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9/28/07
Being Phil's Big Sis
by Becky
Being Phil's big sister was similar to what Claudia experienced being his younger sister.
I was only 1-1/2 years older than Philip, but we were 2 years apart in school grades (something to do with my mother holding him back one year when it was time to enter kindergarten because she didn't feel he was "mature" enough).
I spent my first two years at Kent-Meridian High School as that quiet, studious, shy but friendly girl who glided anonymously through the hallways with my one or two close friends. Never part of the "in" group, I was content to study hard and have fun on the weekends.
Until Philip entered the school. All of a sudden I was "Phil Kendall's big sister". I was noticed. I felt proud to be his sister, as I always had, even when we were kids. He was always the outgoing one, the funny one, the charming one. Now I was important as well, holding the distinction of being related to him.
All of a sudden I had more attention than I felt I deserved or wanted. One evening after an all-boys Key Club meeting of which he was a member (I think you had to have a school letterman's jacket to be in it) Phil told me that our student body President had nominated me to be a Key Heart and the others had voted me in. A Key Heart was the token female chosen each month to bring cookies to meetings and (for me) sit in the back feeling awkward. If it wasn't for the fact that Philip would be there at the meeting, I doubt I would have had the courage to show up.
Philip is always with me. I "talk" to him often. I especially think of all the things he has missed that he would have gotten such a kick out of -- movies, technology, our nieces and nephews. Oh Philip, we hardly knew you....
9/23/07
The Pizza Truck Heist
The Pizza Truck Heist
by Scooter
I believe this was the first of our stooges pranks in B'ham. I could swear it happened 1st Qtr 72. How did you learn of it? The heist was really quite simple.
I believe this was the first of our stooges pranks in B'ham. I could swear it happened 1st Qtr 72. How did you learn of it? The heist was really quite simple.
As I recall, we had little luck seeking a party with chicks around the Western campus one night and decided to head home, but none of us wanted to walk. We might have had a few beers in us and it may well have been colder than we would have liked but the house on Humboldt Street was only a good mile from campus and I think we all walked to school regularly. I don't ever remember taking the bus to school 'though Jerry might have gotten us close in the Pontiac if the weather were really bad or something but you could never get all that close without a parking permit and I know we wouldn't spend brewski funds for anything so extravagant.
Anyway, as we grumbled about the walk a pizza delivery truck (PDT) pulled up. It was a real pizza delivery rig that had swapped out the pickup bed for a fiber glass cube with stainless thermally fitted doors for storing the oven-hot pies The driver hopped out and pulled an armload of boxed pizzas for delivery to an adjacent dorm. Jerry (we hadn't started doling out nicknames yet) said "Anyone for pizza?" We didn't think he was serious but we all started giggling as we considered the consequences. I don't remember much more of the decision making process and I can't say for sure who drove, though it was probably Jerry.
We didn't head straight home, instead we made a point of blaring from the windows that "we're delivering pizza" to anyone we passed and howling with laughter.
I will never forget my exchange with Phil as we grew more and more giddy:
"So this is what's known as a joyride!"
"No," he said, "this is what's known as grand theft auto".
He nearly split a gut howling at that one 'though I remember gulping. I believe we more or less made our way home then and parked the PDT a few blocks from the Humboldt house.
And yes, we did eat pizza that night. We must have pulled the 4-6 pies (surely all that was left) for ourselves.
---o0o---
Anyway, as we grumbled about the walk a pizza delivery truck (PDT) pulled up. It was a real pizza delivery rig that had swapped out the pickup bed for a fiber glass cube with stainless thermally fitted doors for storing the oven-hot pies The driver hopped out and pulled an armload of boxed pizzas for delivery to an adjacent dorm. Jerry (we hadn't started doling out nicknames yet) said "Anyone for pizza?" We didn't think he was serious but we all started giggling as we considered the consequences. I don't remember much more of the decision making process and I can't say for sure who drove, though it was probably Jerry.
We didn't head straight home, instead we made a point of blaring from the windows that "we're delivering pizza" to anyone we passed and howling with laughter.
I will never forget my exchange with Phil as we grew more and more giddy:
"So this is what's known as a joyride!"
"No," he said, "this is what's known as grand theft auto".
He nearly split a gut howling at that one 'though I remember gulping. I believe we more or less made our way home then and parked the PDT a few blocks from the Humboldt house.
And yes, we did eat pizza that night. We must have pulled the 4-6 pies (surely all that was left) for ourselves.
