it. Along with all the thousands and thousands of other photos and documents I’ve saved, from a photo of me finding the fire engine the Easter Bunny left behind the propane tank in 1954 to an insurance policy I’m pretty sure expired in 1992 but want to keep just in case it didn’t.

Which means, I suppose, that my final resting place will be a landfill.

Because that’s the only place that will ever be able to accommodate me and all my stuff.

Losing it

I’m a loser.

Specifically, I’m one of those people who loses his keys, wallet, sunglasses, etc., regularly. As in three or four times a day. 

I never put them down in the same place. Consequently, when I need to go somewhere I have to enlist my wife’s assistance to find them. This pisses her off. She has never lost anything and, at any given moment, knows where every one of her possessions is, from the crown she won as Miss Teenage Quincy 1967 (on the far left top shelf of the guest room closet) to the gold sequined uniform she wore as a college baton twirler (in a box labeled “Golden Girl outfit” in the attic).

You’d think that after 37 years she would have accepted she married a loser and would be cheerful about helping me find whatever I’ve lost but she never is. Sometimes she’s downright nasty about it. That hurts my feelings because she knows it’s not my fault. It’s genetic. My entire family – mother, siblings, nieces, nephews, cousins and (this is Biblical) her own children – are losers, too. Our penchant for misplacing things is attributable to a flawed gene inherited from my great-great grandparents who, legend has it, lost their dining room table, milk cow and one of their children while driving a covered wagon from North Carolina to Missouri shortly after the Civil War. 

None of my blood relatives sees the need to devote brain cells to remembering inconsequential things like the location of keys because we a) know they’ll eventually turn up and b) tend to co-habit with people who love us despite our penchant for losing things and are adept at finding them for us. 

This time I may have driven my wife over the edge. We’re packing up our house, which has sold and is scheduled to close late next month. Before we put the house on the market we rented a storage unit to stash important possessions  – boxes of financial records, plastic crates filled with the boys’ Legos, the 400 or so vintage advertising posters I've acquired over the years and the two six-feet-tall plush Bart and Lisa Simpson dolls our youngest son won at a school carnival 20 years ago. The realtor irrationally claimed they made the basement look cluttered. 

The key to the storage unit was carefully placed on an electronic “fob” that remotely starts our SUV. The SUV came with two fobs but I lost one the week after we bought it and, ever since, my wife has insisted on keeping the remaining fob in her purse.

Friday morning I needed to back the SUV out of the garage to make room for the 30 or so bags of stuff we’re planning to take to Goodwill. I took the fob from my wife’s purse and backed the SUV into the driveway.

The fob hasn’t been seen since. We spent hours looking for it yesterday when we decided to go clean out the storage unit.

The search is extra complicated this time because nothing in the house is where it's supposed to be. There are half-filled packing boxes in every room, along with all those bags destined for Goodwill in the garage. We’ve turned the place upside-down and inside-out but the damned fob is gone. We thought it might have somehow wound up in one of the Goodwill bags. My wife suggested that, because the fob emits a beam that starts the car, I could simply load the bags one at a time into the passenger seat and push the “start “button. If the car started, it would be a sure thing the fob was in one of those bags. I did but … no signal.

So, there’s an SUV in the driveway we can’t start and a storage unit we can’t access. If we don’t find that fob soon the buyer of this house will be getting a nice (but undrivable) 2009 Infiniti SUV and we’ll be paying in perpetuity the $350 monthly rent on a storage unit we can’t open.

Here’s my theory as to what happened: We were at the storage unit Wednesday. Someone must have walked past it while our backs were turned. He or she saw those stuffed Simpsons dolls … coveted them ... followed us home … broke in to the house Friday night as we slept … stole the fob with key to the unit from the table in the front hall where I’m almost sure I placed it … and was then, when exiting the house, eaten by a bear, one of which was seen in town within the last few years. 

That’s the only possible explanation. My wife isn’t buying it but I think it makes perfect sense.

Don’t you?

A tale for our times, inspired by Lassie's old-time radio show

My wife and I always borrow from the library a book on CD for the 1,320 mile, 22-hour trek up or down I-95 between Florida and Connecticut, which we make several times a year. We just finished a drive today.

This time we didn’t borrow a book. We borrowed a 30-CD compilation entitled The 60 Greatest Old Time Radio Shows That Transitioned to TV -- shows like Father Knows Best, Jack Benny, Gunsmoke, Perry Mason, Our Miss Brooks and Dr. Kildaire. The series was narrated by Walter Cronkite.

