There was an election in Greenbelt, MD in 1977. Citizens were voting for the City Council; all incumbents. It took only 50 signatures on a petition to challenge them, and I had some free time, so I became the only fool who took on the group. I say fool now, but at the time the aura of being an elected official clouded my thinking. Fool sounded like Hero, and Election sounded like Easy. Little did I know there was more to this than gathering signatures.The names were easy. I worked from 3:00 – Midnight at the University of Maryland. Getting up in the morning and traipsing around the town checking penmanship was not such a task. In just a few days of knocking on doors, the deed was done. My name was added to the ballot. Hero, here I come. My undergraduate degree was in Political Science. Not really surprising, huh? Now, to put it to the test. Let’s see what the books taught me.
The City of Greenbelt is a fine community. I was a fairly new resident at the time and must admit . . . . naive. There weren’t many apartment units then. Greenbelt started in 1937 as a cooperative community; part of the New Deal. My residency there was because I was a student, with a family who needed a place nearby the campus. Prior to 1974 we were living in Suitland, and I was attending Prince George’s Community College. After transferring to U of MD, the commute became a bit much. Fortunately, I was driving a Chevy Vega, which got pretty good
gas mileage, even though it is considered one of the worst cars ever built. It was red, with a damaged left headlight, that was never fixed. Moving to Greenbelt made sense.
gas mileage, even though it is considered one of the worst cars ever built. It was red, with a damaged left headlight, that was never fixed. Moving to Greenbelt made sense.After filing the signatures with the proper authorities, I was officially a candidate. The campaign was a go, and I was determined to win a seat. Why not? I could govern. Being elected was just a matter of getting
people to like me and making them aware of my desire to improve their lives. A series of mistakes (Comedy of Errors, so to speak) was in my immediate future. “I was going down,” and didn’t even know it.
people to like me and making them aware of my desire to improve their lives. A series of mistakes (Comedy of Errors, so to speak) was in my immediate future. “I was going down,” and didn’t even know it.The contest was not Republican vs. Democrat. Prince George’s County has always been heavily Democrat; even to this day. The Greenbelt City Council election of 1977 pitted Mishkan Torah Synagogue
against Saint Hugh’s Church/School, and I was not a member of either. My daughter did attend St. Hugh’s School, because it was the nearest and least costly private school to our apartment, and like I wrote earlier, I was a student; therefore, pretty much broke. But St. Hugh’s did not require us to be members of the
church.
against Saint Hugh’s Church/School, and I was not a member of either. My daughter did attend St. Hugh’s School, because it was the nearest and least costly private school to our apartment, and like I wrote earlier, I was a student; therefore, pretty much broke. But St. Hugh’s did not require us to be members of the church.It wasn’t a particularly bitter campaign, but sidewalk maintenance was needed in front of both buildings, and that was the underlying campaign issue (not to mention the normal hatred of competing religions). Remember earlier when I mentioned my naivete? Well, keep reading.
My wife during this period was my first. She’s the mother of my kids. Within this post, I will mention wife, and she’s who I mean. Nothing bad, but just a point of reference.
The first thing I did was take out a loan for $350 from the Greenbelt Credit Union to use in my campaign. I needed to print posters, advertise in the Greenbelt News Review, make fliers and other essential electioneering stuff. It doesn’t seem like much of a fund, but it was sufficient. Fortunately, I worked in a place with a copy machine and 
friends willing to help, so duplication of fliers was at the expense of the U of MD (shhh, don’t tell them). I was also writing a column for the sporadically published Consumer’s Friend, which was a free paper distributed to apartment residents in Prince George’s County. The sole purpose of the paper was to advocate for Tenants rights and the editor was an attorney who often lobbied the county on behalf of apartment dwellers.
