Yikes

If a tree falls in the forest

2010-07-27T10:29:00.001-07:00

This is a story about how a car accident I was in a few days ago probably saved some lives.

Last Thursday at 5 p.m., at the beginning of rush hour, I was driving south on a section of Route 1 which is a four-lane highway (two northbound, two southbound). I was in the left southbound lane, stopped with my blinker on, waiting to make a left turn. In front of me was a Honda Civic, also stopped with its blinker on, also waiting for a break in the northbound traffic to make a left turn.

All of a sudden a Toyota Rav-4 slammed into the back of my car, pushing me into the Honda.

Luckily no one was hurt. The Toyota was seriously smashed (airbags, leaking radiator fluid, steam rising, front end demolished). The back of my car was heavily damaged, though my car (a mighty Subaru Legacy) was drivable. The Honda had a dent in the rear bumper.

I called 911 and police and a fire engine (just in case) were there in less than five minutes. The police stopped traffic in both directions. The couple in the Honda and I pulled our cars into the right lane, so an arriving tow truck could collect the Toyota. The man and woman from the Honda and I leaned on a guardrail at the side of the road, waiting for a police officer to finish with the Toyota driver and come talk to us.

Without warning, a tree behind us (on the other side of the guardrail) suddenly cracked at its base and fell, missing the guy beside me by inches and smashing into the Honda. It was large enough to shatter the rear window and heavily damage the roof and rear of the Honda.

We all jumped. "Damn, I've never seen anything like that before," the police officer said. I silently agreed. The Honda driving couple went ballistic.

A few minutes later the police officer finished with me and I drove home, rear bumper and bodywork flapping as I went. As I drove, I realized that if that tree had fallen as cars were going by at 50-60 mph there would have been a serious accident, almost certainly with people killed. It's easy for me to say this, since it wasn't my Honda the tree landed on, but a lot of people who don't even know it were lucky that day.

When I got home and called my insurance company to report the accident, the adjuster had this comment:

"I've processed a lot of claims. I thought I'd heard them all, but I've never heard a story like this." When the Toyota driver's insurance company called me to arrange for repairs, that adjuster told me the same thing.

Note to police officers: the next time someone tells you "that tree just jumped in front of me," it could be true.

Patience of Job II

2010-03-18T13:41:00.000-07:00

I recently had a great job interview, and really hope I'm offered the job, but it won't hold a candle to my favorite job interview of all time.

Years ago I interviewed at an ad agency whose name I can't recall for a copywriting position. I really liked the agency and the creative director who interviewed me, and was hoping he'd call me with an offer.

A few days later he did. Yes! All was right with the world.

He started talking about the things about me that had impressed him, including certain projects. "I really like what you did for (this client) and (that client)," he told me.

Unfortunately, none of the clients he mentioned were mine.

He was a bit bubbly, and took him a couple of minutes to pause for breath. When he did I was honest: "I'm really flattered, but none of the work you mentioned is mine."

"Well who the hell's work is it?" he asked me. I had to plead ignorance. "Who am I trying to hire?" he demanded. Again, I had no idea.

"But if you can't find out who it is, I'd still love to be considered for the position," I told him. He cursed — not at me, I think, but at the situation — and hung up.

He never called back.

Firecracker shrimp

2009-10-06T09:18:00.000-07:00

To this day my sister claims that she didn't almost burn down the house.

But I know better.

For a couple of years, back when I was a teenager and my sister was a pre-teen, we fell in love with shrimp chips. (If you've never had them, Chinese restaurants used to offer them, sometimes as an appetizer and sometimes gratis. They were colorful, deep fried chips that looked like colored styrofoam and tasted like shrimp. Very crunchy, very addictive.)

They came in a bag and looked like colorful, uneven poker chips. But drop them in boiling oil, and in seconds they puffed up into a delicious chip.

One day my sister put a pot of oil on the stove, cranked the burner to high, and walked out of the kitchen. Our stove took awhile to heat up, and she had other things to do.

About five minutes later I happened to walk past the kitchen. Flames were shooting out of the pot, licking at the bottom of the cabinet above the stove. For some reason there was a cookie sheet on the counter and I, thinking much more quickly than I normally did, put the sheet on top of the pot. The flames were instantly extinguished.

I began yelling at my sister. "You almost burned the house down. There were flames shooting out of the top of the pot of oil you put on the stove."

"I didn't put the pot there."

"We're the only two people in the house, and I didn't do it. That leaves only you."

She nervously glanced at the stove. "Don't tell Mom."

I glanced at the cabinet above the stove. The finish on the bottom was burnt and peeling, and the odor of smoke hung in the air. "I think she'll figure it out herself."

Needless to say, my mother never bought us shrimp chips again, and I haven't had one to this day. But there is no cabinet above our stove now, and I've been thinking...

I Spy With My Little Eye

2009-09-10T11:22:00.001-07:00

Although I've never been a private investigator, I was once spied on by one who was a great role model for what not to do.

And it wasn't even me he was supposed to be watching.

