Humphrey Bogart

My name is Humphrey Bogart.  Yes, that’s right, Humphrey Bogart.  But, not the one you’re thinking of.  The actor died back in 1957.  I wasn’t born until 1980.  My naming was the bright idea of my father, Jim Bogart, a resident of Cincinnati, Ohio and not related to the other guy.  Seems he thought it would be pretty cool if his son had a famous name.  My mother kind of objected, but since he had agreed to her choices for the names of my two older sisters, she acquiesced. 

When I was a little boy, I could hardly say “Humphrey.”  The best I could do was “Hump.”  So I was Hump Bogart all the way up to my high school graduation.  But when I arrived at The Ohio State University in Columbus for my freshman year, I decided that I would be an adult, and thus I became Humphrey, not Hump, Bogart.

I didn’t even realize that someone else had my name until I was ten years old and my dad finally told me.  It wasn’t until I was thirteen that I saw Casablanca.  It was all so weird that this older guy in a black-and-white movie had stolen my name.  I kind of liked the movie, but I wish there had been a different leading man.  Up until recently, I had never seen any of his other films and knew very little about him or his life other than that he was dead.

After I graduated from college in 2003, I got a job in Ann Arbor, Michigan, as a manager-trainee with Walmart.  I’ve been with them now for a little over four years, working my way up.  I do OK financially and have a pretty good social life.  I have my own apartment near the U of M campus, but I don’t tell anybody I’m a Buckeye (nickname of The Ohio State University) through and through.  One thing I’ve noticed is that most people don’t even realize I have a famous name.  So, it’s a little surprising when someone calls me on it.

I was at a local bar the first week of last November when I bought this attractive redhead a drink, a margarita.  I introduced myself and she laughed in my face, hysterically.  Seems she is minoring in film history at Michigan.  Her name is Zoe and Zoe thought it was great opening line.  I thereupon whipped out my driver license to prove what my real name was.  Then she insisted I had changed my name to impersonate my favorite movie star.  I had to give her the whole story of my life to prove who I really was.  I think I convinced her.

Well, it turns out Zoe had done a term paper on several of the other guy’s early films, ones before Casablanca.  I think I remembered enough from my one time viewing of that picture that I didn’t seem like a complete dummy.  She was kind of charmed to be with a guy named Humphrey Bogart.  I was charmed to be with an attractive redhead who was charmed to be with me, for whatever reason.

We had a couple of more drinks before she accepted my offer to walk her home to her off-campus apartment.  She invited me to come over to her place the following Saturday afternoon to watch one of the other guy’s early films, High Sierra.  What the Hell!  I accepted.  I thought it would be just the two of us, a private screening, followed by “coming attractions.”  Well, she invited three other friends, a gay guy and two girls.  So, I took a deep breath and watched the film. 

The other guy in High Sierra portrays an ex-con, Roy, who once out of prison goes straight back to a life of crime, leading a gang planning a robbery at a resort in California.  He’s a real no-nonsense type, tough with the men, but softer with a female love interest (two actually) and especially with a stray dog named Pard.  Back in 1941 Hollywood had to show that crime doesn’t pay, so of course, Roy is killed in the end by the police.  But, he was such a good bad guy that I felt sorry for him.

I felt so impressed with the other guy that I begged Zoe to let us see Casablanca as the second half of our Saturday afternoon double feature.  It was almost as if I had never seen it before.  Well, I was only thirteen the previous time.  Again, the other guy portrayed a no-nonsense type, a highly principled man, who in Casablanca was on the right side.  This time, he killed the bad guy.  I know he was just an actor playing a part he was paid to do, but he did it so well.  I became an admirer.  My dad could have done a lot worse when he named me.

I began to think more and more about the other guy’s film personna and how it reflected on me, a man who carried around his name 24/7.  Was it a good or a bad thing?  I pondered.  Could I learn something that could help me in my life?  One thing he stood for was being courageous, not to be afraid to stand up for what you wanted or believed in. 

