I know the photo is awful.  Give me a break.  I just got off a plane from LA. 

This is the room I grew up in.  I lived here until college.  Behind me, is where my old, comfy bed used to be.  Now it is a “convertible bed” that my father put in several years ago  to make my room “more adult.”  You can actually feel the metal coils sticking into your back.

The clock in the background has not worked in twenty years, but no one has ever thought about taking it down.

The poster at the top right has changed throughout the years, from that of the New York Mets to long-forgotten rock groups.  The current poster is of Sophia acting in a children’s play she directed in Israel. 

My pants belonged to my father, but I don’t think he ever wore them.  My t-shirt is from a Target in Los Angeles.  I’m using an old digital camera that works so-so.

After taking the photos, my mother made me a turkey sandwich and we watched “What Not to Wear,” which is pretty much the same thing I would have done if I was sitting on the couch with Sophia.  

This post is going to veer from the original gag.  You can guess the rest of the gag yourself.   Spinach bad.   Mob blames Popeye.   Hilarious.   (go here if you don’t know who Popeye is). 

What interests me is that this cheap Popeye gag has served a more important service:  it has opened up a long-repressed memory.

Here’s the story:

As I was preparing for this brilliant humor piece, I was searching online for a picture of Popeye that I was hoping to politely “borrow.”  Then, I stumbled onto this site that had a .wav file of the famous Popeye theme song.  

I listened to it over and over.  “I’m Popeye the Sailor Man…”  It struck a nerve.  This theme became my madeleine.  (This is a reference to Marcel Proust’s À la recherche du temps perdu, in English known as Remembrance of Things Past or In Search of Lost Time.  In the novel, “the narrator’s memories of childhood are awakened by the aroma and taste of a madeleine dipped in tea.”  This is an amazing literary masterpiece.  One day I hope to actually read it rather than just look it up in Wikipedia).

As i listened to the final “boop boop” in the theme song, I remembered that I used to watch reruns of Popeye on a local New York TV channel.  I must have been very young at the time and I was fascinated by the triangle of Popeye, Olive Oyl and the villainous Bluto.

The plot lines in the animated cartoons tended to be simple.

A villain, usually Bluto (later renamed Brutus for a time), makes a move on Popeye’s “sweetie”, Olive Oyl. The bad guy then clobbers Popeye until Popeye eats spinach, which gives him superhuman strength.  

I especially liked it when Olive Oyl melted in Popeye’s arms at the end, after he defeated Bluto.

As an only child, I was competitive with my father for my mother’s attention.  I think Freud (or Karen Horney!) would have loved to analyze my childhood obsession with Popeye, an obsession which I have pretty much repressed for years until today. 

But now I remember it.

I would ask my mother to cook some frozen spinach (all of her vegetables were frozen at the time — tasteless, watery mush).  After they were cooked, I would have her  put the cooked spinach into a used can of Spaghetti-Os so I could make believe that I had a can of spinach like Popeye.  I have no idea why we just didn’t use a can of spinach!   Once I had my can of spinach as my acting prop, I became Popeye — in the same way Sir Laurence Olivier became Hamlet.  My mother was Olive Oyl.  She would go into her bedroom or the kitchen and cry for help.  I would eat some spinach out of the can with a fork, flex my bicep, and rush in to save her from whatever danger she was in.

Jeez, no wonder I repressed this.  How embarrassing!

I called up my mother tonight.

Neil:  Guess what I’m going to write about in my blog tomorrow?  “Popeye Attacked by Anti-Spinach Mob!”

Mom:  That’s funny.  But I always knew this bagged spinach wasn’t good.  

Neil:  And how did you know that?

Mom:  The bag always said that it was washed three times — and it came from California.

Neil:  Yeah, so?

Mom:  So?   You don’t even DRINK the water in California.

Neil:  Great.  I know.  I know.  The water in New York is the best.

Mom:  You can actually drink it!

Neil:  OK.  But that’s not why I called you.  I wanted to ask you something.  Do you remember Popeye?

Mom:  Of course I remember Popeye. 

Neil:  Do you remember watching Popeye?

Mom:  I never watched Popeye.  I never liked Popeye.  I thought he looked like a pervert.

Neil:  A pervert?

Mom:  He had this one eye.  And creepy voice.  And weird body.

Neil:  No, do you remember us?   I would be Popeye and you would be Olive Oyl and I would rescue you?

Mom:  We did that?