It was fascinating to hear the radio versions of shows we grew up watching on TV which, in many cases, featured the same theme songs and same actors/actresses. Some of the actors who created the characters on radio didn’t make the transition to the boob tube for obvious reasons. Short, rotund actor William Conrad was the radio voice of Gunsmoke’s Matt Dillon. Lanky, square-jawed James Arness portrayed him on TV.

One of the old radio shows was an episode of Lassie, recorded in the 1940s. We listened to the entire 30-minute program and kept expecting an appearance by the Lassie we remembered – the one who later starred on TV and was so brilliant she probably, in her off-hours, solved algebra problems for fun and read Ulysses in Greek. But she never appeared as that Lassie.

At the end of the show we learned that radio Lassie had portrayed a mutt named Jumper, a role that required her to do nothing more than bark on cue. 

Here’s the plot of that particular episode, starring Lassie as Jumper.

A large, vicious cat has been seen all over town, and has wreaked havoc at a local warehouse whose owner has told the Humane Society warden he’ll pay a $25 reward to anyone who can catch her. The next day a poor boy, Freddie, and his beloved dog, Jumper, run across the cat, which is perched atop a baby carriage parked in a yard. The cat is about to attack the baby inside the carriage, whose mother is nowhere to be seen. Freddie tells Jumper to chase the cat away to protect the baby. Jumper does but, in the process, the carriage is knocked over and the cat escapes. The baby’s mother runs out of the house, snatches up the screaming infant, accuses Jumper of being dangerous and aggressive, and calls the Humane Society to take him away.

Freddie goes to the Humane Society and tells the warden what happened. The warden recognizes he is telling the truth but informs Freddie he can’t get his dog back unless he pays a $2 license fee which, of course, the boy doesn’t have. If Freddie doesn’t pay the fee within five days, Jumper will be given away. Freddie begs and pleads but the warden won’t budge. So, Freddie takes a series of odd jobs, including chopping wood, to earn the $2. When he shows up at the Humane Society he is a dime short, but the tender-hearted warden lends him ten cents.

The next day Freddie and Jumper again encounter the cat which, this time, isn’t just perched atop the carriage in the yard. He’s inside it, ravaging the baby whose mother, once again, is nowhere around. Freddie throws his coat over the cat, trapping it … pulls the cat off the baby … the mother rushes out and picks up the infant …  and Freddie informs her that he and Jumper saved her baby’s life. This time she knows he is being truthful.

The Humane Society comes and picks up the cat. Freddie earns the $25 reward, but gives the warden a dime of it because, honest boy that he is, he wants to pay back the 10 cents the warden lent him to save Jumper.

Here’s how the script would be written today.

Freddie and his dog, Jumper, encounter the cat atop a baby carriage. Freddie tells Jumper to chase the cat away while he calls 9-1-1 to report he found an unattended baby. When the police arrive, they take Jumper away for a) not being on a leash and b) being unlicensed. Social Services arrives to take away the baby from his/her mother who stupidly left him/her unattended in her yard.  The baby, in foster care, is forced to endure a series of painful shots on the off chance the cat, which might be rabid, drooled on him/her.

Freddie goes to the Humane Society to beg for Jumper. The warden informs him he needs a license for his dog and that, under any circumstances, Jumper is quarantined because he didn’t have his shots and, even if he weren’t rabid before, might be now that he has skirmished with the cat.

Freddie goes from door to door, begging for odd jobs to raise the two dollars needed to free Jumper from the pound (assuming, of course, he doesn’t turn rabid), but nobody will hire him because they don’t want to be accused of violating child labor laws and/or hiring non-union workers. Because Freddie can’t raise the money, Jumper is euthanized.  

Freddie’s little heart broken but, upon reflection, he comes to realize that all of this government regulation of his life is a good thing.

He grows up to become an ardent Democrat and goes on to attain a senior position within the Justice Department of the Obama administration which he holds until he reaches mandatory retirement age.

And that’s the way it is.

Dining with Tommy

My wife has been out of town for the last five days, visiting her mother.

We generally eat fairly well-balanced meals when we’re together – sandwiches for lunch, and some form of protein, a salad, and side dish for dinner. But when the cat’s away? Here’s what I've eaten. Every word, alas, is true.

Saturday

Breakfast: 4 cups of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee with 2% milk.

Lunch: None.

Dinner (at Sweet Tomatoes, a buffet restaurant that specializes in salads):  Plate of green salad with ranch dressing and croutons, plate of Zesty Tortellini deli salad, side dish of macaroni and cheese, bowl of chili, two slices of pizza.

