Mesa Musings:

As mentioned in this space a week ago, I spent much of my youth at the Mesa Theater in Costa Mesa.

Emblazoned with a big “MESA” atop its marquee, the magenta-colored building sat at the corner of 19th Street and Newport Boulevard. I enjoyed many a Saturday matinee there in the 1950s and ’60s, watching science-fiction flicks and B-movies, and chomping on Big Hunks.

Every once in a while, the print would break and the screen would go blank, and a thousand kids would commence screaming.

The aisles invariably filled with restless adolescents racing to the lobby for more sugar. But, never do I recall feeling compassion for the poor wretch in the booth who was trying to untangle 100 yards of film at his feet.

Soon, I would feel his pain.

Fast-forward to 1964. I was a 19-year-old private in the U.S. Army, stationed at Fort Benning, Ga. My job was to teach Army training classes, and my company commander announced one day: “Carnett, I’m sending you to Projectionists’ School so that you can be a more effective soldier.”

Mind you, he wasn’t sending me to Projectile School. I was off to a three-day Projectionists’ School!

I don’t mind telling you, it was tough. The rigor left me exhausted and drenched each afternoon (of course, the fact that the class was in August in an un-air-conditioned World War II barracks had something to do with that).

What does one learn at Army Projectionists’ School? We were trained to take out of its case, thread, play and, finally, rewind a camouflage Bell & Howell, Department of the Army 16-mm sound projector.

Not a mechanical genius by any stretch, I was, at first, all thumbs. I remember the instructor screaming at me: “Maintain your loop! Maintain your loop!” If you’ve never toiled over a Department of the Army projector, you’ll not understand what I just said.

If a projectionist’s film-threading loop suddenly collapses, the 16-mm movie will begin to jump uncontrollably on the screen. Perhaps people 45 or older remember that happening in their elementary school classes. There’s but one solution: The projector must come to a full stop, and the loop must be manually reestablished.

On the first half-day of Projectionists’ School we learned to thread the machine.

For the next 2 1/2 days we tested our skills, showing film after film. We showed Army training films, Army health films (not for G audiences), how to behave in occupied Japan films, and how to conduct winter warfare against a Central European enemy in the Alps films.

But the killer was the final exam. I was required to screen the 1946 Christmas classic “It’s a Wonderful Life” — all four reels of it! The pressure was on. With the final exercise about to begin, I was stammering worse than Jimmy Stewart.

But, there’s Strong, and then there’s Army Strong. I took a deep breath and assumed command of my projector. The film presentation went off without a hitch (my loop collapsed only twice), and I proudly accepted my diploma.

I went from there back to my Army classroom.

I taught training classes on health, safety and 3rd Army history. Usually I’d lecture for 15 minutes, then switch on “old reliable” for the remaining 60 minutes. On screen, George Patton would again sweep across France with his 3rd Army tanks. Boy, did I love that projector!

We used a rear-projection system, and I remember once falling asleep in a chair backstage as the film was running. The take-up reel snagged and stopped turning, and the film began to pile up on the floor. I slept on.

Then, I lost my loop. The film began to jump, and 200 guys started shouting and swearing. It was bedlam.

I instantly awoke, sprang from my chair and assessed the situation. My Army training kicked in. “Regain your loop,” I calmly told myself. “Worry about that pile on the floor later.”

Deftly, I stopped my trusty Bell & Howell and reestablished my loop. The film was up and running in seconds. I was good.

But, that was then. Today, I can’t figure out how to operate my cable system’s DVR.

JIM CARNETT lives in Costa Mesa. His column runs Wednesdays.