---o0o---
9/17/07
More on the genesis of Phil's nicknames by Kevin Curran
Kevin Curran wrote a comment on the previous nickname story that shouldn't be buried in the comments, since it also focuses on a story of Phil working at his Dad's shop (Paramount Plastics) that I had never heard before...
________________
You're one step ahead of me, as always. I was thinking of the Pizza Truck heist and you prodded me for an account of it. Last week I thought of nicknames and blammo, you put together an account whose facts I can’t dispute but I can add something in the way of detail.
I inadvertently christened Jerry with Hobart when during a long overdue clean up of the Humboldt St house he donned a shoe string as a head band to keep his long hair from his eyes. I observed that he looked like he was "headed to the Hobart Dump" and Phil immediately pounced on it and "he shall be known as Hobart", soon shortened to Bart.
I don't remember the source of Root but I believe Pomeroy derived from Phil's experience of an African American employee in his dad's shop. Apparently some co-workers would order this fellow around with "Boy, bring me a whatsit" or "Boy, I need a hand over here" to which he always responded with "My name's not Roy" This killed Phil and whenever anyone used "boy" in an expression, as in, "boy, I'm thirsty" or "boy, are we in for it!" Phil, would respond with "my name's not Roy" I would say yes it is, it's short for Pomeroy" and it stuck.
A nickname stuck in those days whenever the recipient blanched or winced at the moment of christening. No wince, no nickname.
After I had saddled the boys with Pomeroy and Hobart they set about assigning me with a revolting moniker. They tried to slap me with a half dozen or so without luck until they conspired to name me for the ventriloquist dummy Mortimer Snerd. They had successfully made me blanch with Ackley from “Catcher in the Rye” but it required too much explanation for a nickname and they gave up on it, to my relief. See, for us, a real nickname had to have a backstory based in mockery but could seem to all outside of our circle to be a term of affection, Ackley couldn’t do that so the boys moved on to the more conventional Mort.
Kevin Curran
September 17, 2007
NYC
---o0o---
________________
You're one step ahead of me, as always. I was thinking of the Pizza Truck heist and you prodded me for an account of it. Last week I thought of nicknames and blammo, you put together an account whose facts I can’t dispute but I can add something in the way of detail.
I inadvertently christened Jerry with Hobart when during a long overdue clean up of the Humboldt St house he donned a shoe string as a head band to keep his long hair from his eyes. I observed that he looked like he was "headed to the Hobart Dump" and Phil immediately pounced on it and "he shall be known as Hobart", soon shortened to Bart.
I don't remember the source of Root but I believe Pomeroy derived from Phil's experience of an African American employee in his dad's shop. Apparently some co-workers would order this fellow around with "Boy, bring me a whatsit" or "Boy, I need a hand over here" to which he always responded with "My name's not Roy" This killed Phil and whenever anyone used "boy" in an expression, as in, "boy, I'm thirsty" or "boy, are we in for it!" Phil, would respond with "my name's not Roy" I would say yes it is, it's short for Pomeroy" and it stuck.
A nickname stuck in those days whenever the recipient blanched or winced at the moment of christening. No wince, no nickname.
After I had saddled the boys with Pomeroy and Hobart they set about assigning me with a revolting moniker. They tried to slap me with a half dozen or so without luck until they conspired to name me for the ventriloquist dummy Mortimer Snerd. They had successfully made me blanch with Ackley from “Catcher in the Rye” but it required too much explanation for a nickname and they gave up on it, to my relief. See, for us, a real nickname had to have a backstory based in mockery but could seem to all outside of our circle to be a term of affection, Ackley couldn’t do that so the boys moved on to the more conventional Mort.
Kevin Curran
September 17, 2007
NYC
---o0o---
9/16/07
Nicknames
We always gave nicknames to each other, and if one didn't work, we went on to the next. We were pretty good at it, so I'm sure I've forgotten a few. Thinking back, though, we didn't attach nicknames to the girls/women we knew. I say girls/women because we were boys/men. We were in that transitional phase during those brief few years I knew Phil. I don't know if not nicknaming the women in our lives was a knucklehead man's man kind or not. I bet Keelin Curran would tell you it was exactly that. . .Jerry Melin's lasted the longest, I think. It started out as Hobart, and was later shortened to Bart. Bart was short for The Hobart Dump, a garbage dump way way out in the sticks east of Kent. . .so far east it's almost in Issaquah. In later years, I called him Jed (a nod to one of our heroes Jerry Garcia), and finally settled on Mel, short for Melin.