When my stepfather and his first wife were getting divorced, it got ugly for awhile. So ugly, in fact, that she had him followed by a private eye. (They later reconciled and remained friends until her death.) He and my mother, childhood friends who'd lost touch for 30 years and then reconnected, had recently started dating. (My stepfather and his first wife were no longer living together by then, and it was all over but the legal wrangling.)

She was in New York, we were in New Jersey, and when the soon-to-be-ex wanted to find out what my future stepfather was doing, she hired a PI firm in New York.

It was pretty easy to figure out what a car with New York plates was doing cruising our neighborhood all of the time.

My favorite incident was the time that, one evening, one of the PI's was parked across the street from our house. At night. Wearing sunglasses. I, who was the only one home that evening, happened to walk down the driveway to take out the trash, and spotted him. He spotted me at the same time, and quickly pulled up a newspaper to hide his face. Any chance he had of fooling me about his reason for being there was thwarted when I noticed the newspaper was upside down.

I walked up to his car and tapped on his window. He opened it, looking as innocent as a man in sunglasses at night time reading a newspaper upside down can look.

"Are you lost?" I inquired as brightly as a 16-year-old can inquire. "I know the area pretty well, and I can give you directions."

He mumbled something and started the car and began to pull away, though not before I noticed he had a gun in a shoulder holster peeking out from his coat.

I walked up the driveway and hid behind a bush. Sure enough, he pulled up again a few minutes later.

I eased back into the house and called the police, telling them that there was a man with a gun parked across the street from our house in a car with New York plates. Less than five minutes later, a police car pulled up behind my observer. Watching from the house I couldn't hear the conversation, but the PI was VERY animated and, it appeared, upset.

They both left in the police car for the police station where, as it turned out, the New York PI had no license to carry a gun in New Jersey. I later learned that the police took the gun and told the man that his boss could come down from New York to retrieve it at his convenience. They MAY have also suggested that he find a better place to park than our neighborhood.

Apparently he did, because I never saw him again. It's possible that his change of parking place coincided with a change in his employment status. But I'm just guessing.

Beloved

2009-08-26T07:31:00.000-07:00

A love I didn't even know about is, apparently, about to make me rich.

This morning I received an email with the subject line "My Beloved One." Although I like to think of myself as lovable — Don't we all? — no one has called me "beloved" in some time. Maybe never. I had to read this email.

Instantly, I was confused. The email was sent by Barr. Chinedu Anderson Esq. (KSM), on behalf of the late Scott Kennedy.

Which one considered me beloved? I was pretty sure I didn't know anyone named Chinedu; I'm quite sure I would have remembered that name. But the late Scott Kennedy, according to his esteemed barrister, left me $31.5 million in his will.

$31.5 million certainly says "beloved" to me.

But why did a person I didn't know leave me such a princely sum? According to Chinedu — by this point I felt we were on a first-name basis — "Scott Kennedy until his death was a very dedicated Christian who loved to give out."

This statement by the Chinster asked more questions than it answered. I, for one, am not a dedicated Christian, or any kind of Christian, at all, so it wasn't a spiritual linkage between the late Mr. Kennedy and myself. And what did he love to give out? Money, I suppose, but the email wasn't clear.

I read on. Mr. Kennedy's "great philanthropy earned him numerous awards during his lifetime," Chinny stated. I'd never heard of Mr. Kennedy or his awards until this morning, but I don't move in philanthropic circles, so this certainly is possible. I don't regularly read the obituaries, either, so Mr. Kennedy's demise could have easily slipped by me.

But why was I chosen to receive millions of dollars? Chinedu had an explanation for that as well: "this money is to support your activities and to help the poor and the needy."

I'm not poor and needy, though compared to someone who's handing out $31.5 million I suppose I would be. That sum would definitely support my activities, and even enable me to develop some new ones.

How could I claim this money? The instructions were simple: respond with my full name, telephone number, contact address/country, occupation, age, and "identity card or national drivers license."

Wait, wouldn't Scott Kennedy have known most, if not all, of this information about someone to whom he was leaving $31.5 million? And being American, I have no national drivers license or identity card, unless my social security card counts.

But why quibble when millions of dollars are at stake? I eagerly sent back my information. Under occupation I wrote, "waiting by the mailbox."

"Belovedly."

Fore-get It

2009-07-21T12:34:00.000-07:00

When I was growing up my cousin's town had an annual Junk Day where folks could put out anything they didn't want for the trash men to pick up. This is why I've only played golf once.

On Junk Day my cousin Philip and I would roam around his town, looking for treasures others were throwing out. One year, when we were probably 12 or 13, we hit the jackpot. Or, rather, several jackpots.

In one person's trash we found an old, but still decent looking, golf club. A few doors down we found another. Within an hour we probably had a dozen clubs of various types and sizes. (We even found and took a couple of left-handed clubs, for goodness knows what reason.)

By the end of the afternoon we felt like we had enough different woods and irons — we didn't really know the differences, though they mostly had different numbers — along with a putter (we knew what that one was) to actually try to play.

