Tonight I joined Candyce for a lecture at ASU by Eames Demetrius, the grandson of legendary furniture designers Charles and Ray Eames. (For the record, Charles and Ray were married, Charles is the husband and Ray, the wife, is; a woman.) I wanted to attend the lecture because I’ve been a fan of Eames furniture ever since I discovered the hip mid-century designers while taking History of Industrial Design at Georgia Tech.

To any of my friends from the ID department back at Tech, the chance to meet the Eames grandson is like a music fan meeting John Lenin’s grandson. (I’m not a die-hard Beetles fan, so I don’t know whether or not; John Lenin actually has a grandson.) In every creative field, there are talented people that eventually become stars, and their children will in some way continue that legacy and celebrity.

The lecture hall was packed with students from different all majors within the design college. Scattered in the group were fashionable college town adults of varying ages. Candyce and I had to sit in the isle because all the seats were filled.
The presentation itself was cool because we got a more personal story of the designers. We watched one of their short films, which was pretty cool. I always admire a designer that can be good at more than one medium.

The lecture dragged on because of technical problems with the overhead projector and the laptop that was supposed to play the DVDs. By the end, the more restless students had cleared out, leaving half of the once-coveted seats empty. I was embarrassed for them but at the same time a little bit jealous. It was a long night and I was tired.

The reward for the evening was that they had a raffle for some Eames stuff at the end. The grand prize was an Eames rocking chair, which will cost you about $500. I; had entered my name in box as we walked in because I figured it wouldn’t hurt to give myself a chance–even it it was 1000 to 1.

Well the first name the drew was my own. I couldn’t believe it! Everyone’s heads jerked around the room to see if someone would raise their hand. As I walked forward, they looked at me with contempt and excitement. I hammed it up and pretended I had just won and Oscar for best supporting actor. I acted shocked yet flattered. I even stopped to shake hands with some of the losers. By the time I made it up to the front, my arms were spread wide to give the Director of the Design school a heartfelt hug. He wasn’t as excited as I was, but the students in the room thought it was funny.

I didn’t win the chair, but I did win a book written by Eames Demetrius who had just given the lecture. Afterwards I met him, and asked him to sign my book. I explained to him how I caught a vintage furniture collector trying to peddle bootleg versions of his grandparent’s furniture around town. He was really proud of me when I recounted how I reprimanded the dealer for deceiving people.

He explained in his lecture that his grandparents believed that their designs were not just chunks of furniture, but a dynamic example of how to be a good host. When you sat in one of; their chairs, you were their guest. And when people copied their furniture and made it from cheaper materials, it was essentially people thinking they were going over the Eames house as a guest, only to be turned away angry because of a fake. I thought he was going to give me a hug because he’d found someone who understood what his grandparents were trying to do.

In his message that he wrote in the book, he encouraged me to buy a lottery ticket because I seemed to be lucky. After Candyce and I had dinner at a swanky restaurant, I drove by a greasy gas station and bought a lotto ticket–my first ever. Maybe tomorrow I will be a millionaire.

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Wednesday night:

I just checked online and I didn’t win a lottery. I didn’t think I would, but I can see why people like to buy a ticket every so often. It gives you a rush because you get to play in your mind for the next day of how your life could change. But I feel lucky just to have me Eames Demetrius, and the lotto ticket will make a good bookmark.