Snack: Two bottles Michelob Ultra.

Sunday

Breakfast: Same as Saturday.

Lunch: Package of Stouffer’s Chipped Beef over two slices of wheat toast, topped with two slices of cheese and liberal amount of freshly ground pepper.

Dinner (at Kentucky Fried Chicken all-you-can-eat for $7.99 buffet): Two chicken breasts (original recipe), mashed potatoes, gravy, slaw, stewed tomatoes, three biscuits with honey butter. All my fellow diners would have described it this way: "Dos pechugas de pollo (receta original), puré de patatas, salsa de carne, repollo, tomates guisados​​, tres galletas con mantequilla de miel." 

Monday

Breakfast: Usual.

Lunch: Bowl of Cheerios with 2% milk, half package of Bob Evans’ Farms Mac & Cheese.

Dinner: Three bottles Michelob Ultra, cheeseburger, half a watermelon.

Tuesday

Breakfast: Usual except for milk in coffee (ran out after first cup).

Lunch: Half box of Anderson’s Pretzel Stix, remainder of Bob Evans Mac & Cheese.

Dinner: Large pepperoni pizza.

Wednesday

Breakfast: Usual. (Leftover pizza would have been good but there wasn't any.)

Lunch: Stouffer's Chipped Beef over toast with cheese.

Dinner: Cheeseburger (no bun), large container of Publix Macaroni & Cheese (meant to serve a family of four), bowl of fruit salad.

My wife comes home tomorrow. Hopefully I’ll still be around to pick her up at the airport.

Op Ed: We Weiners have feelings, too

Today's Op Ed is written by my dachshund, Bonnie, whose opinions are her own.

When John F. Kennedy visited Berlin in 1963, he stood in front of the wall dividing that beleaguered city and declared solidarity with its citizens by announcing, "Ich bin ein Berliner" – I am a Berliner. 

The crowd went wild.

What the press didn’t report is that the president of the United States had just told a million people, “I am a jelly doughnut.” (That’s what “Berliner” means in German. If he meant to say “a Berliner” as in “a citizen of Berlin,” he should have omitted the “ein.” But I digress.)

Well here’s my personal message for beleaguered New York mayoral candidate Anthony Weiner who, this past week, has been the butt of endless jokes because of his last name which just happens to be slang for the part of his anatomy he allegedly photographed and texted to several women.

My message is this: Anthony, I share your pain. I stand by you. Because Ich bin ein Weiner, too.

To be specific, I am a dachshund, a breed that has been called many hurtful names over the years.

We have been called "Stubborn."

We have been labeled as “Dumb” by so-called experts who rank us in the lower one-third of the 79 recognized breeds in terms of intelligence. (If I’m so dumb, how was I able to write this Op-Ed? Have you ever met a Labrador retriever or poodle half as articulate? Of course you haven't. Most are functionally illiterate.)

We have been called “Hot Dogs.”

We have been called “Sausages.” My own mother calls me a “Devious Sausage” whenever I trick my brother Billy Ray, who is also a dachshund and her favorite dog, out of his breakfast, as I do every morning. (Billy, I freely admit, would rank # 80 out of the 79 breeds if he were a breed unto himself. That’s probably why mom is so over-protective and takes his side in every dispute.)

But of all the many hurtful names we have been called, the one we dachshunds find most hateful is the name we share in common with Anthony – Weiner.

Please, please, please, I hope all you readers understand that we dachshunds cannot help the way we are shaped. Many centuries ago German farmers bred us to dig badgers out of the deep narrow burrows in which they hide. As a result, we have elongated bodies and short, stubby legs that inconsiderate people like to blurt out remind them of a product made by Oscar Mayer.

You cannot imagine how much it hurts to hear someone say, “Oh, look at that cute little Weiner."

If you are overweight, how would you feel if someone called you a “Lard-ass?” If you are underweight, how would you like to be referred to as a “Pretzel?”

See what I mean?

So, Anthony, on behalf of thousands of your fellow Weiners who have found ourselves the punchlines of cruel jokes that rob us of our dignity, I urge you to hold your head erect and, above all, not pull out.  

As Felix Frankfurter, my favorite Supreme Court justice, once wrote, “If one starts with the assumption that, in the absence of specific congressional authority, a fixed rule of law precludes contracting officers from providing in a government contract terms reasonably calculated to assure its performance even though there be no money loss through a particular default, there is no problem.” 