Kevin Curran's was Mort. I don't know the genesis of this one. I don't think it's short for death. I think it just went along well with Hobart as a kind of guy's guy name. When we all vacated the west coast to live in New York City (Kevin, Nick Gattuccio, Colin Curran, Keelin Curran, Jan Newberry, Vicki Lenti, and I), I re-christened him Scooter because we loved the Yankees (and Phil "Scooter" Rizutto). That name has stuck off and on for years now.
I was usually Johnnie, although they tried to make Catfish stick for a year or so. Later, it became Doc and even later Jack, when I was christened that by a boss because "John is a pussy name." That hilarious tale, of my life as a man's man in the world of construction is here: My Worst Jobs, Part 1: McGoo.
Phil had a couple of names that I clearly remember. The first was Pomeroy. And Pom for short. I don't remember how that nickname came up (I suspect he was christened Pomeroy by Jerry and Kevin in their year at the Humboldt Street house), but for Phil, it kind of worked and somehow fit. He could have been a Pomeroy!
Sometime after that we started calling him Root, and that one stuck pretty well, so much so that his sister Claudia remembers it. I vaguely remember it was some sort of reference to "root of love" as opposed to "root of all evil," which would have not applied.
I seem to also remember our friend Chris Petersen a/k/a Milo nicknamed him The Gentleman, which would make sense if you knew him. After Phil's death, Milo composed a jazz tune called "The Gentleman."
---o0o---
9/15/07
Being Phil's little sister
by Claudia
It wasn't easy being Phil Kendall's younger sister. But it wasn't bad either. One year behind him in school, I had to try to live up to the Kendall name. He was outgoing and popular, he was smart, he was charming, he was athletic, he got good grades, the girls loved him, and the teachers loved him. I was quiet and shy, nerdy and chubby (or as my dad called it, pleasingly plump), but with a little effort, I did manage to get good grades.
So the bar he had set was incredibly high. The teachers seemed to like me, but I was sure it was just because I was Phil's younger sister.
Sometime during our high school years, I discovered that I could make Phil laugh. If you could make him laugh, he would let you hang around. And that was my ticket into his world, his world of interesting people, places and ideas. He wouldn't let moss grow under his feet.
[to be continued]
by Claudia
It wasn't easy being Phil Kendall's younger sister. But it wasn't bad either. One year behind him in school, I had to try to live up to the Kendall name. He was outgoing and popular, he was smart, he was charming, he was athletic, he got good grades, the girls loved him, and the teachers loved him. I was quiet and shy, nerdy and chubby (or as my dad called it, pleasingly plump), but with a little effort, I did manage to get good grades.
So the bar he had set was incredibly high. The teachers seemed to like me, but I was sure it was just because I was Phil's younger sister.
Sometime during our high school years, I discovered that I could make Phil laugh. If you could make him laugh, he would let you hang around. And that was my ticket into his world, his world of interesting people, places and ideas. He wouldn't let moss grow under his feet.
[to be continued]
9/12/07
This was written during the gas shortage of 1973
by Phil Kendall
It was nearing the end, a furious gas pumping day at Harry's Arco, and there were still cars jamming the lot like they do before a Husky football game. I had been waiting for about two hours and had finally reached one of the precious pumps. At this time Harry came out of his office, a megaphone in hand, and announced, "According to our records, we are nearly out of gas. There is no way we will be able to supply all of you. Those of you waiting near the ends of the lines are wasting your time. I am very sorry but the situation is out of our control. Thank you."
This was very bad news, indeed, but I must admit that the relief I felt from feeling that nozzle in my hand immensely overshadowed the empathy I had for the unlucky motorists. I locked the trigger at the "on" position and walked around my car, polishing the headlights and removing any major bird, bug and dirt splotches. I heard some loud yelling and swearing and turned around to see a man jerk the nozzle out of my tank and throw it to the ground. Gas spilled everywhere. Naturally, I was aroused by this.