Luckily, there was a Par 3 (some places might call it an Executive Course or a Pitch 'N Putt) course nearby. Off we went, with the clubs tied to our bicycles. We had no golf bag, but we had plenty of clubs.

At the course we ran into a problem: on busy days the owner insisted on groups of four players, and there were only two of us. Fortune smiled upon us, in the form of two guys, both in their early 20's, who were in the same predicament and were willing to go together as a foursome.

I don't remember them asking us if we'd ever played before, but they could probably tell by our fine collection of clubs that we were new to the game. As we approached the first hole we politely told them they could go first, thinking we could watch them and learn what to do.

At the first hole one of them set up his ball and swung. Hole in one. He was thrilled.

At the second hold the other one went first. He swung. Hole in one.

Philip and I looked at each other. Then we looked at our golf partners. "I don't think we're the right guys for you," Philip said. "You should play with someone better."

And we left. I haven't played golf since. I can't speak for Philip.

You auto see this

2009-07-17T11:14:00.000-07:00

I like shopping for a new car, primarily because the potential for entertainment is often high.

The time I was shopping for a Mazda Miata was one of those times. Not because of the dealership where I eventually bought the car; that salesperson was honest, ethical and professional — but the one I visited after his, just to confirm that what I thought was a great deal was, in fact, a great deal.

I walked into the second dealership, at the time a combined Pontiac-Mazda dealership, late on a Saturday morning. I told the greeter at the desk I was interested in a Miata, and she turned me over to a salesperson. A very stereotypical salesperson, with a food stain on his shirt, a tie that had seen better days, and a hearty handshake.

I told him I didn't need a test drive, but I was buying a Miata that day, and already had a price from another dealer. He ushered me into his office, and I, not wanting to waste time, told him what dealership I'd already visited and what price I'd been given.

He gave me a lecture, in a somewhat fatherly, somewhat superior tone, about why the price that other dealership had given me wasn't really going to happen. He told me about what shysters they were, all of the tricks they were pulling to get me to buy, and a number of other criticisms that didn't at all match the actual treatment I'd received at the first dealership.

Then he told me he was going to talk to his sales manager "to get you a real deal" and disappeared.

I waited. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Finally, bored, I left his office and wandered down the only hallway to what turned out to be the sales manager's office.

I poked my head in the office. Inside was the man I presumed was the sales manager, along with several other salespeople, all watching a baseball game on TV. They looked up, slightly shocked and perturbed, when I appeared. My salesman was the most perturbed of all. "Have you had a chance to talk to the sales manager yet?" I inquired brightly. He waved me back to his office.

He hustled down the hall behind me, and we both sat. He, being overweight and, apparently out of shape, was a bit out of breath. "I was, uh (wheeze) ... the sales manager had to (wheeze) do some research."

Unless the sales manager was researching whether Mike Mussina would throw a fast-ball or a slider on a 3-2 pitch to a left hander, I doubted there was much research going on. Still, I listened with a straight face while the salesperson told me why HIS deal, which would have cost me $1,000 more than the deal I'd already been promised, was by far the better deal.

"They're liars!" he thundered, referring to the dealership I'd visited earlier. "They take advantage of people who don't know any better." Apparently, I was one of those people.

I stood up, thanked him for his time, told him I was going to take advantage of my better deal, shook his hand and left. His comment: "You'll see. You'll be back."

He was right about one thing: when I returned to the original dealership, the deal wasn't what I'd originally been offered. It was better.

When I'd visited the dealership initially, the salesperson had given me a price for the car ($1,000 over invoice, very fair at the time) while his used car manager had called around to various wholesalers to see what he could get for my old Honda. (The dealership didn't want my car for its own used car lot, and so was wholesaling it to someone else.) $2,500 was the best price the used car manager had received, my salesperson told me. I was happy, because Blue Book value was $2,200 at the time.

When I got back to the first dealership, my salesperson, Steve, greeted me with a smile. "Hey, after you left one of the other dealerships called back, and we can get $3,000 for your Honda."

"Really? Wow. Write it up."

Now, he could have done the deal and given me $2,500. I would have been happy and never known better. But he sweetened the deal by $500 because, I suppose, it was the ethical thing to do.

Since then I've bought two other cars from that dealership and referred it to two friends who both bought cars. Steve, unfortunately, is long gone.

So, less unfortunately, is the Pontiac-Mazda dealer. I wonder if the sales manager got to keep the TV.

Scam-A-Rama Ding Dong

2009-07-16T15:08:00.000-07:00

Our oldest daughter, at the tender age of 15, is on the verge of having money. A lot of money.

Or so says a letter she just received today from a man in South Carolina (we're in Maryland).

The letter, which many, many folks have received, is a variation on the old chain letter scheme: send the seven people on a list some money, remove the top person's name, add your name to the bottom of the list, mail to a bunch of people (in this case 200) and wait for the money to roll in.

The letter promised that our daughter, currently making minimum wage as a restaurant hostess, would make $71,000, $250,000 or $800,000. (The letter was a little vague on the exact amount to expect, but in bold, capital letters it said the $800,000 was guaranteed. (It neglected to mention by whom.)