I don’t know what the hell he was saying but the fact that someone named Frankfurter made it to the Supreme Court is proof positive we Weiners can be anything we want to be … including mayor of New York.

Doing eBay, my way

I am a man obsessed.

My obsession? eBay. Specifically, selling posters on eBay.

For 30 years I’ve collected vintage posters. My specialty is airline posters -- mostly Air France -- and posters issued by Intourist, the Soviet Union’s travel bureau. Most are from the 1920s through 1950s. In addition to my core collection which I’d never sell, I have 300 other posters. Some are worth a lot. Some aren’t. I bought whatever caught my eye and now they're stashed all over the house, taking up storage space.

For years I've been promising my wife I'd sell most of them so two weeks ago, I took photos of five posters, re-activated the eBay account I hadn't used since the early 2000s, wrote descriptive copy and checked web sites of leading poster dealers to establish prices. Five minutes after I posted them on eBay, I had sold two posters for just over 25 percent of what I earned in a year at my first job out of college. That got my attention.

Now I’m obsessed. Almost every day I place three or four new posters on eBay… respond to questions from buyers … and make a run to FedEx to ship them.

The part of this job I am enjoying most is writing the descriptive copy. After a career of writing ads for corporate clients, I’m the client here. I can write whatever I please. And I do, writing to both inform and entertain any prospective bidders who might be out there.  

Thought you might enjoy seeing some of the posters I’ve put on eBay and my descriptions of each.

Lufthansa Airlines original travel poster

Remember when flight attendants – they were called stewardesses back then – had to be pretty and have pleasant personalities in order to get hired? Yeah, those were the days. Most flight attendants these days treat you like a virus. This 1950s poster for Lufthansa German Airlines takes you back to a bygone era. It features a pretty, anorexically slim stewardess who, based on her happy smile, is undoubtedly pleasant as she waves a ticket aloft. Check out the Connie (Constellation) aircraft in the background, along with the happy passengers representing the airline’s destinations across Europe. the USA and South America. Artist: Von Fohnseca. Linen backed and in great condition, this original poster measures 24 7/8" x 39 ¼." 

Moscow Soviet Intourist original poster

Street cars. Red flags flapping in the breeze. Lenin’s tomb. A river teeming with commerce. Stalinist-era high rises. Issued in the 1930s by Intourist, the Soviet Union’s bureau that was charged with attracting tourists to a country that was known as anything but a vacation destination, this vibrant poster invites Germans to visit Moscow – an invitation the German army accepted a few years later (though they certainly didn’t find it to be as welcoming as this poster suggests). There is a repaired tear, approximately 8” long, that runs from the A in MOSCAU to the top right margin, and all four corners have been repaired where the poster was once pinned or taped to the wall. Consider this poster a valuable piece of history that, like Communism itself, has certain flaws. Size: 27 3/8” x 40”. 

Try our Cleaning of Your School Clothes poster

Created to be displayed in a dry cleaning shop, this colorful, fashionable poster from the late forties features a mom and her two impeccably dressed progeny – a daughter in a straw hat and a son wearing a … yarmulke? The bizarrely phrased headline sounds like it was written by someone whose first language wasn’t English but that adds even more character to this strange but endearing poster. Linen-backed. 21 ¼ x 27 ¾. 

Spring is Gay original Greyhound poster

This 1959 poster has so much going for it that we hardly know where to begin but we’ll give it a go. It’s springtime. A couple in a park is strolling past a spurting fountain. Jonquils are in bloom and the trees have just budded. There’s a birdie that is probably chirping a Judy Garland tune. A rainbow – yep, a rainbow – arches above the happy couple. Our favorite part of this poster (other than the headline) is that – get this – they’ve taken a Greyhound bus to get there. There are paper tears along the left margin at the lower edge that won’t show when it’s matted. Size: 26” x 38.” Bid early. Bid often.

American Airlines “Arizona” original travel poster 

Perhaps you had to be a kid growing up in the 1950s, as we were, to fully appreciate this extraordinary and rarely-found poster created for American Airlines by noted illustrator Fred Ludekens. Back then, every other TV show was about cowboys. Kids lived, dreamed and breathed the Wild West. Every boy wanted to grow up to be a cowboy but knew, deep down, he was destined for something more mundane -- perhaps a career as an investment banker or as a member of Congress. American Airlines, when it commissioned this poster, had to know that every kid who saw it in the window of a travel agency would beg, plead and cajole his parents to take him to Arizona where he could play cowboy. But we digress. This extremely vibrant (notice the hot pink sky against the yellow background) poster features a Lockheed Electra flying high above it all. It’s impossible for a camera to fully capture the vividness and vibrancy of the colors. Wouldn’t this look great hanging in the living room of your southwestern-style home, or in the bedroom of your own little cowpoke? The condition is absolutely perfect, and this original poster is linen-mounted to make sure it remains that way for generations to come. Size: 30” x 40.”