I hurried to the spewing nozzle and stuck it back in the tank. He immediately jerked it out again. "What are you doing? Are you a crazy man?" I yelled. I stuck the nozzle back in the tank and held it there. He grabbed at the nozzle and we wrestled over it. Being about six-two and 200 pounds, he was quite a bit stronger than me, a scrawny five-nine. After a tough struggle, he tore the nozzle loose and pulled the trigger to its limit. He swung it over his head like he was going to rope a calf. "Harry!" I yelled. This really made the crazy man mad. He turned the nozzle on me. I was so stunned, I hardly reacted at all. He threw down the nozzle and pulled out a butane lighter. I think I could have won a dog race.
In between and around the cars I ran, followed by this crazy man and his torch. Tearing at my clothes, I managed to get my shirt off. Taking my pants off would be too dangerous. I noticed a car with one woman in it. Luckily, the passenger door was unlocked. I jumped in. "Lady, this guy's going to kill me. He's got a lighter and I'm soaked with gas." While I said this, I scrambled around the car locking all the doors. Not wanting to take any chances, I ripped my shoes and pants off. The lady, who had sat aghast since I entered her car, began screaming, "An exhibitionist! An exhibitionist!" She tried to open her door to get out. I grabbed her. "Lady, don't, please. He's going to kill me."
The man was pounding on the windows, glaring ferociously at me. The lady screamed, "A rapist! A rapist!" I could see that the best thing to do would be to get the hell out of there, so I shoved the screaming lady over to my side and grabbed her seat. The keys were in the ignition and I started the engine. Grabbing onto the lady with one hand and the wheel with the other, I slammed into the car in front of me and behind me, but managed to maneuver out into the street. I let go of the lady and she rolled down her window, stuck her head out and screamed, "A kidnapper! A kidnapper!" I sure am glad I wasn't in a downtown area. I stopped the car about a block from a friend's house, grabbed only my underwear, which were only slightly wet, put them on and ran. I could hear the lady screaming, "An abductor! An abductor!"
Copyright © Philip A Kendall, All Rights Reserved.
Phil was a great storyteller. Fact or fiction? You be the judge.
by Phil Kendall
It was nearing the end, a furious gas pumping day at Harry's Arco, and there were still cars jamming the lot like they do before a Husky football game. I had been waiting for about two hours and had finally reached one of the precious pumps. At this time Harry came out of his office, a megaphone in hand, and announced, "According to our records, we are nearly out of gas. There is no way we will be able to supply all of you. Those of you waiting near the ends of the lines are wasting your time. I am very sorry but the situation is out of our control. Thank you."
This was very bad news, indeed, but I must admit that the relief I felt from feeling that nozzle in my hand immensely overshadowed the empathy I had for the unlucky motorists. I locked the trigger at the "on" position and walked around my car, polishing the headlights and removing any major bird, bug and dirt splotches. I heard some loud yelling and swearing and turned around to see a man jerk the nozzle out of my tank and throw it to the ground. Gas spilled everywhere. Naturally, I was aroused by this.
I hurried to the spewing nozzle and stuck it back in the tank. He immediately jerked it out again. "What are you doing? Are you a crazy man?" I yelled. I stuck the nozzle back in the tank and held it there. He grabbed at the nozzle and we wrestled over it. Being about six-two and 200 pounds, he was quite a bit stronger than me, a scrawny five-nine. After a tough struggle, he tore the nozzle loose and pulled the trigger to its limit. He swung it over his head like he was going to rope a calf. "Harry!" I yelled. This really made the crazy man mad. He turned the nozzle on me. I was so stunned, I hardly reacted at all. He threw down the nozzle and pulled out a butane lighter. I think I could have won a dog race.
In between and around the cars I ran, followed by this crazy man and his torch. Tearing at my clothes, I managed to get my shirt off. Taking my pants off would be too dangerous. I noticed a car with one woman in it. Luckily, the passenger door was unlocked. I jumped in. "Lady, this guy's going to kill me. He's got a lighter and I'm soaked with gas." While I said this, I scrambled around the car locking all the doors. Not wanting to take any chances, I ripped my shoes and pants off. The lady, who had sat aghast since I entered her car, began screaming, "An exhibitionist! An exhibitionist!" She tried to open her door to get out. I grabbed her. "Lady, don't, please. He's going to kill me."
The man was pounding on the windows, glaring ferociously at me. The lady screamed, "A rapist! A rapist!" I could see that the best thing to do would be to get the hell out of there, so I shoved the screaming lady over to my side and grabbed her seat. The keys were in the ignition and I started the engine. Grabbing onto the lady with one hand and the wheel with the other, I slammed into the car in front of me and behind me, but managed to maneuver out into the street. I let go of the lady and she rolled down her window, stuck her head out and screamed, "A kidnapper! A kidnapper!" I sure am glad I wasn't in a downtown area. I stopped the car about a block from a friend's house, grabbed only my underwear, which were only slightly wet, put them on and ran. I could hear the lady screaming, "An abductor! An abductor!"