Skeptical? Well, don't be. The letter offered not one, not two, but three proofs:

Oprah Winfrey had tested this idea and it worked.

ABC's 20/20 had tested this idea and it worked.

A retired attorney had tested this idea and it worked. His unsigned letter — no name given — was part of the package.

I wonder just what sort of attorney he was.

For one thing, his punctuation and grammar are, shall we say, a bit creative. (He particularly likes to capitalize words randomly in the middle of sentences.) He also seems to be unaware that chain letters such as this are illegal, and have been for years.

I suspect he's also a little math challenged, since the letter he cites returns of $71,000, $250,000, $800,000 and $2,341,178 for a mere $3 investment. It doesn't take much of a mathematician to realize that, since none of these numbers are divisible by 3, either some folks don't mail $3, some folks can't count, or some folks are running a scam.

What are the odds?

My favorite part of the letter is this:

The attorney tells his client, who brought him the letter originally, that it is "100% legal." Apparently 100% isn't enough, because his client "then asked me to alter it to make it perfectly legal."

What's the difference between "100% legal" and "perfectly legal"? "I asked him to make one small change in the letter."

There are other letters included in the packet, along with helpful instructions, including the comment that stamps are sold at the Post Office. (Gotta spell everything out for some people, I guess.)

Don't know 200 people to whom you can mail this golden opportunity? Not to worry: information on a company that sells mailing lists is in the instructions, along with the company's phone number and the note that it accepts Mastercard and Visa.

So how did this stranger in South Carolina get our daughter's name? If he followed the instructions, he asked the mailing list company for names in this category: Opportunity Seekers.

Our daughter must be one, though I haven't seen her seek too many opportunities beyond attempting to make the track team and soccer team at school.

Sadly, her five-, six- or seven-figure income opportunity doesn't seem like it's going to happen any time soon. But her economic future isn't all bad.

Minimum wage goes up next week.

Silence is Golden

2009-07-10T13:41:00.000-07:00

My first wife, for reasons I never understood, was fluent in sign language for the deaf. When we met I thought it was a fairly useless skill, but it turned out I was wrong.

One day we were riding the subway in New York (at the time we both lived in New Jersey, not far from Manhattan) and a group of teenagers got on our train. They were hooting and hollering and making a lot of noise, though not speaking actual words. The reason became quickly obvious: they were deaf.

As they carried on and the people in the car looked at them, they began signing to each other about how stupid and ugly all of us were. They criticized what everyone else in the subway car was wearing, reading, doing, etc. I turned to my wife. "You know what they're saying, don't you?" She nodded.

We continued on, as they finally got around to commenting in sign language about us. We sat silently. Then we arrived at our stop.

As the train doors opened and we stood to walk out, my wife signed to them: "You're right, there are stupid people on this train. Guess who?"

The looks on their faces were priceless.

Sit down, stand up, fight, fight, fight

2009-06-17T14:23:00.000-07:00

This past weekend I did a two-day walk to raise money for multiple sclerosis, and this year for the first time (at least in Maryland) the event included both walkers and bicycle riders.

The walkers went 50k, or 31 miles, over two days. The bike riders had a choice of routes, but most went 50-125 miles over two days.

At the awards ceremony after the event, the chapter president had no trouble telling which group was which.

"The walkers," he noted, "are sitting down. The bikers are standing up."

Sore legs or sore ass. It's always something.

Plus ça change...

2009-06-15T10:27:00.000-07:00

If you've ever wondered how much times have changed in America, spend a few minutes with the 1925 yearbook from, in this case, Catonsville High School.

I have to admit this is the first time I've ever seen an ad for bloomers. (The "Man O' War Middy," sold with the boast "the sloped sides make it fit." Oh, it's "wholesome looking.") The portable steel garage was advertised with this provocative question: "Why own a car and walk halfway home?" Milk came from tuberculin tested cows. Grocery stores also sold animal feed, Hudson and Essex automobiles were available at excellent prices, and a private sanitarium was the place "for mental and nervous invalids (no alcoholics or drug addicts received)." Automobile insurance covered "you while operating, adjusting or cranking any automobile" (and if you were run over by an automobile as well). The premium? Five dollars a year. And who needed margarine when one could buy butterine?

The second best section of the book is split between the sections titled Noted Personages — students judged to be the Class Hercules, Class Romeo, Queen of the Ivories, Most Versatile (?) and other categories — and what are charmingly termed Class Statistics.

You might think statistics involves numbers. Well, not in 1925. The class statistics included: tallest boy, tallest girl, best boy athlete, best girl athlete, and shortest boy and girl.

Then come the categories that would never fly today: most thrilling Latin type (Herbert Rice, who hardly sounds Latin), most obliging girl (one can only imagine), biggest tease (ditto, though won by a boy that year), most backward in coming forward (different from quietest, most studious, most unobtrusive or meekest), and the list goes on. Elizabeth Rodgers had the most attractive dimples, though Cora Appler beat her out for prettiest eyes. Lula Cook was the class milliner — I'll wait while you look it up — and Albrecht Stude (great name for a band) was the most argumentative.

