Tuesday, March 06, 2012
It's 1929, and everything's Jake. So far.
It's Oct. 16, 1929, in Omaha, Nebr.
The seniors of Benson High School -- some of whom, no doubt, are taking accordion lessons from Hospe's for popularity, pleasure or profit -- would be 100 years old in 2012 . . . if they live an exceedingly fortunate and long life. They're not worried about that right now, not here in the Jazz Age.
They're more concerned about finding a snappy dance band playing somewhere in town come Saturday night. Or perhaps they'll just tune in one on a new Atwater Kent or Freed radio, which I understand are the bee's knees.
The cat's meow. The gnat's whistle.
You can get a new one over at C.O. Hurd's -- that is, if you've got the voot and you haven't spent it all on some dumb Dora.
LET'S JUST HOPE your pop hasn't put every last clam in the stock market. In exactly two weeks, it's gonna crash.
Trust me on this.
Tell him to cash out and buy a new Atwater Kent. And tell him to take real good care of it, keep it well polished, don't sit potted plants on it . . . and then, when he buys a new radio when the Depression eases up in a decade or so, tell him to pack it up very carefully, keep it in a fairly cool, dry place and leave a note for an ancestor to ring me up in 80 years or so.
The Depression? Don't worry about it; I'll explain it to you in a couple of weeks.
Listen, old man, I know my onions. Where I'm from is a lot like this -- except that you're entitled to nookie and folks get in a lather if you say a lot of bushwa about quiffs on the radio.