Copyright © Philip A Kendall, All Rights Reserved.
Phil was a great storyteller. Fact or fiction? You be the judge.
Pat Spurgin remembers...
Pat Spurgin (a roommate of Phil's at 1721 Iron Street in the fall and winter of 73/74) wrote in an email to Keelin Curran:
"I am a little astounded because I have had a picture of Phil in my memory (I can't retrieve a nickname) and that blog pic is exactly what I had in mind, frozen from 1974 when I left Iron Street in my deep funk about pointlessness and distractedness.
Phil's sister (maybe it was Claudia) was quite wise one night back in '73-74 to not loan me her car after I drank the better part of a bottle of tequila and sailed off into the Bellingham night. It's an old story. I wound up laying in some front yard, sans glasses and one shoe, rescued by Bart & who? Imagine me driving. Wasn't it Phil who bought the Savoy Brown albums that stuck in my head for so long that I downloaded selected cuts off of i-tunes?
I must join in the wonderment and grief over things having gone so wrong.
---o0o---
"I am a little astounded because I have had a picture of Phil in my memory (I can't retrieve a nickname) and that blog pic is exactly what I had in mind, frozen from 1974 when I left Iron Street in my deep funk about pointlessness and distractedness.
Phil's sister (maybe it was Claudia) was quite wise one night back in '73-74 to not loan me her car after I drank the better part of a bottle of tequila and sailed off into the Bellingham night. It's an old story. I wound up laying in some front yard, sans glasses and one shoe, rescued by Bart & who? Imagine me driving. Wasn't it Phil who bought the Savoy Brown albums that stuck in my head for so long that I downloaded selected cuts off of i-tunes?
I must join in the wonderment and grief over things having gone so wrong.
---o0o---
9/11/07
Jack Brummet responds to Kevin Curran with a couple of Phil stories of his own
Jack Brummet writes:
How moving. . .and loving. . .and your remembering is of such great clarity and depth and warmth. If you don't mind, I want to throw this on the Phil blog, and maybe this too.
Maybe this is perfect to set things in motion.
I knew Phil in high school--we were slight friends. But when I started coming to Bellingham, it was maybe after only one or two trips that I became fast friends with both Phil and Jerry. You and I were at that point old friends, and knew each other's families, and by then had a pretty long history (well, four years, say). Not surprisingly, Phil and I became friends sooner than Jerry and I did. In most ways, Phil was much more ebullient, and more open. Mel, as you remember, could also retract into toxic silence. Especially in the morning.
One other connection with Phil was books, Shakespeare, and poetry. Somehow you guys sucked me in to the point where I've been writing poems for like, what...35 years?
I agree with you on Phil's poem on the blog (See Sept. 7, on this blog). Startlingly mature. As Phil himself was easily the most mature of all of us. And yet he mostly always forgave our knucklehead ways. I think what Phil liked were my jokes, you know...my schtick...not jokes, but bent stories. I remember how much I liked telling him jokes, and stories of my hillbilly upbringing. He would just get the crazed look and howl and nearly fall to the floor. I can't remember his laugh exactly, but it was infectious and Falstaffian. It was such a great laugh that I always felt compelled to summon it up.
We got to know each other pretty quickly, and it wasn't very long before we were hooking up in Seattle too, even when you weren't around. And then, one day, something totally clicked between me and Mel. Or many things. One of us must have said or done something so funny and warped that it endeared us to each other forever.
So now, all of a sudden I had three brothers I loved in Bellingham, while I was stuck in Kent, at the Crisis Center. It was good work and important work, but at some moment in early 1973, I knew I had to go to college, and hang and create and party with you guys full time. This was not exactly easy for a poor hillbilly kid to do. In my entire family, only my mother had even graduated from high school. And my widowed mom had nary a nickel to contribute. Obviously schiolarships were out. And my high school records screamed UNDERACHIEVER and rabble-rouser. It's another long story, but I was able to wheedle a letter of recommendation from both the Governor and the Mayor of Kent, and I was provisionally admitted to college in the fall (I was rid of the provisional part after my first successful quarter).
