Skip to main content

Do you remember 1979?  Do you remember Skylab?  The U.S.’s first space station was disintegrating and due to fall back into earth’s atmosphere, breaking up into small pieces that COULD FALL ANYWHERE!  I remember!  Did I worry, like thousands of people around the world, about suddenly being hit on the head by a piece of the debris?  Did I contemplate the damage that might occurs should a piece fail to disintegrate sufficiently and fall into, say, a nuclear power plant? Hell, no!  I saw a MARKETING potential!


I was in Pittsburgh.  It was right around the time of the annual Three Rivers Arts Festival at  Point State Park – the place where the Monongahela and the Allegheny meet and form the Ohio River.  My eccentric friend Tim was visiting from Ohio (I, of course, being the grounded, down to earth part of the friendship...)  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?  Let’s do it!”  So it was off to a surplus store where we found and purchased around 35 plastic helmet liners.  We made a stencil, and bought a can of black spray paint.  Those cheap, fifty-cent helmet liners became, in the blink of an eye, SKYLAB DEFENSE HELMETS, specially manufactured to aerodynamically deflect any falling debris to a point away from your body, each one complete with the name and the anticipated date of entry of Skylab into the atmosphere!

Tim and I took our creations to the Arts Festival and, not deigning to buy a permit, strolled casually around the grounds, each wearing a helmet.  As we walked past festival goers, we would point dramatically towards the sky and say, simply and ominously:  “It’s falling…”  Should any interest be shown (as opposed to people grabbing their children, moving away and glancing around for any nearby police officer), we would quickly explain the benefits (and historical and conversational value) of the scientifically designed helmets, available for a short time at the special price of only $5.00.


Yes, capitalism at its best…..

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

THE HATFIELDS AND THE MCCOYS I was getting ready for a trip to a project region in the south central Department of Olancho in Honduras, but there was some doubt whether conditions in the zone would allow for a safe journey back along the country roads leading to the isolated communities that were participating in the project.  There was talk of increased violence in the region; not that violence was something unheard of in these rural, frontier environments, but over the last year the level of reported deaths in the department (not by automobile accidents or natural causes) had risen to a point where additional safety considerations and analysis were needed.  The news coming out of the area consisted of a too-often vague and mixed up tale of gang rivalries, drug trafficking wars and/or family feuds.  It all seemed just too jumbled up to make sense.  But, by talking to staff of our local partner organization, I was finally able to piece together at least part of ...
MUD BY ANY OTHER NAME… Before leaving the remote village where we had arrived after a half-hour motor-boat ride across a placid coastal lake and a pleasant, spirit-inspiring, forty-five minute journey in a dugout canoe through acres of mangrove trees, my hosts asked me if I wanted to borrow a pair of rubber boots as we continued on our way to visit a farmer who was planting nitrogen fixing trees on his small plot on the Atlantic Coast of Honduras.  “There will be mud along the way”, they said.
Reflections on Hair I am about to cut all the hair on my head and shave off all of my facial hair. It started as a simple fund raising idea for the organization I work for.  In a gambit to raise a minimum of $1500 from friends and family, I foolishly promised that I would let myself be subjected to a Kojak-like do-over if it happened.  And it did.  For those of you who might not know who the 1970’s TV character Kojak was, he was a detective.  A bald detective.  A lollipop sucking bald detective.  And I will soon be like him. Well, maybe not the lollipop part. But first, before I submit to a public shearing, I feel the need to reflect back over all the different manifestations my hair and I have gone through over the years. When I was between the ages of 3 to 12 years, I didn’t know that there was any kind of haircut other than the flattop.  It was an uncomplicated thing:  you went to the corner barber shop, sat in the hydraulic chair ...