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Philip Spiess
Oh, boy! We've started up again! Thanks all! Yes, Gene, that word is real; I think Dick Ransohoff put me onto it (he being a sesquipedalianist in 6th Grade at Clifton School), but it also appeared in the 1961 edition of the Guinness Book of World Records (which had some hilariously written entries!) as being the longest word that was not a "nonce word" (one made up for one occasion only) in the English language (one letter longer than "antidisestablishmentarianism"). It means -- get this -- "the estimation of something as being completely worthless"; I think that the word fits its own definition, don't you?
Ann: Thanks so much for a complete run-down on the Alms & Doepke Building, and your historic role in it. Susan: Thanks for your memories, too, which may have rung a very faint bell in my memory, particularly the giant peppermint stick. (My own strong memories of A&D are the open corner staircases, the large spinning wheel that stood on top of one of the display cases by a southwest staircase, and a bustling bargain basement -- in the basement).
Indiana: it ain't called the "Hoosier State" for nothing; we of Walnut Hills all know that it properly should be "Who is your state?" or, even more properly, "What is your state?" -- which could lead to a state . . . of confusion (which, it seems, Indiana currently is).
The Alou brothers: let's see; there was Aloutian Isle, 'Alou, Can You Hear Me?, Aloun and Unloved, and Alouny Tune Special. Yes? And has anyone with the least interest in baseball ever noticed that the terms "batter" and "pitcher" sound like the start-up of the making of pancakes? (Or that Batboy and Robinson should round the bases in a Batmobile?)
The Palace of Fine Arts in San Francisco, designed by well-known West Coast architect Bernard Maybeck and built for the Panama-Pacific International Exposition of 1915! How the memories come soaring back! When I first saw it in 1959, it was in a ruinous state, having been built (as all World's Fair buildings were) out of gypsum and lath (not intended to last), which had not weathered well in the salt air for 44 years -- it looked haunted and haunting. (And what were those mystic Roman ladies, staring into the giant boxes along the top of the Colonnade, staring at? We did not know, because we could not see their faces.) Then Walter S. Johnson, a San Francisco executive, assisted by Caspar Weinberger, announced that same year that he would pay for restoring the building (as it turned out, it was completely torn down and rebuilt, circa 1963-1967, in permanent materials, namely concrete -- and in a stripped-down version). Only slowly did the city decide how to use the empty concrete shell; eventually it housed a theater (scene of numerous Presidential debates in recent years) and The Exploratorium, an intriguing hands-on science museum founded and directed by Frank Oppenheimer, brother of J. Robert Oppenheimer, scientific leader of the Manhattan Project (developers of the atom bomb). I had breakfast with Frank shortly before he died -- a most interesting, learned, and creative man!
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