In the interim, the focus of my life became to hang with you [Kevin], Phil, and Jerry. I charged up to Bellingham every chance I got to drink it in. One of my favorite and most vibrant memories of those days were road trips to Seattle.
I especially remember the first road trip the four of us took after we were all living together. That car had a fog like Jeff Spiccoli's van as it rolled up to the prom. We were racing down to Seattle in Mel's still gleaming Pontiac, blasting the Stones' brand new Sticky Fingers, and rounding those looping I-5 turns, wending our way through the mountains with their sporadic clear-cuts, and digging "Can't You Hear Me Knockin."
And we played all our current favorites: The Dead's Europe 72; the Kinks Celluloid Heroes; Deep Purple; and Humble Pie's Rockin' The Fillmore. I don't know what we even did in Seattle, where we stayed, or anything. I do however most explicitly remember all four of us digging life to the max, and actually saying "this is the life. Whatever happens from here on, it won't get any better than this." We knew it for a fact. It was stew of friendship, being in college, being 20, and being free. And at that moment, on that road trip, we achieved a shimmering moment of eternal friendship.
As for Bleak House...it was a rathole, but I had so much fun and was so happy there that it shimmers in my memory. And that fun was all based on proximity to you, Phil and Mel. It became bleak later, I think, for outside reasons and the fact that Mel recruited a new roommate who was certifiably insane (and who, I heard later, would pick up the wedding cake at his brother's wedding and lob it at the bride and groom!). More about Bleak House next time. Maybe next time, we should delve into the pizza trick heist.
---o0o---
How moving. . .and loving. . .and your remembering is of such great clarity and depth and warmth. If you don't mind, I want to throw this on the Phil blog, and maybe this too.
Maybe this is perfect to set things in motion.
I knew Phil in high school--we were slight friends. But when I started coming to Bellingham, it was maybe after only one or two trips that I became fast friends with both Phil and Jerry. You and I were at that point old friends, and knew each other's families, and by then had a pretty long history (well, four years, say). Not surprisingly, Phil and I became friends sooner than Jerry and I did. In most ways, Phil was much more ebullient, and more open. Mel, as you remember, could also retract into toxic silence. Especially in the morning.
One other connection with Phil was books, Shakespeare, and poetry. Somehow you guys sucked me in to the point where I've been writing poems for like, what...35 years?
I agree with you on Phil's poem on the blog (See Sept. 7, on this blog). Startlingly mature. As Phil himself was easily the most mature of all of us. And yet he mostly always forgave our knucklehead ways. I think what Phil liked were my jokes, you know...my schtick...not jokes, but bent stories. I remember how much I liked telling him jokes, and stories of my hillbilly upbringing. He would just get the crazed look and howl and nearly fall to the floor. I can't remember his laugh exactly, but it was infectious and Falstaffian. It was such a great laugh that I always felt compelled to summon it up.
We got to know each other pretty quickly, and it wasn't very long before we were hooking up in Seattle too, even when you weren't around. And then, one day, something totally clicked between me and Mel. Or many things. One of us must have said or done something so funny and warped that it endeared us to each other forever.
So now, all of a sudden I had three brothers I loved in Bellingham, while I was stuck in Kent, at the Crisis Center. It was good work and important work, but at some moment in early 1973, I knew I had to go to college, and hang and create and party with you guys full time. This was not exactly easy for a poor hillbilly kid to do. In my entire family, only my mother had even graduated from high school. And my widowed mom had nary a nickel to contribute. Obviously schiolarships were out. And my high school records screamed UNDERACHIEVER and rabble-rouser. It's another long story, but I was able to wheedle a letter of recommendation from both the Governor and the Mayor of Kent, and I was provisionally admitted to college in the fall (I was rid of the provisional part after my first successful quarter).
In the interim, the focus of my life became to hang with you [Kevin], Phil, and Jerry. I charged up to Bellingham every chance I got to drink it in. One of my favorite and most vibrant memories of those days were road trips to Seattle.
I especially remember the first road trip the four of us took after we were all living together. That car had a fog like Jeff Spiccoli's van as it rolled up to the prom. We were racing down to Seattle in Mel's still gleaming Pontiac, blasting the Stones' brand new Sticky Fingers, and rounding those looping I-5 turns, wending our way through the mountains with their sporadic clear-cuts, and digging "Can't You Hear Me Knockin."