The best part, though, is the jokes and riddles. Even the names of the people speaking are great:

Miss K: Billy, give your oral composition.

Absent-minded Billy: I left it home.

Pedagogue: What would be the first thing you would do if you spilled acid on yourself?

Victim: Yell.

Some of the jokes require bits of knowledge that I never acquired in school — the composition of Glauber's Salts, for example, and the meaning of slang expressions such as "chewing the rag" (it means to ponder or meditate) — but one still has meaning today:

How to avoid falling hair: get out of the way.

New relationship, stat

2009-06-10T07:28:00.001-07:00

More than once, I've found humor in a place you'd probably least expect it: the hospital emergency room.

Once when I was waiting my turn for a doctor (I had a broken finger, not so serious), a man was rushed in by an ambulance crew. It didn't take a medical expert to spot the problem. He had a hatchet in his head.

Surprisingly, he was both conscious and coherent. As they rushed him into an operating room, he was yelling about how his girlfriend had been the one to hit him in the head with a hatchet. His threat, yelled to everyone within earshot but clearly meant only for his absent girlfriend, was this: "the relationship is over, bitch!"

I guess so.

Lessons Learned

2009-05-21T12:30:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid, probably 7 or 8, my parents tried to teach me a lesson every parent has to teach at one point: behaving in the car.

In their case, I think the lesson wasn't the one they were expecting.

I had, apparently, been acting up or fussing about something. Whatever it was, my father said something like, "If you don't stop, I'm going to make you get out of the car."

I didn't, and he did.

Where we were was a commercial part of town — not a highway, exactly, but sort of a highway — with stores on either side. It was night time. My guess is the plan was to make me get out of the car, drive a short distance away, then come back and get me. I guess I was supposed to be so scared that I'd actually been left that I'd never misbehave in the car again.

Unfortunately, no one had given me the script, and I didn't play my part.

I can't remember what store my parents dropped me off in front of, but I remember vividly the one that was a couple of doors down: it sold boats and boating supplies. It looked interesting, so I walked over there.

Meanwhile, my parents drove off a little ways, turned around, and came back to hear the tearful apologies from their thoroughly chastened son.

Except I wasn't there. Nor was I in the store where they'd dropped me off. Or the one next to it.

When they finally found me, after half an hour of frantic searching, they had forgotten the lesson they were trying to teach. (I'm sure my lack of contrition and puzzlement at their frantic faces was part of the problem.)

The lesson I learned? Parents get really angry and upset when you look at boats.

I have yet to teach that lesson to my own children.

The Bama

2009-05-18T09:15:00.000-07:00

I haven't heard all of the legendary disk jockeys in America, but I've heard most of them: the great New York record spinners of the 1960s, on both the rock stations and the black stations. The 50s legends (though some only on recordings), such as Alan Freed and Wolfman Jack. Tom Wilson from L.A. The AM giants, including Murray the K and Cousin Brucie. The wild and profane, the demented and the scholarly.

The best ever, as far as I'm concerned, was occasionally rough, often unpolished, and as much a philosopher (albeit homespun) as a disk jockey.

That, of course, would be Jerry Washington, whose Blues Hour (actually three hours) on Washington's WPFW-FM was the only place to be from 11 a.m. to 2 p.m. every Saturday.

Nicknamed The Bama (the term is a derogatory one denoting someone who is a country bumpkin, a hayseed, a yokel, which Washington most assuredly was not), Washington would break every rule of polished radio announcing: pauses for thought, repeating himself occasionally, correcting himself, sometimes long after the fact. But he combined a deep, deep knowledge and understanding of the blues with a sometimes ironic, sometimes hilarious, sometimes jaw-droppingly wise stream of philosophical observations, mostly about the relationships between men and women. Mostly about all of the things that can go wrong in those relationships, all of the things that can be misunderstood, all of the ways words and actions can be misinterpreted.

Like many Pacifica radio stations, WPFW was always hurting for money, its combination of jazz and left-leaning, Afro-centric talk and politics less than viable commercially. One year, feeling flush, I donated enough during the annual fund drive to qualify for the gifts of a Bama coffee mug and a cassette of some of his thoughts.

The coffee mug arrived within a couple of weeks. The cassette, despite several phone calls, was apparently never sent by the station's volunteer workers. I eventually gave up trying.

But about once a week or so I have my morning coffee in my Bama mug. It always tastes a little funky that day.

Do My Bidding

2009-05-11T09:28:00.000-07:00

I once offered to do a project for free and was underbid.

The project was a pro bono project — I can't remember the client — and because it was a good group and a worthy cause, and it had been awhile since I'd done a pro bono project, I offered to do it for free.

The woman who'd contacted me thanked me. She told me I'd hear from her soon.

She called back a few days later to tell me she'd spoken to another writer. My thought: "And you're calling me to tell me this because...?"

The other writer, she said, had not only offered to do the project for free, but was going to make a donation to the organization.