friends willing to help, so duplication of fliers was at the expense of the U of MD (shhh, don’t tell them). I was also writing a column for the sporadically published Consumer’s Friend, which was a free paper distributed to apartment residents in Prince George’s County. The sole purpose of the paper was to advocate for Tenants rights and the editor was an attorney who often lobbied the county on behalf of apartment dwellers.I got my literature together and started banging on doors. One of the incumbents, Charlie Schwan, who I liked, had deposited his materials in the screen door of one of the homes I eventually approached. My intention was to be a nice guy, so when I knocked on the door and the resident answered, I handed her Charlie’s brochure, mentioning he had left it, and gave her my stuff, too. She was cordial and collected the pieces of propaganda and wished me well. The next day I received a phone call from a fairly influential lady (in her mind) chastising me for
working for Charlie Schwan. Her garbled threats were something like, “You’ll never get elected by the Catholics in this town if you support Charlie Schwan.” Charlie was a member of Mishkan Torah, and apparently, I was thought to be on the side of St. Hugh’s, so she was noting my disloyalty for my permanent record.
working for Charlie Schwan. Her garbled threats were something like, “You’ll never get elected by the Catholics in this town if you support Charlie Schwan.” Charlie was a member of Mishkan Torah, and apparently, I was thought to be on the side of St. Hugh’s, so she was noting my disloyalty for my permanent record.
A couple of days later I received a call from a fellow who wanted me to announce legalization of Marijuana within Greenbelt as part of my platform. Bear in mind this was 1977. I was in favor of it but knew it would kill my campaign. The constituency diversity of Greenbelt was showing. I had to tend to other issues. Everything was set, now on to the actual campaign.To be continued in How to Lose an Election Without Even Trying – Part 2 . . . .
It is generally accepted that 
manager and 
team and Saturdays were anxiously anticipated. I couldn’t wait to get to the lanes for the bowling (but really for the French fries). Bowling Alley fries were the best. That was when they cooked them in real fat, not this sissy trans-fat-less stuff we use today. Grease, salt and ketchup . . . . mmmmm, the best. We were active kids, not slothy adults, so the cholesterol didn’t clog our arteries. In my adult years I bowled with a fellow who drenched his French fries in mustard. If we wanted to snatch a fry or two while he was on the lane bowling, we had to eat them with the yellow stuff. I guess his intent was to thwart our thievery of his snack. It worked. Or maybe he just liked them with mustard. On our team, he was the only one.
bowled on leagues in Suitland, Forestville (Parkland), Queenstown, Hyattsville (Prince George’s Plaza), Marlow Heights, Catonsville (Westview), Laurel (with mustard guy), Silver Spring (White Oak), Riverdale (Rinaldi), Wheaton (Glenmont), College Park, and probably a couple of places I’ve forgotten.
occurrence. Many ten pin bowlers think they’re “tough guys” because they can roll the heavy ball down the lanes. They ain’t so tough when ending up with two pins for a whole frame because the first ball chopped, and the next two were rolled through the hole. I guess they really don’t appreciate the challenge and precision necessary to be a good duck pinner, so they make fun of it.
The biggest factor in the decline was the demise in 1973 of the only company manufacturing automatic pinsetters (one source says it was 1969).
due to their willingness to expand and Sherman’s desire to stay at home. His company didn’t survive, and today Fair Lanes establishments are named AMF.
That’s all fine and dandy, but my preferred awards were for Best Team Name and Best Bowling Attire. My favorite team name and attire (designed by my son) is in the picture to the left.
like a star. Spend a few minutes clicking on the links (particularly the 
Town Hall has been open since 1960. That’s quite an accomplishment for a drinking spot. Those that come and go are usually “theme” bars catering to whatever fad or style is temporarily occupying the minds of its semi-loyal patrons. Dance clubs seem to last the least amount of time, usually laid waste by fights, drug busts, marriage, and the quick aging and waning interest of its clients. But Town Hall has lasted through student migrations, sporting event-driven traffic, all the 
that I only had the nerve to eat once, and an unpretentious atmosphere. It worked.
ny other 
entourage decide to shove off for haute cuisine, laced with over-priced, but oh-so-pretty beverages. Once the children are gone, the Slim Jims and suds taste better.
