Kenneth Mandel Anderson

Ken Anderson wouldn’t be reading this obituary. “People die,” he’d say, leaning forward in his chair, swirling the Merlot in his glass, “who wants to waste their day reading about that?” Then he’d look off with a smile and tell that joke about a priest and a rabbi arguing in front of St. Peter’s Gates - the joke, like all of the ones he’d tell, that isn’t a respectable fit for an obituary. Kenneth Mandel Anderson first grabbed a hold of life on August 30th, 1937, in Sparta, Wisconsin, and gave the world all it could handle from that day on. He would regale his four children with stories of haunted houses, creeks responsible for his early-onset bald spot, slingshots, and, yes, walking to school in the snow. Over years, with the help of his four doting sisters - Shirley, Jan, Phyllis and Diane - his children were able to verify that these stories were, in fact, partially and mostly and somewhat true. His stories continued, because what is life if not a good story waiting to be told over wine? There was his stint with the US Navy after high school, something to do with the CIA, and his move to the hills of San Francisco. He liked those days a lot - it is when he met his first wife, Angela Joan Selinger, a curious, very, very Catholic farm girl from North Dakota. Together, they explored the world and fell deeply in love. Ken found the perfect job for a charismatic, life-loving, master-of-jokes: a traveling salesman. Starting with Wurlitzer, where he drove across Western America selling jukeboxes over stiff drinks and cheap cigars, he quickly moved into the exploding video game and pinball industry. He became a legend in the coin-op business, and was beloved by anyone and everyone who found him tucked behind a booth at the AAMA convention, selling himself first, and his latest game second. He was a hard worker - perhaps the hardest - and could still be found at a coin-op convention as recently as 2020, at age 82. Ken liked to move. To travel. To go. He did not have patience for stagnation or stasis. There was no problem that could not be solved by a long drive and a longer lunch (best if the restaurant had ocean views and fried calamari). His job allowed him to travel the world: Brazil, Germany, England, Japan. It also allowed him to move across the country, as he climbed the professional ladder. Four kids (Debbie, Dane, Lisa and Mark) weren’t enough to slow him down: There were moves to Foster City, Los Angeles, Denver, Chicago, San Diego, back to Foster City. After the too-early death of his first wife, Angie, at the age of 56, Ken reconnected with an old high-school friend, Juno Kellar, and was happily married for a second time. They settled in Camarillo, California, where they watched the Lakers, visited piano bars, grilled delicious steaks, gave the perfect gifts to their multiple grandkids, and continued to squeeze the most out of every moment. He loved as much as a person should be allowed to, and his generosity was legendary. His advice, informed by a lifetime of experience, was usually perfect. Ken’s energy and vibrance were blinding, and, even in his last months at a nursing center, we could find his room just by following the sound of laughter. For 83 years, he gave life everything he could. Sadly, on May 17th, 2021, he could give no more. With his loving daughter Debbie holding his hand, he passed into heaven, so he could finally tell St. Peter his joke firsthand. Back here on earth, there’s an AAMA booth that will never be the same, and a whole lot of heavy hearts. He leaves behind too many loving people to count. And what’s the point. This obituary is getting long, your glass is getting empty, and, Ken would impatiently remind us, there’s no point in digging where there ain’t no taters. To pay last respects in person, we are having a memorial service on Saturday, May 19th at 11:30 with a viewing at 10am. Reception to follow.

Kenneth Mandel Anderson

August 30, 1937 - May 17, 2021