And we played all our current favorites: The Dead's Europe 72; the Kinks Celluloid Heroes; Deep Purple; and Humble Pie's Rockin' The Fillmore. I don't know what we even did in Seattle, where we stayed, or anything. I do however most explicitly remember all four of us digging life to the max, and actually saying "this is the life. Whatever happens from here on, it won't get any better than this." We knew it for a fact. It was stew of friendship, being in college, being 20, and being free. And at that moment, on that road trip, we achieved a shimmering moment of eternal friendship.
As for Bleak House...it was a rathole, but I had so much fun and was so happy there that it shimmers in my memory. And that fun was all based on proximity to you, Phil and Mel. It became bleak later, I think, for outside reasons and the fact that Mel recruited a new roommate who was certifiably insane (and who, I heard later, would pick up the wedding cake at his brother's wedding and lob it at the bride and groom!). More about Bleak House next time. Maybe next time, we should delve into the pizza trick heist.
---o0o---
The Popcorn Story
Kevin Curran writes:
Here is one of my favorites. While living on Humboldt Street Phil would suggest that we make some popcorn to enjoy during a bone head session. He always recalled that he had made the last batch and would insist that I had to prepare the next batch. I would agree and set off for the kitchen and as I created a racket pulling the oil, popcorn and pot onto the stovetop he would amble in and quietly take over. It was downright comical because it happened over and over again. He would suggest popcorn, make a big stink how he made it the last time, insist the it was my turn, and then as I had barely started he would gently push me out of the way and take over.
Eventually, I'd just raise a clatter and sure enough he'd show up to take over. I couldn't help but tell him, and while he smiled at me with that crooked grin he never again interrupted me during my popcorn turn. I wished I had kept it to myself not because I was getting over but because he just couldn't help himself and he was so glad to be hanging out making fun with a friend.
---o0o---
Here is one of my favorites. While living on Humboldt Street Phil would suggest that we make some popcorn to enjoy during a bone head session. He always recalled that he had made the last batch and would insist that I had to prepare the next batch. I would agree and set off for the kitchen and as I created a racket pulling the oil, popcorn and pot onto the stovetop he would amble in and quietly take over. It was downright comical because it happened over and over again. He would suggest popcorn, make a big stink how he made it the last time, insist the it was my turn, and then as I had barely started he would gently push me out of the way and take over.
Eventually, I'd just raise a clatter and sure enough he'd show up to take over. I couldn't help but tell him, and while he smiled at me with that crooked grin he never again interrupted me during my popcorn turn. I wished I had kept it to myself not because I was getting over but because he just couldn't help himself and he was so glad to be hanging out making fun with a friend.
---o0o---
Kevin Curran Remembers Phil (installment one)
Kevin Curran writes from New York City:
The Phil blog touched me. I loved the pics and wonder if Phil in an apron was from our stay at bleak house. Here are my first thoughts.
I loved Philip. Our friendship lasted four years and yet I think of him frequently still and recently told Kris how much I miss him, even now. For a few years after his death I regularly dreamt that he had come home with some wild explanation for his absence. I would awaken flooded with joy until it sank in again with aching clarity that he was really gone.
I don't remember the exact moment we became friends. It may have occurred during high school football since we both played, though he was a year behind me at KM, surely our connection to Tom Brush was a factor. We may have attended the same writing class my senior year. I enjoyed rereading the poem that Phil’s sisters posted to the blog, it is really sweet and better than anything I remember writing then.
It was no accident that Phil and Jerry were friends. They both were athletic and smart and hilariously rebellious but I would say Phil’s brand was slightly less edgy and more prone to giggling than confrontation. I know that I met Jerry through Phil. I remember our friendship was well on its way during my stint at the Robo CarWash which began no later than early 1971. Phil would often pick me up after my shift on a Friday or Saturday evening. We hung out regularly after I graduated. I know that we shared in weekend shenanigans after I took up residence with BM, Smoothie and the monkey at the Comstock bachelor pad.
Phil purchased a small sports car around 1972, his senior year, (an MG midget maybe) which was toward the end of my year at the dog hospital.
I remember Phil driving up with the top down one sweet summer afternoon. He was brimming with a kind of Route 66 brio just as the car conked out in the parking lot. He fussed with that car throughout the summer and struggled to keep it on the road. He got the car to Bellingham in the fall of 1973 but I don't know how. He may have towed it behind a U HAUL. I remember it parked outside the Humboldt Street house for awhile but I don't remember that we ever took a ride in it that year. He either disposed of it or returned it to his family's home and I don’t think he had a car when we moved into bleak house on Iron Street the next fall.