I was in the neighborhood on business, but beer, pool and peanuts are not on the agenda. When home, I play pinball on my computer, shaking the machine with keystrokes. Diet soda in a can or plastic bottle is my “draft.”
hungry. Chicken tenders and wings have become old hat, and nachos or chili go in easy and exit violently. What to order? What? Then the hot waitress or waiter you’ve been ogling and hoping may find you appealing, suggests sliders.
taverns and restaurants lately, and now’s your chance to check them out. Hell, even 
trade. Then in 1928 Harry Duncan relocated from Louisville, KY to Washington, DC and opened the 
were cooked. The “chef” would line the grill with little balls of meat, with chopped onions and fry a bunch, then place them on the small buns along with a pickle and store them covered by a damp towel in a drawer under the grill.
sandwiches that needed to be heated in their toaster ovens (microwaves weren’t available), so my late-night meals were three LT deathballs and a cup of coffee. I’m not one who usually goes for coffee with anything other than breakfast. It just sort of says, “I’m an old fart and don’t care anymore.” Coffee with dinner just doesn’t seem right. But, at Club LT the coffee was delicious, served in the thick mugs that somehow made it better. Not to mention, I needed the caffeine buzz to continue working.
driving zone, my favorite cab stand was the College Park Little Tavern, referred to by the cab company as “The Ritz.” Since this location was right across the street from the 
, but “Buy ’em by the bag” was the slogan. When Harry started the business, burgers were a nickel, so walking out with a bag full was a pretty easy task. You could feed the whole family.
living on in its evolved form. The next time you’re at the Green Turtle, Burger King, Chili’s or any place advertising sliders, think of Harry Duncan as you bite into your order. They’re no longer a nickel, and probably not as good, but three deathballs and coffee always hit the spot.
sell Ecko Hope Chests on the streets of Washington, DC. Don’t try it, it doesn’t work. It didn’t work in 1973, and it won’t work today.
stoned and mellow, with sunglasses and a cool mustache, or the jittery dork, with the sneaky-looking nose hairs, wearing a polyester suit and platform shoes, desperately seeking a dollar, who looks like he just fell off the lettuce truck. As you can guess, there weren’t many appointments in my future.
needed a rain hat. That evening, I went to Debbie’s (I remembered her name) apartment in Wheaton and knocked on the door. During my last few months in Taiwan, I had several suits tailored (very cheaply) in the finest polyester double-knit fabric available. My duds were proudly displayed on my slim body. That particular day, I was wearing my rust-colored, maxi-patterned, plaid suit (similar to the picture). The shirt was beige; accented with a fine, matching non-silk tie. In my left hand dangled the handle of my sample case. One of her roommates came to the door and fingered my lapel and said, “Really nice,” in as sarcastic a way as he could. But he invited me in. This was the opening scene in Death of a Salesman.
thought. So, I nodded and said, “It looks very healthy (as if I knew).” But I was thinking, “I need a sale.” Debbie walked out of the kitchen to greet me, and two other female roommates came out of the bedroom to say hello. The Botanist was the only male living with three women, all very cute. Then they asked if I wanted to party. Tempting as it was, I had to leave. There was no way a sale would be made among this group, and it didn’t really matter why my prospect agreed to allow me to come by (even though it was intriguing). I pulled the packaged rain hat out of my suit pocket and gave it to Debbie, but Botany Man grabbed it, peeled off the wrapper, and put it on his head. “Really nice,” I said in as sarcastic a way as I could, politely thanked everyone for their time, and left.
One of my favorite musicians was Root Boy Slim; circa late 70s – early 80s. He was a genius, who attended Yale University and was a fraternity brother of George W. Bush (in fact when George took over as Fraternity President, he kicked Root Boy out of the club). His real name was Foster McKenzie, III. A noble name for a person thought by most to be a derelict; the type of guy you expected to be living in a Whirlpool refrigerator box over a steam grate in Washington, DC. Well, he did have an apartment above a garage in Silver Spring, MD at one point in time. If you have an interest in him, check out his biography 
wonder and fascination of Root Boy Slim . . . . it is to lead into “Dare to Be Fat.”
attention to what you are consuming before you are at the point of no return. Losing weight is not particularly enjoyable. I feel deprived. I also feel good.
Boomer Twilight 