I mentioned that I was a Buckeye living in the home town of their arch rival, the University of Michigan at Ann Arbor.  But this had been a secret because of my fear of ... I didn’t know exactly what.  I told nobody where I went to school.  I never wore my school colors nor showed off my diploma.  This was going to have to change.  I wanted it to change.  I was proud of my alma mater and I needed to display my pride.

The following Saturday (November 17, 2007) was the annual Ohio State-Michigan football game, this year at the Big House in Ann Arbor.  I got out my scarlet and gray sweatshirt and marched into the Wolverine’s student section and surrounded myself in a sea of maize and blue.  I was taunted and verbally abused for almost three hours, but Ohio State was victorious, 14-3.  I walked out of there with my head held high.  I promised myself that I would never let fear stop me again.

Just after the holiday season was over and things returned to a certain normality at Walmart, I went straight to my boss, the store manager, early one Monday morning and raised the issue of my career and where it was headed.  He seemed impressed with my straight forwardness.  Two weeks later I got a promotion and a raise.  I was a little nervous about my new responsibilities, but that didn’t stop me at all.

Right around the same time, I received a call from Zoe.  Seems she was in that mob of Michigan students harrassing me at the football game.  At first she was embarrassed that she knew me.  However, she had to admit it took guts to do what I had done.  Embarrassment turned to admiration, sort of like the other guy in the movies we had watched.  Zoe said that she had been hoping that I would call her again, but finally called me instead.  I apologized that I had been so busy at work that I had no time to call anybody.  She asked me out for a date.  Wow!  I accepted.  We’re having dinner next Saturday night.

I am wondering, though.  To her, am I Humphrey Bogart, or the other guy?

   

A Nameless Girl RevisiTed

I have had some second thoughts regarding my A Nameless Girl post (April 10, 2016).  To refresh your memory, it was about a college girl (whose name I don’t remember) I met when I was nineteen years-old.  We had a date during winter break 1964-1965 and afterwards had exchanged letters while I was at the University of Pennsylvania and she was at the State University College at Oswego, my home town. 

When I returned to Oswego on spring break, 1965, we were to have a date my first evening home.  I called her on the phone in the afternoon to tell her when I would pick her up later that evening.  Her mood quickly changed as she insisted that I come to see her immediately.  She had previously been such a sweet girl who had been affectionate and so nice to be around.  Now she was being bossy.

I reacted very defensively.  In my mind, it was as if she was trying to emasculate me.  After all, I was the man.  I had approached her that first time at the Congregation Adath Israel.  I had asked for her phone number.  I had asked for a date.  I had decided we would go to the movies and where to get something to eat afterwards.  I had paid for such entertainment.  This was the culture of the period.  Or so I thought.  I did not like a female trying to steal what was mine, being the man. 

As I mentioned in the above post, I caved in to her request in order to save our date, but immediately afterwards I crossed her out of my life without any explanation as punishment for her unforgivable transgression.  It was a cowardly act made by someone who felt compelled to make quick, impulsive (and sometimes foolish) decisions.

But was her behavior simply the desire to show me who was the boss of our brand new relationship?  Maybe not?  With the help of one of my faithful female readers, I have come to believe that her reasoning is to be found elsewhere.  I am convinced that she was driven by a desire to prove something to her sorority sisters, that she “measured up.”  That she had a boyfriend, too.  And an Ivy Leaguer to boot.  And perhaps even one who was good looking as well. 

At the age of nineteen, many of us lack the self-esteem to do what ever we want.  Many of us need the approval of others, our peers.  I only wish she had said please instead of insisting.  I only wish she had explained to me why she wanted me to come right away, which was the perfect time for her to introduce her new boyfriend to them.  If she had, I am certain I would have done the right thing and come running with a smile on my face.  However, insisting was probably the manner she had learned in order to get what she wanted.  But with me, it proved to be an unfortunate mistake.  If her approach had been different, who knows where our futures would have taken us.      

