Anyone remember the Olympic Drive-In? Located in the North County suburb of Pagedale, this single-screen theater was notorious for showing such X-rated movies as "Three-Way Split" and "A Fistful of 44s." It was so raunchy, its owner once erected huge black curtains to hide the screen from the view of passing motorists on St. Charles Rock Road — too many accidents.
I worked my way through college there from 1970 to 1974. I learned how to make hot, greasy popcorn that was salty enough to force our patrons to buy jumbo-size soft drinks. I also learned how to appreciate the (bare) female figure, to smoke cigars like an underworld kingpin and to cuss like a sailor.
Today I eat only low-fat microwave popcorn. There are only four women (or girls) in my life: Angie, Jessie, Missy and Rosie. I haven't smoked a cigar in years, much to the dismay of my favorite tobacconist and the delight of my doctor. Lest you think I'm the male post-modern version of Doris Day, however, there's still one small problem.
To borrow from one of my favorite Gloria Estefan tunes, "the (four-letter) words get in the way." Under certain conditions, with guys I've known for years, I can still match them word for word. My years at the Olympic were a Rosetta Stone immersion course in Foul Language 101.
When I dropped my first F-bomb in front of my dad, there was mock horror from the projectionist on duty, but I was his buddy thereafter. Dad even smiled, too.
I don't know if it's a prerequisite for media men today, but some of my brother radio rats knew the seven dirty words George Carlin made famous, and many more, when we were still soaking wet behind the earphones. When I played drums for fun and profit, the moon wasn't the only thing that turned blue during many band breaks.
The problem is that once you acquire a dirty mouth, all the sugar-free gum in the world won't clean it up. In an episode of "The Bill Cosby Show" from 1969, Cosby — then portraying a high school gym teacher — had problems with a star basketball player with an X-rated mouth. In desperation, he encouraged his team to use such expressions as "fudge cake" instead of the actual naughty words.
I sanitized my speech much the same way throughout my radio career and still do today. Few listeners ever knew my exasperated "Good Grief!" was a euphemism for a phrase my dad frequently used; one that also started with the letter G.
It could be worse, however. In his 1969 book "Upstairs at the White House," retired chief usher J.B. West recalls an incident in which President Truman referred to a political opponent as "a pile of horse manure." It must have been a slow news day, as a reporter asked Bess Truman for her reaction.
Said the First Lady dryly, "You'll never know how long it took him to get it down to that."
Charles E. Geer is a Granite City resident and former radio talk show host who is father of two, and grandfather of two. Besides writing, he also enjoys cooking, drumming and talking cars with almost anyone.