In the same tone clients have when they say, "I found someone who will do it for less. Will you match their price?" she told me that she was sure I was a better writer, "but his offer was so generous," and she was going to have to "reluctantly" choose the other writer "unless you feel you can tweak your offer."

I believe "tweak" meant "send us a check."

I told her "free" was as low as I could go, but I was glad she'd found a more generous offer. I asked her to send a sample of what the other writer did (she didn't tell me who it was), because I was curious.

That was several years ago. I'm still waiting.

Hatred is a Virtue

2009-05-11T05:26:00.000-07:00

"I Hate New Music: The Classic Rock Manifesto" by Dave Thompson isn't the longest rant I've ever read — almost any political book would top it —but at 224 pages it certainly is the longest smirk.

Thompson truly does hate just about everything recorded after 1976, finding punk, new wave, post punk, grunge, jam bands, and power pop to be nothing but recycled ideas. And synthesizers, he says, should be used only to make space and fart noises.

This is the book that the record store employees from the movie Clerks, with their smirking superiority, would have written, had they been capable of mustering the energy and the articulateness to do it.

Filled with in-jokes and too clever by half commentary — one would have to know, for example, that Eric Clapton wrote Layla about his infatuation with friend George Harrison's wife, and later stole said wife — to understand why it was so tacky for Clapton to play that song at a tribute concert for George following the former Beatle's death. One would have to share his distinction that 60's artists were "influenced" by their predecessors, while 80's musicians "copied" theirs.

I wish Thompson had taken his manifesto to the extreme and posited that the Beatles barely advanced Chuck Berry, and then it was all over. That, at least, would have been a defensible position.

Or not.

Hop on the Bus

2009-04-30T19:05:00.001-07:00

When I was 16 I spent a summer as a counselor at a day camp for underprivileged, inner city youths. (I had my car and my locker broken into more times than I can count, hut that's another story.)

One day a slightly older co-worker asked me if I wanted a ticket. To see the Rolling Stones. At Madison Square Garden. That night. Mick Jagger's birthday. For free. (This was the 1972 tour, when the Stones were still at their peak.)

He, for some reason, only had the one ticket, and his girlfriend was pissed that he didn't have two (to also take her) and that he was even THINKING about going himself. So I got lucky.

I lived in New Jersey, about 40 minutes outside Manhattan by bus, and went into the city regularly. After work my mother gave me a ride to the bus station, and off I went.

Stevie Wonder was the warm-up band, and he was incredible. The Stones were as well. But the best part of the concert was my seat mates.

Just before Wonder came onstage a large, very flashy black man and two black women sat in the three seats next to me. I realize now (but certainly didn't then) that he was a pimp, and the two women were his ... employees.

For some reason he took a liking to me, a skinny, long haired, suburban white kid. He offered me liquor from a flask (I declined) and then some "blow" (I didn't know what that was), but didn't seem to mind as I repeatedly turned him down.

One of the women was VERY affectionate with him during the show, while the other was eying me. As the concert was nearing its end, he started talking about what we should do after the show.

"Looks like Charisse (the name of the woman who was eying me) really likes you. After the show come back to our hotel for a little party."

I, having no idea what he was talking about, thought for a minute. "Oh, I can't," I told him. "The last bus leaves at 11:30."

"The last bus?" He was incredulous.

"Yeah, I took the bus here. I can't miss the last bus."

"Instead of coming with us you're gonna catch a bus?" Now he seemed amused.

He shook his head. Charisse giggled a little, as did the other woman.

The concert ended and we parted, me wondering what it had all been about (I'm a little less naive now) and he, no doubt, muttering "crazy white kids" under his breath.

To this day I consider it one of the best concerts I've ever attended. Even though, in retrospect, it appears that I might have missed the best part.

Roll the Dice

2009-04-28T10:28:00.000-07:00

My wife's record as a gambler is enviable: she's never lost. At least in a casino.

Years ago we were vacationing in St. Martin, and arrived early for a dinner reservation in a restaurant whose building also housed a casino. With time to kill, my wife's curiosity led us into the casino.

It was tiny and amateurish, compared to American casinos, the equivalent of something you might build in your basement: two short rows of slot machines (maybe 20 in all), one roulette wheel, half a dozen tables for various games. My wife, intimidated by the tables and wheel, approached the slots. She asked how they worked, and I explained.

"Do we have time for me to try one?" "Sure, go ahead."

She inserted a coin and yanked the lever (these weren't the modern electronic machines). The wheels spun. She won nothing. She tried again. Nothing. She tried a third time.

Ding ding ding! Lights flashed, bells rang, and coins began to spill out of the machine and onto the floor, rolling and bouncing around us. My wife began giggling uncontrollably. "I won! I won!"

She gathered up her winnings, which were about $80.

"What do we do now?"

"We leave. You just won enough to pay for dinner."

"But I want to play some more."

"Of course you do. And if you play long enough you'll give it all back. Trust me."

And off we went to dinner. It was all the more tasty for being paid for by gambling winnings. My wife has never been in a casino since and, apparently, hasn't missed it.