      

Pajama Putsch

In November of 1923, the famous Beer Hall Putsch (a German word meaning a violent attempt to overthrow a government) took place in Munich, Germany.  Adolph Hitler and about six hundred of his Nazi Party followers marched to a beer hall in the center of the city where the Bavarian Prime Minister was addressing about 3,000 businessmen.  Hitler took over the meeting and announced his intention to overthrow the government.  He and his Nazi followers were later confronted by the police.  Sixteen Nazis and four policemen where killed in a shoot-out.  Hitler was wounded and then arrested. 

After a trial that lasted more than a month, Hitler was convicted of treason and sentenced to five years in prison.  After eight months, he was released because of his good behavior.  Almost ten years after the Beer Hall Putsch, in January of 1933, Hitler was appointed as the Chancellor of Germany by the recently re-elected President Paul Von Hindenberg.    Hitler had received the second highest number of votes (13,418,547 or 37% of the total) in the presidential election.  Hitler’s tenure as Chancellor lasted twelve years until his death by suicide (to avoid capture by the Red Army) in April of 1945 near the end of the war he started in September of 1939.

In May of 1938, Brazil had its own putsch, known as the Pajama Putsch.  At that time, Brazil was ruled by a dictator, President Getulio Vargas, who had come to power in the Revolution of 1930.  The Brazilian Integralists, a fascist-like movement, launched an uprising against President Vargas.  They were similar to European fascists, except that they did not preach racial hatred, which would not have made sense in a multi-racial society like Brazil. 

A small group of armed Integralists attacked the Guanabara Palace in Rio de Janeiro (capital of Brazil in 1938) one night while Vargas and his family were asleep.  Vargas was aroused by the noise and, while still in his pajamas, joined his security forces in their attempt to repel the rebels.  “Police and army troops arrived at the last minute and the ensuing gunfight ended with around twenty casualties.”  The Pajama Putsch failed like the one in Germany.

During World War II, Vargas sided with the United States and its allies and sent an expeditionary force (25,000 Brazilian soldiers) to fight in Italy in the second half of 1944.  He resigned his presidency in October of 1945.  However, in 1951 Vargas became President of Brazil again, this time in a free election.  However, in August of 1954, he committed suicide during a political crisis when the Brazilian military demanded his resignation.         

Fifty Years

Fifty years ago this spring, in 1966, I was back home in Oswego, on a break during my junior year at the University of Pennsylvania.  Things were going well.  After struggling my first three semesters, I was now a more confident and successful student.  Penn had just won its first official Ivy League Men’s Basketball championship.  I could take a week off and relax.

However, I saw a drop of blood where none was supposed to be and it changed my life forever.  Slowly, over time, more symptoms would develop and worsen.  When I returned to campus in Philadelphia, I went to the Student Health Services (SHS) for help.  At first, they thought it was hemorrhoids.

When the academic year finished, I went home without a final diagnosis nor treatment.  I suffered, mostly in silence, during the almost four month hiatus from Penn.  I felt too ashamed and embarrassed to tell my parents about my problem.  Finally, I had no choice.  To my stupid surprise, they were very supportive.  As I was near returning to campus, they agreed to accept my decision to continue seeking medical help at the SHS.

That fall of 1966, besides my academic work, I was engaged in two parallel activities: (1) the above mentioned medical investigation, and (2) my application to enter the United States Air Force Officer Candidate School (OCS) after graduation from Penn in May of 1967.  The war in Vietnam was raging and America was drafting young men to fight there.  I didn’t want to extend my student deferment by going to graduate school (I wanted to become financially independent of my parents ASAP) nor escape to Canada.  I had no choice but to enter the military, but where would be the best place for me?  I thought I had found it.

First, I had to pass an officer aptitude test.  I did and was accepted into the OCS.  I was also required to take more tests to determine if I had the aptitude to become either a pilot or a navigator.  I didn’t.  I remember my recruiter, Sargeant Nixon (an African-American and no relation to the president),  sadly giving me the bad news.  I tried to hide the fact that I was pleased with the results.  At the time, I had a fear of flying.  I was to report to Lackland Air Force Base, outside of San Antonio, Texas, on July 5, 1967 to start my new career (four year enlistment) in the Air Force.