Fly BOAC to the Rhodesias

BOAC (British Overseas Air Corporation) debuted the world’s first passenger jet, the DeHavilland Comet, in 1951. It entered service between London and Britain’s African colonies, which included Northern and Southern Rhodesia (today’s Zambia and Zimbabwe). Unfortunately for BOAC, not to mention its passengers, the Comet had a tendency to break up during flight. After three such break-ups, BOAC grounded its fleet. The magnificent, vibrant poster features a springbok, blissfully unaware that a Comet is flying overhead. Don’t miss this opportunity to own a piece of aviation history. (Or, as the case may be, infamy). Linen backed, this original poster is in perfect condition. Size:19 3/4" x 29 3/4". 

1984 Sarajevo Winter Olympics original poster

There are many things we don’t understand. We don’t understand, for example, why bad things happen to good people. Why folks find Adam Sandler movies to be hilarious. Or why anyone would willingly eat Brussels sprouts. Nor do we understand this poster, created for the 1984 Sarajevo Games by pop artist Jim Rosenquist. We’ve done our research and poster dealers and art galleries around the world are offering it for what we consider to be a goodly amount of money. If you understand it, this poster can and should be yours but you have to promise you’ll explain it to us if you are the successful bidder. Size: 24 3/8” x 33 ½.” 

Stache or no stache? The people have spoken. And the winner is ...

A week ago I asked readers to cast the most important vote of their lifetimes: Should I grow back the mustache I’ve worn since the Nixon administration that I had impulsively shaved off the day before? Or should my upper lip remain hair-free? 

Before (with ‘stache) and after (no ‘stache) photos were posted to guide your decisions.

One hundred and twenty eight votes were received by a combination of Facebook responses, comments left at the bottom of the blog, and email.

There was some Chicago-style ballot box stuffing. Approximately 20 “no stache” votes came from one friend who is adamant I remain clean-shaven. If she feels that strongly about it, I’ll let her votes count.

Son Stuart posted a plea on his Facebook wall: “My dad is trying to abolish his mustache forever. It’s vital that it never goes away. Please vote 'keep mustache' at the bottom of his blog." A number of “anonymous” votes were left on the blog and I assume those came from his friends. I’ll let those votes stand, too.

Though I had asked for a simple up or down vote – ‘stache or no ‘stache – few voters could resist adding comments.

My mother voted that I keep the 'stache, saying she has grown used to it.

A former co-worker pointed out that, “With it (the ‘stache) you have the look of authority and decisiveness. Without it you're just another wimp.” (Thanks so much for that confidence-inducer.)

My cousin Jim, who also voted ‘stache, pointed out that, in the end, it really doesn’t matter because I look old either way.

Some didn’t vote one way or the other, but said I should do whatever my wife wants. She wants a new Jaguar so I’ll disregard that.

One reader pointed out something I’ve been hearing for years – that with the ‘stache I look just like Wayne Carini, host of a TV show called Chasing Classic Cars. That’s him at the top of this post. He looks more like me than I do.

I’m sure you must be beside yourself with suspense so I won’t make you wait any longer. The winner, by a vote of 70 to 58 (and that’s counting the 20 or so “no stache” votes from one person) is … grow the ‘stache back.

The people have spoken. 

My hairless upper lip has called my mustache to concede and wish it well.

A once-in-a-lifetime week

What a week this has been!

Monday: I spent hours comparing makes and models online … much of the previous week negotiating on the phone and in person with various dealers … and now that it has arrived and is sitting there in our garage where the old one sat, I know I made the right decision.

Our new hot water heater is a 50-gallon Rheem. It’s grey. There is a 10-year warranty on the tank itself and the plumber threw in a one-year service contract. The plumber, who had (and, I would have to imagine, still has) red hair, set the thermostat to 125 degrees, which he says is the standard setting. He said our old one was set to 125 but was probably only heating the water to 110. He took the old tank away. I don’t know what he will do with it. It’s not like it’s repairable. It was rusted out at the bottom.