Do you [Jack] remember your first trip to B’ham? It must have been winter quarter 1972-73. I remember that you and Milo made the trip and arrived after dark. I think that was that the first time you met Phil and Jerry. Our years on Humboldt and Iron Streets were full of stooges moments. I will put them together over the next few weeks. [to be continued]
---o0o---
The Phil blog touched me. I loved the pics and wonder if Phil in an apron was from our stay at bleak house. Here are my first thoughts.
I loved Philip. Our friendship lasted four years and yet I think of him frequently still and recently told Kris how much I miss him, even now. For a few years after his death I regularly dreamt that he had come home with some wild explanation for his absence. I would awaken flooded with joy until it sank in again with aching clarity that he was really gone.
I don't remember the exact moment we became friends. It may have occurred during high school football since we both played, though he was a year behind me at KM, surely our connection to Tom Brush was a factor. We may have attended the same writing class my senior year. I enjoyed rereading the poem that Phil’s sisters posted to the blog, it is really sweet and better than anything I remember writing then.
It was no accident that Phil and Jerry were friends. They both were athletic and smart and hilariously rebellious but I would say Phil’s brand was slightly less edgy and more prone to giggling than confrontation. I know that I met Jerry through Phil. I remember our friendship was well on its way during my stint at the Robo CarWash which began no later than early 1971. Phil would often pick me up after my shift on a Friday or Saturday evening. We hung out regularly after I graduated. I know that we shared in weekend shenanigans after I took up residence with BM, Smoothie and the monkey at the Comstock bachelor pad.
Phil purchased a small sports car around 1972, his senior year, (an MG midget maybe) which was toward the end of my year at the dog hospital.
I remember Phil driving up with the top down one sweet summer afternoon. He was brimming with a kind of Route 66 brio just as the car conked out in the parking lot. He fussed with that car throughout the summer and struggled to keep it on the road. He got the car to Bellingham in the fall of 1973 but I don't know how. He may have towed it behind a U HAUL. I remember it parked outside the Humboldt Street house for awhile but I don't remember that we ever took a ride in it that year. He either disposed of it or returned it to his family's home and I don’t think he had a car when we moved into bleak house on Iron Street the next fall.
Do you [Jack] remember your first trip to B’ham? It must have been winter quarter 1972-73. I remember that you and Milo made the trip and arrived after dark. I think that was that the first time you met Phil and Jerry. Our years on Humboldt and Iron Streets were full of stooges moments. I will put them together over the next few weeks. [to be continued]
---o0o---
9/7/07
For a friend who died playing basketball
by Phil Kendall
I remember you at the little school
You wobbled on the court like a newborn calf
And squeaked like a referee's whistle.
I had only your dad to believe that you
would grow, come booming out of a
bottle of protein pills.
I don't think he ever missed a game, not even
when you were squatting like he was.
But you did come booming,
booming out of a bumper summer
And all the kids looked and said,
"Who's the new boy in school?"
I remember you practicing,
stuffing everything you had into
nets and sneakers.
You kept rising and nobody ever
thought there was a lid on your game.
But you wobbled off the court that frantic night
and your voice cracked for the last time.
I've tried hard to think of
what you escaped,
the fading clippings,
dust-collecting trophies
and the nagging belief
that you could have made it to the big time.
It doesn't matter, your dad is going through all that.
For me you are rising up again,
caught in a net you drop through.
Copyright © Philip A Kendall, All Rights Reserved.
by Phil Kendall
I remember you at the little school
You wobbled on the court like a newborn calf
And squeaked like a referee's whistle.
I had only your dad to believe that you
would grow, come booming out of a
bottle of protein pills.
I don't think he ever missed a game, not even
when you were squatting like he was.
But you did come booming,
booming out of a bumper summer
And all the kids looked and said,
"Who's the new boy in school?"
I remember you practicing,
stuffing everything you had into
nets and sneakers.
You kept rising and nobody ever
thought there was a lid on your game.
But you wobbled off the court that frantic night
and your voice cracked for the last time.
I've tried hard to think of
what you escaped,
the fading clippings,
dust-collecting trophies
and the nagging belief
that you could have made it to the big time.
It doesn't matter, your dad is going through all that.
For me you are rising up again,
caught in a net you drop through.
Copyright © Philip A Kendall, All Rights Reserved.
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