However, within about thirty days of my graduation, I was finally diagnosed with ulcerative colitis, an inflammatory bowel disease.  I remember my gastroenterologist telling me that I must start taking nine pills (Azulfidine) a day for the rest of my life (it went down to six and now to four) and regularly visit a doctor wherever I would settle.  He asked what were my plans and I told him the Air Force.  He said that was not possible as they would not accept someone with such a chronic condition.  He said I was to inform the Air Force immediately and they would cancel my appointment to the OCS.  Eventually, my local draft board would change my status to 1Y, needed only case the USA was invaded.

At first, I was very disappointed I wouldn’t be going into the Air Force since I had invested a lot of time and energy into the application process.  I especially remember the very vigorous and time-consuming physical I took at a government facility in Philadelphia, during which they did not detect my chronic medical condition.  But it finally dawned on me that I didn’t really want to enter the military.  Now, I didn’t have to.  Now, my options were wide open.  On July 5, 1967, I was in Detroit, Michigan, starting my career as an accountant.

My mother had taught me to obey authority figures, which included doctors.  I took that original advice to heart, to take my medicine every day and stay close to a doctor, who over the years have annually prescribed intrusive procedures to determine what’s going on inside my large intestine, especially for early signs of colon cancer.  I remember the barium enema and then the advent of the colonoscopy (much better). 

I’ve been told that, relatively speaking, I have a mild case.  Most victims of this disease have it much worse.  Well, I’ve always considered myself to be a lucky man.  (Did I ever tell you about the free brand new car I once got?)  In the fifty years since it started (and since I started treatment), I’ve had only few bad episodes. 

In the early 1980s, I experienced a very strange sensation, a slight but noticable feeling of being unwell.  It was as if I was being slowly poisoned.  I had a feeling it was my Azulfidine.  I stopped taking it for a few days and the sensation disappeared.  I resumed the pills and the sensation came back.  My doctor determined that I was allergic to the sulpha in my medicine.  Luckily, there was alternative called Asacol, without sulpha, which I took for about thirty years until its manufacturer discontinued producing it.  Then I switched to another brand called Delzicol.

My first colitis attack was in 1991 (25 year mark).  My family and I were in Amherst, Massachusetts, checking out the University of Massachusetts for my high school aged daughter, Rachel.  I woke up early one day in our hotel room.  All were sleeping.  I was restless and took a walk around the nearby campus of Amherst College.  I returned to our room and used the bathroom.  Shortly thereafter, I suddenly developed abdominal pain that wouldn’t go away.  We returned to New York and my doctor (Janowitz) prescribed, what he called the Atomic Bomb, a corticosteroid called prednisone (side affects include weight gain, aggressive behavior, and reddish complexion).  It did the trick, but it is not a drug to be toyed with or overused.

Five years later, in 1996, the second attack came on gradually.  I remember that I lost my apetite.  I couldn’t even eat one of my favorite desserts, chocolate pudding.  I lost a lot of weight.  My son, Bret, thought I was dying.  I went back on prednisone and was again quickly cured.  That was twenty years ago and I have had no problems ever since. 

And now I am in Brazil and having my colonoscopies here where the preparation is easier than in the States.  My diet for the day before the last procedure was all the ice cream and mashed potatoes I wanted.  Unfortunately, I have to import my Delzicol from the USA as it is not available here.  Thus I have had to deal with Fedex and Brazilian Customs.  I tried one of the local alternatives and it did not agree with me.  I’m going to try another. 

My advice to colitis patients based on 50 years of experience:  stick to your daily medicine (not just when you experience symptoms) and have your colonoscopies regularly as prescribed and you should survive to a ripe old age. 

I recently finished reading a novel, Purity, by Jonathan Franzen.  One of the main characters studied at the University of Pennsylvania.  His mother suffers from a bowel disease and her gastroenterologist prescribed prednisone and colonoscopies.  What a coincidence!                 