Tuesday: I went to Publix to buy watermelon balls in a plastic container. I like to eat them while watching TV at night. (The watermelon balls, not the plastic containers.) Publix was running a “Buy One, Get One Free” special on watermelon balls, which enabled me to pick up two containers for $3.24. That was the price of the most expensive container. The other container was $3.21, but the cashier explained customers are required to pay the higher price when produce items that don’t weigh the same amount are offered as BOGOs.

Wednesday: None of the three contestants, including the six-time champion who had amassed over $130,000 in winnings, got it right but I knew the Final Jeopardy question -- What is the Tour de France? Alex Trebeck pronounced it “Frawnz” like “prawns” but with a “z” at the end. He is Canadian, you know.

Thursday: At 9 a.m. sharp I took my seat next to the president of the Board of Directors of the community association that governs the Florida development where we live. Every neighborhood within the development has one representative on the board. Members are seated in alphabetical order, depending on the first letter of the neighborhood they live in. My neighborhood, Addison, comes first alphabetically so I got to sit by the big guy himself. It was my first and probably last board meeting. I’m not Addison’s regular rep; I was asked to fill in for a neighbor who is on vacation. The president reported the road-repaving project is on time and on budget. I proudly raised my hand to vote for the purchase of five new treadmills for the fitness center and four sailboats for the marina. I took advantage of the free sailing lessons the marina offers earlier this summer but dropped out before I could become certified because I fell off the boat and cut my foot on an oyster bed. Both motions passed unanimously. There being no other business, the meeting was adjourned at 9:14.

En route home, I detoured by the new Danish bakery that has opened in a strip mall outside the front gate. The bakery sells Danish but that’s not why it’s called a Danish bakery. The reason it’s called a Danish bakery is that the owners are from Denmark. Actually, they are from Wisconsin but they are descended from Danish immigrants. I bought two doughnuts that were still warm and ate one in the parking lot. I ate the one I had bought for my wife on the drive home. I did not tell her I had eaten her doughnut and she was none the wiser because I hadn’t told her I was going to buy her one in the first place.

Friday: I logged onto eBay and was thrilled to learn I had received positive feedback from a guy in Germany who bought two vintage travel posters from me. I have more than 300 and am selling some of them because I’m running out of storage space. He raved (and I quote), “Excellent seller *** Great communications *** Would buy again!”

With such an active week behind me, I am looking forward to a relaxing weekend.

Hope you are, too.

Mustache or no mustache? You vote. You decide.

Stache?

Or no stache?

At a business lunch last year I overhead a client seated two chairs over refer to me as a “Q-Tip."

“What did you call me?" I asked, ready to pounce.

“A Q-Tip. You know – a tall thin old guy with white hair,” she replied, looking embarrassed. She probably assumed anyone my age wouldn’t have been able to hear her.

I suppose I could have thanked her for saying I'm thin. But I didn't.

When I look in the mirror, I don't see white hair. I see brown hair. That's the hair color I listed on my driver's license application. The clerk crossed that out and changed it to "white." Fine. If the state of Florida insists the hair on the top of my head is white I'll go along with that.

But it had never occurred to me until Friday night that my mustache is even whiter and, in combination with the cotton top, may be making me look older than my 52 years. (Okay, my 55 years. Would you believe my 58 years?  I know what you're thinking. I can hardly believe it myself.)

I've had that 'stache since college. It's my trademark. Every 10 years or so I shave it off but my wife and kids always make fun of the way I look without it – they claim the real estate between my upper lip and nose is weird and, truth be told, it sort of is – so I immediately grow it back.

Back to Friday night. We were at a restaurant with friends. One of them asked a stranger to take a picture of our group. (When you’re our age, it's important to ask strangers to take photos so the next day you’ll be able to remember where you were and who you were with.) Looking at that photo was an aha moment. I was shocked to see how white my mustache is and that I have become a dead ringer for my grandfather.

And so Saturday, for the first time this millennium, I shaved it off. Before I did, I asked my wife to take a pic of me with the 'stache. And when I finished, she took one of me without it. (See above.)

She says she can't decide whether I look better with or without the 'stache. I can't either. Perhaps I look younger without it but "younger" doesn't necessarily translate to "better" when you've got a weird upper lip. So I'm going to leave it up to you, my faithful readers. You can use the “Comments" function immediately below to register your vote, send an email to tom.dryden@gmail.com or leave a message on my Facebook wall. Simply write "Stache" or "No Stache." I will abide by your collective decision. You have one week to vote. Majority rules apply.

Thank Q.