Last year for Christmas I bought her a one-year subscription to the lottery's Mega Millions, which meant that she was automatically entered into every drawing (twice a week) for a year. The Maryland Lottery sends you a letter if you've won a larger amount (I think over $1,000), but just adds up your smaller winnings and sends you a check for them at the end of the year.

Every day, of course, I'd run out to the mailbox to see if we'd received that $1,000+ letter. I mentally spent multimillion dollar prizes many times over.

One day there was a letter from the Maryland Lottery, which she eagerly ripped open. Inside was a check for her year's worth of winnings.

$18. We ate dinner at home.

Sitting In Limbo

2009-04-15T10:59:00.001-07:00

On Easter I gave a gift to a stranger that, I believe, made us both happy: she self righteously, me, well...

Two of our children were altar servers at 9 o'clock Mass on Easter morning, so my wife and I went. (I try to go to most of the Masses they serve.) For those who have never been to a Catholic Mass, there are a couple of occasions when the parishioners kneel.

Just as the service was starting, an older woman (70s, maybe) sat next to me. She looked rather severe.

All was fine until the first point during the service when parishioners kneeled. Not being Catholic, I didn't, but remained seated in the pew. She shot me a look.

The second time everyone else kneeled, I again remained seated. She glared at me. She said nothing, but her body language said it all.

I was going to lean over and whisper to her, "I'm Jewish," but I stopped myself. Clearly she was receiving some pleasure by being so disapproving. I was sure she was going to mention my actions (or lack of actions) to someone else later in the day. Who was I to deny her a "tsk, tsk" moment?

When the service ended she gave me one more look before scurrying away. I felt like a heathen. A happy, giving heathen.

I hope she sits next to me the next time I go.

'Tis better to give

2009-04-13T13:41:00.001-07:00

Have you ever received a gift that seemed to be more for the giver than for you? This year I received several which semed suspiciojusly driven by self interest.

I only asked for two gifts, and received them both: a home made bookmark from one daughter, and a large ceramic mixing bowl (I'd broken my favorite one) from my wife.

My wife also inexplicably gave me some TV trays, so I could eat dinner while sitting in front of the TV I never watch. (I watch the least TV of anyone in the house by far.) A couple of years ago she gave me a breadmaker, which she used (and loved) sveral tims before I ever got around to doing anything with it. (Since it just broke I'm expecting another as a gift some time soon.)

I tend to receive gifts that the rest of the family wants, but since I really want very little it all works out. My brother-in-law was going to give me one of three books, and since he'd read two he gave me the other, assuming (correctly) that I'd lend it to him once I finished it.

One of my closest friends said he plans to give me some very nice cigars.

I don't smoke. He does.

Doppelganger

2009-04-02T12:48:00.000-07:00

I occasionally get emails meant for another person with my name, who assume that my first initial and last name at Gmail is this other guy. (My name isn't very common.) Today I received the best email yet.

The subject line consisted of only three letters: "wtf." The opening sentence: "Whatup dude."

I knew right away the email wasn't meant for me.

My other me was wished well (apparently I'm leaving a job or a place, I couldn't tell which). I was asked how long it took me to get used to my CPAP machine, told about a traffic stop where the writer had avoided a ticket, and asked how my wife was doing. (Fine, thanks.)

I was asked if I felt antsy about leaving (no) and told I was missed and that my name was "invoked every time there is free food." I guess that's a compliment.

Then came the heavy stuff: "my unsolicited, uninformed opinion is that you may have a pill addiction and it could possibly be underlying a lot of your issues, at least since Yvonne."

Oh boy, am I in denial. I had no idea I had a bad pill habit. Nor can I quite recall Yvonne. Guess I was so wasted on pills I didn't get her name. Or something.

It gets better: "At the same time, I feel like a HUGE hypocrite telling you that because I really enjoyed the pills you gave me and I wish you were here to give me more."

Now, actually, I think he feels like a huge idiot for sending this email to the wrong person.

I can't wait to see who writes me next. I just get more interesting by the minute.

Good Deed

2009-03-27T08:16:00.000-07:00

In the category of "no good deed shall go unpunished," I would place the time our oldest daughter lost her iPod in the National Aquarium in Baltimore.

Then 13, she'd insisted on bringing her new iPod on a family trip to the aquarium, and as we were leaving she suddenly realized that she no longer had it. I retraced our entire path through the aquarium and checked with the lost and found. (It turned out the aquarium didn't always keep everything in its central lost and found, so I was directed to visit the guard station on each floor as well as the lost and found.)

No iPod anywhere. She was teary in the way that a 13-year-old girl can be. Our only hope was that the person who'd found her iPod was an honest soul, since her first name and phone number were engraved on the iPod.

The next day a man from Annapolis, about half an hour from us, had her iPod. I arranged to stop by his house that Saturday and retrieve it, repeatedly thanking him and telling him how relieved and happy our daughter would be.

That Saturday our son wanted to take a drive with me, so we went to Annapolis together. When we arrived at the address we'd been given no one was there, but a note on the door said the man who'd called us would be back in a minute.