Marty the Movie

The Academy Award for the Best Motion Picture of 1955 was won by the movie, Marty, which was produced by the team of Harold Hecht and Burt Lancaster (From Here to Eternity), directed by Delbert Mann (won Academy Award for Best Director), written by Paddy Chayefsky (won Academy Award for Best Writing, Adapted Screenplay), and starred Ernest Borgnine (won Academy Award for Best Actor), whom I have previously mentioned in my blog (October 4, 2015, Parenthood).  Marty was nominated for, but did not win, Academy Awards for Best Supporting Actor, Joe Mantell (who lost to Jack Lemmon in Mister Roberts), Best Supporting Actress, Betsy Blair (who lost to Jo Van Fleet in East of Eden), Best Art Direction-Set Direction, Black-and-White, and Best Cinematography, Black-and-White.

Marty is the story of a self-proclaimed fat, ugly man, a 34 year-old Bronx butcher, who is going through life unhappily lonely, dreaming of finding a woman of his own.  Fate takes a hand one Saturday night when, grudgingly following his mother’s advice, Marty Piletti (Borgnine) goes to a local dance hall to try to find a girlfriend, but instead is approached by a man who wants his help in dumping a rather plain-looking woman whom he got fixed up with.  After turning him down on principle (“you can’t do that”), Marty approaches the woman, Clara (Betsy Blair), after she is abandoned.

Marty and Clara spend the rest of the evening dancing, talking, laughing, crying, walking the streets of the Bronx, sitting in a diner drinking coffee, gradually getting to know each other and experiencing the beginning of a mutual attraction.  After taking her home at the end of a long evening, Marty is on top of the world. 

The next day, Sunday, his mother, believing that if Marty marries this woman she will be abandoned like her sister was when her last son married, criticizes Clara in front of Marty.  Angie (Mantell), his best friend, feeling jealous of the attention Marty gave to this new girlfriend, tells him to dump Clara, whom Angie considers to be a “dog.”  At first Marty takes such advice from his mother and his friend to heart.

However, by Sunday night, Marty, miserable and lonely, speaks his mind to Angie:  “You don't like her, my mother don't like her, she's a dog and I'm a fat, ugly man! Well, all I know is I had a good time last night! I'm gonna have a good time tonight! If we have enough good times together, I'm gonna get down on my knees and I'm gonna beg that girl to marry me! If we make a party on New Year's, I got a date for that party. You don't like her? That's too bad!”

To me, the message of this wonderful film is that there is somebody for everybody, even a fat, ugly man and a plain-looking woman. 

Ernest Borgnine was born in Hamden, Connecticut in 1917.  After graduating high school in 1935, he joined the US Navy and served until he was honorably discharged in October 1941.  Three months later, after Pearl Harbor, he re-enlisted in the Navy.  During World War II, Borgnine was assigned to an anti-submarine ship off America’s Atlantic coast.  He was honorably discharged again in September 1945. 

Upon returning home after the war, Borgnine’s mother encouraged him to pursue an acting career as she felt his personality was well-suited for the stage, even though he had never done anything like that in his prior life.  In 1949, he made his Broadway debut as the male nurse in the play, Harvey.  In 1951, Borgnine appeared in his first film, The Whistle at Eaton Falls, which starred Lloyd Bridges (High Noon).  In 1953, he got his big break when he landed the role of Fatso Judson in the acclaimed film, From Here to Eternity, which I discussed in my blog last month. 

Maybe being a fat man wasn’t so bad.  Borgnine’s acting career extended virtually to the end of his life, for over sixty years.  He appeared in such films as Vera Cruz with Gary Cooper, Bad Day at Black Rock with Spencer Tracy, The Catered Affair with Bette Davis, The Vikings with Kirk Douglas, The Dirty Dozen with Lee Marvin, The Wild Bunch with William Holden, and The Poseidon Adventure with Gene Hackman.  He died in Los Angeles in 2012 at the age of ninety-five.  I’m very sorry we didn’t talk in the VIP lounge at the airport back in ’67.  From what I know, he was a sweet man.