Neil:  Yes!  Don’t you remember you would cook frozen spinach and put it in a Spaghetti-Os can?

Mom:  Wouldn’t it make more sense to just buy a can of spinach?

Neil:  I was going to ask you that!

Mom:  I don’t remember this.

Neil:  You don’t remember playing this at all?

Mom:  Maybe you played it with your friend Robert.

Neil:  I played it with YOU.

Mom:  I remember playing Scrabble.

Neil:  Oh my god!  You’ve repressed the memory, too!  Wait, hold on.

I quickly went to that website with the wav. file of the Popeye theme.  I put the phone against the speaker so she could hear the familiar tune.  “I’m Popeye the Sailor Man…”

Neil:  Listen to this!  Does this jog your memory now?  Does this remind you of anything?

Mom:  It reminds me that Popeye seemed like a pervert.

Neil:  Mom, I was Popeye!  We played Popeye together!

Mom:  Well, I think this explains a lot about what you write on your blodge.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  Modern Talmudic Question

Sometimes I feel a little frustrated with blogging, mostly because of you, my dear reader.  While I enjoy our interaction, try as I might, I still don’t feel I really know you.  Mathematically speaking, am I being too generous in saying that you only get to see about 15% of a person by reading their blog?

People are complicated in general.  It’s hard enough knowing yourself, so knowing someone else is especially difficult.  For all my time with Sophia, I suspect I only know 25% of her.  She’s always doing things that are surprising to me.   Last night, we played Texas Hold ‘em poker with some friends, and she bluffed with a two of diamonds and three of spades.  That just wasn’t her!  It was shocking.

I love my mother, but having never seen her in her wild single days in Coney Island, I suspect I’ve only seen 35% of her true self. 

I don’t understand myself at all, especially with all my self-deception, so I gather I only know 60% of myself.

As a "writer," I’m supposed to understand characterization, but in truth, people are way too mysterious.  My interest in the human psyche started at an early age. 

When I was a kid, I remember my parents being involved in a  Jewish social group that met at our apartment every month.  There were about twenty members of this group.  On this night, my parents would let me stay up late.  Sometimes, I would come out in my pajamas and play a song on my clarinet,  or do a magic trick (I was a budding magician who did shows at childrens’ parties).  After doing a trick, Abe, a hefty optomotrist, would give me a quarter "tip."

I bring up this monthly event because something odd happened in my apartment every single month — something that became legendary in my household.  After all the guests left, we would find that one of the toothbrushes in the bathroom was missing, and we would then find it sitting in the bathroom hamper with the laundry.

The first time it happened, we assumed it was some weird accident.  But every month it would be the same — a toothbrush in the hamper after all the guests left.

My mother suggested that we hide all the toothbrushes, but my father, being an overly nice guy, didn’t want the culprit to know we were onto him — and make him feel bad.   My father worked in a hospital and was very understanding of all sorts of neurotic people.

One night, a year and 12 discarded toothbrushes later, my mother had had enough.  She gave me a secret assignment, something I wasn’t supposed to tell my father.  I would watch TV in my parents’ bedroom during the evening.  With the bedroom door slightly ajar, one could get a perfect view of the bathroom.  Each time someone went into the bathroom, I should make a note of the person, then run in to check the status of the toothbrushes as soon as they left.

I was on toothbrush patrol all night,  and I must have run into the bathroom at least 10 times for an examination, each time with my father’s handkerchief covering my face, protecting me from any smell and making me feel like a real sleuth. 

Then came the big moment.  

Abe had just left the bathroom.  As he passed from view, I ran inside — and there was the proof –  my father’s toothbrush was gone!  I opened the hamper and laundry scattered all over the floor.  On top of one of my t-shirts, was the toothbrush!

I rushed into the kitchen and told my mother.  It was Abe!  She said we should talk about it with my father later. 

After everyone left, I told my father about my investigative reporting.  He was not surprised, but insisted that we never bring it up and embarrass Abe.  The next day, my father and I went to our local dime store and bought a 12-pack of toothbrushes, enough to keep Abe happy for a year of throwing toothbrushes into the hamper.

My parents were friends with Abe for many years.  His weird toothbrush fetish was never brought up.  Why did Abe do this?  Did he have a bad experience with a dentist when he was a child?  Did he want us to launder the toothbrush?  And why only one?  Would he have remained friends with my parents if they confronted him? 

Did they ever really know more than 2% of the real Abe?

People are complicated and mysterious.