see ya later, alligator

Jerry Blavat passed away this week at the age of 82. Outside of the Delaware Valley, the name is meaningless. Although he appeared in a couple of movies and a memorable episode of The Monkees, Jerry Blavat's fame, appeal and rabid fan base extended only as far south as the Jersey Shore and north to a couple of places in the Poconos. But, between those narrow boundaries, Jerry was beloved. Very beloved. His popularity spanned generations. From his humble beginnings as a teen dancer on the original pre-Dick Clark American Bandstand to his regular summertime gig every weekend at his New Jersey nightclub "Memories in Margate," Jerry's original fans introduced the charismatic disc jockey and his unique on-air antics to their children and grandchildren. Those subsequent generations embraced Jerry. And Jerry embraced them right back.

The man known as "The Geator with the Heater" was a fixture on Philadelphia radio across seven decades. He loved the music of his youth and he kept those doo-wop ditties and sentimental ballads alive in weekly broadcasts and live dance parties. He was a man of the people and a proud proponent of all things Philadelphia. He loved to meet his fans and entertain them with stories of his show biz connections. As chronicled in his 2011 autobiography, Jerry hobnobbed with the likes of Quincy Jones, The Four Seasons and The Isley Brothers. He served as Don Rickles' personal valet and was tour manager for Danny and the Juniors. He even stood as Best Man for Sammy Davis Jr. at his wedding. For goodness sake, Jerry's mom would make a traditional Italian dinner for Frank Sinatra when Ol' Blue Eyes was in town. 

Ask anyone in Philadelphia for a "Jerry Blavat" story and they will most likely have one. And ol' Josh Pincus is no exception. In the days that followed Jerry Blavat's death, anecdotes about the disc jockey came flooding across news outlets and social media. I will share mine...

One night, I was driving my son from my house in the northern Philadelphia suburbs to his house in South Philadelphia. It's about a forty minute trip, no matter which of several available routes are taken. On this particular night, I decided to drive straight down Broad Street rather than venture into always-iffy traffic on the notorious Schuylkill Expressway. As we approached the intersection of Broad and Vine Streets, a small car pulled up next to us, sporting a large embossed plastic sign on the driver's door. The sign read "Geator Gold Radio" and the station channel number in big block letters, along with a little caricature of Jerry Blavat. I said to my son, "I wonder who could possibly be driving that car with that sign?" The windows of the car were tinted, concealing the driver's identity. We chuckled and continued the conversation we were having. The car next to us kept the same driving pace and we ended up stopping at every traffic light at the same time. As we got to the circle around City Hall, the car edged towards the curb that flanks the fancy Ritz Carlton hotel. The door opened and  I slowed down to see who the driver was. And, sure enough, it was Jerry Blavat himself. I pulled up alongside Jerry's car and my son lowered his window and called out "Hey Geator!" Jerry, all smiles with his trademark Kangol hat perched backwards on his short, now-gray locks, approached my car. His hands were raised and he was making "finger guns" in our direction.

"My main man!," Jerry cheered. He reached out and patted my son's shoulder. He continued his rapid-fire greeting. "Look at you two! Like Heckle and Jekyll! Yes sir! Like Heckle and Jekyll!" He winked and thanked us for stopping, explaining he had to run off to a gig at the Ritz. He waved as he disappeared inside a side entrance. We sat for a minute and laughed. Then I pulled back into traffic to drive Jekyll home. Or maybe he's Heckle and I'm Jekyll. I don't know. Jerry didn't make that clear.

For ten years, Jerry Blavat has had a radio show on Saturday evenings on WXPN, the very same radio station that employs my son. Jerry stood within "shoulder-patting" distance of my son and did not recognize him as a co-worker, despite having crossed paths on many occasions. But, it didn't matter. When you were in the presence of Jerry Blavat, he was your pal... whether he knew you or not. He had pals all over the Delaware Valley and — as far as he was concerned — he knew every one of them.

And now, all his pals miss him.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

teacher, teacher

My third grade teacher died last year. The news came to me via a Facebook group — of which I am a member — that concerns itself with memories about the elementary school I attended. According to the announcement, my third grade teacher was 93 years old. I found this to be particularly thought-provoking. When she was my teacher in 1970, I was pretty sure that she was 93 years old then. I made quick use of a calculator and my rudimentary math skills revealed that she was actually 43 at the time — just a few years younger than my mother. 

I remember when I was assigned to her class — as determined by my final report card of second grade — my heart sank. Rumors ran rampant within the school about my third grade teacher's disposition, especially towards the male students in her class. She was a "miss," and tales were told of how she hated men. The boys in her class often felt the wrath of her misandristic leanings. I worried all summer about what third grade would be like and if I would survive.

I distinctly remember beginning third grade. I remember my teacher as a towering, imposing fearsome, figure. She rarely smiled, usually sporting a scowl. She wore old-fashioned looking dresses and big, clunky, black shoes like my grandmother wore. She wore her silver gray hair in a no-nonsense, easy-to-maintain bowl cut. She was a firm (borderline cruel) disciplinarian with zero tolerance for passing notes or whispering between students. Every Hallowe'en, she greeted students at the door of her classroom wearing a huge woven wicker mask that completely obscured her face. She wielded a large straw broom which he used to whack each student on the ass as they passed across the classroom threshold. Every St. Partick's Day, you had better be goddamned sure you were wearing something green, lest you succumb to the ire of my third grade teacher, who was of proud Irish ancestry. I don't remember any particular lesson from my third grade class. No piece of information that stuck with me for the rest of my life. No special bit of knowledge that could guarantee me the grand prize in a round of cruise ship trivia. (I learned state capitals in fourth grade. I still know those.) I only remember not liking the class or the teacher.

The announcement posted to my elementary school's Facebook group was just this week, My teacher had passed away in April 2020, but, due to the social limitations imposed by the global COVID-19 pandemic, a proper funeral service was not held. The post noted a date in September 2021 when family and friends could safely gather to honor the memory of their beloved sister, stepmother, grandmother, aunt, great-aunt and — yes — teacher. 

She taught at the elementary school for 45 years, so, of course, the post was overflowing with positive, sometimes gushy, comments from former students expressing their fond memories of this teacher. 

Until they weren't.

After scrolling through a dozen or so glowing sentiments, I stopped at one comment that was posted by a name I recognized as one of my classmates. 

"Unfortunately I had a very different experience with her. She had a mean streak, she put me in the corner and told me save my hot air for the clarinet."

This was followed by several more comments elaborating on more less-than-stellar behavior from my third grade teacher. Memories that were more in line with my own memories of her class. One student even told of an evidently traumatic experience when my third grade teacher confiscated one of his Matchbox cars and held on to it until the last day of school. These folks are now sixty years old, but these incidents have stuck with them their entire lives.

I find it interesting that so many people can have so many varying memories of the same person in relatively the same situation. Or perhaps a lot of these people have skewed memories, altered by the fact that they are talking about someone who is now dead. There's a old expression — "Don't speak ill of the dead." A lot of people subscribe to that conviction. Eulogies become very sweet and flowery for someone who was a total jerk when they walked the earth. What is it about death that washes away the bad behavior and awful temperament someone exhibited in life. I have been to many funerals where I heard final words delivered by someone who either never met the deceased or was fed a bunch of bullshit by family members trying to grab at one last effort to cast their loved one in a positive light. 

A few brave souls on Facebook, under the guise of anonymity, voiced their true feelings about someone's beloved teacher. Feelings I also share. Was it the correct forum to do so? Maybe.... or maybe not. Nevertheless, you don't get a second chance to make a first impression. Especially an impression that lasts fifty years.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com