Burtday

Today is my father's birthday. His, and Queen Elizabeth's. To celebrate Papa-san's birthday, I offer another of his celebrated ties, above. Note the coffee stain, or perhaps a it's a nice bordeaux. This tie pulled up to tables at some great restaurants.

I propose that April 21st be known as Burtday, and that celebrants take their wildest ties out on the town. Festivities include inviting friends, fighting for the check, tipping the waitstaff generously, and photographing the whole thing, naturally.

Or donate what you would have spent to Rehabilitation Through Photography. But you can still wear the tie, and toast Herbert Keppler, a wonderful man doing wonderful things, and having a simply wonderful time.

Fun with Herbert Keppler, Part 1 in a Zillion-part series

Daddy loved wearing costumes (aside from his eye-popping workaday wardrobe). This is a card he printed up for a costume party where he went as his brilliant putative ancestor. He also loved anything unusual enough to require an explanation: not the usual car, but a Fiat shaped like a toaster. Or a green-and-cream Rolls-Royce convertible. Or a tiny Suzuki Samurai, known in town as the Ice Cream Truck.

Not the usual ball-point, but a Parker Vacumatic fountain pen (delicate, crotchety, all his shirt pockets had green inkstains). Not the usual winter hat, but a deerstalker. Not the usual gift bottle of wine, but one with a label: "from the Cellars of Chez Keppler." Not the usual suburban house, but a stone house with a turquoise copper roof.

And of course, not the usual camera, but a (name the monstrously large or diabolically miniaturized, prototype). We never went to any function but he would unveil the latest strangely shaped, ultra-advanced not-yet-released model and people would gather around him crying, "What's that?"