He was, and after greeting us he went inside, got the iPod, and came back out.

That's where the trouble began. He began lecturing me about being careless, hiw lucky I was that he'd been the type of person who would call about and return lost property, and how the aquarium was no place to bring an iPod.

When he paused I repeated that the iPod was our daughter's, not mine, and that I was the wrong person to lecture. His response? He lectured me more. Our son, then 11, just stared at him. This guy was a Good Samaritan Maniac.

Finally he ran out of steam and we escaped. I lead footed it out of his neighborhood.

When we were halfway home our son, who'd been silent all this time, finally gave voice to what was on his mind. "Dad," he said. "It would have been easier just to buy a new iPod."

Indeed.

Say It Ain't So, Joe

2009-03-23T08:51:00.000-07:00

Joe Vitale is, by almost any estimation, a terrific drummer. In the last 40 years he's played with Joe Walsh, Ted Nugent, the Eagles, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, Dan Fogelberg and many others. He's recorded three solo albums, produced or co-produced a few, and played in dozens of countries. He appears to be a very nice guy.

He has, however, produced a lackluster book, a story of life as a musician which was just released. Written and edited by his wife (it's an "as told to" book) and designed by his son, this is a real family affair. A big Italian family. big Italian family that talks about how humble it is, how flattered it is and how many stories it has.

If you find stories about musicians falling asleep on sofas and being left behind on tour buses, guitarists mistakingly turning up fans rather than amplifiers and people drawing mustaches on pictures to be side splittingly hilarous, you'll love this book. But somehow, the funny stories Vitale keeps saying he's going to tell never materialize. Curiously, in 40 years of touring with rock bands Vitale never seems to have seen a single groupie or drug incident, never seen a performer give a sloppy performance while drunk or high, never seen anyone act less than professional.

Now that's funny.

Gifts

2009-03-19T11:27:00.000-07:00

For those of you who haven't yet completed your Mother's Day shopping — I can't believe you've waited this long — this is the story of the best gift I ever gave my mother.

My mother, a first generation American, grew up in New York City (Queens, to be exact) during the Depression. She loved the theatre, but there was no money for something as frivolous as a theatre ticket. Most of the time, she'd join the crowd outside a Broadway theatre during intermission after the first act of a play and walk in, find an empty seat and watch the last half or two thirds of the show. She might not have been able to completely follow the plot, having missed the first act, but it was free. On the rare occasions when she was able to scrape together the money for a ticket, it was always for the cheapest seats farthest from the stage. The actors may have been tiny figures from her vantage point but at least she was there.

To my mother, the more well-to-do women in the expensive seats seemed like slightly exotic creatures. She was in awe of their greatest indulgence: even though these well dressed women were close to the stage, they still brought opera glasses to see. (For those unfamiliar, opera glasses are small, low powered, somewhat elegant binoculars.)

Those opera glasses became, to my mother, the symbol of the good life she hoped one day to attain.

Fast forward many years, to the point where I was in my late teens. By this time my mother was living a solidly middle class life. She and my stepfather, avid lovers of theatre, opera and the symphony, went to many shows a year,usually in the more expensive seats.

She could have easily afforded a pair of opera glasses, but never bought this indulgence for herself.

So one year, for her birthday, I did.

The look on her face when she opened the package was one I will never forget. Her eyes filled with tears and, I must admit, so did mine.

I don't think she's ever used her opera glasses, but she's kept them in a prominent spot on the shelves in their living room everywhere she's lived since then. When she dies, I'll give them to one of our daughters, whichever one I think will most appreciate them.

I'll tell our daughters the story of how their grandmother came to own such a magnificent, fancy, frivolous item as a pair of opera glasses. And I'll let them draw their own conclusions.

Separated at birth

2009-03-12T08:56:00.001-07:00

Which one is Tony Kornheiser, ESPN and Monday Night Football commentator, and which one is me? Hint: I'm grayer but he's younger (and taller and richer).

Hero

2009-03-10T09:59:00.000-07:00

One of the very few heroes I have whom I've actually met died yesterday: Father Joseph Martin.

Father Martin, a Baltimore native, was a recovering alcoholic who developed a series of chalk talks based on the 12 steps of Alcoholics Anonymous, and toured the world delivering his talks. Tapes and DVDs of his speeches have, no doubt, been seen by hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of people. He also co-founded Father Martin's Ashley, a recovery center in Maryland.

I met Father Martin in July of 2003 while visiting someone at Ashley. He and I spoke for, at most, five minutes. In November of 2004 I saw him again. Not only did he remember me and my religion, but he also asked a question related to our 2003 conversation. In the 16 months between meetings he had, I'm sure, spoken to thousands of people. I was astonished that he remembered our five-minute conversation.

But that's not why he's my hero.

Michael Deaver, Ronald Reagan's chief of staff and a recovering alcoholic who was a patient at Ashley and served on its board, said he'd met "presidents, kings, popes and prime ministers, but Father Martin was the most powerful person I'd ever met." Why? Because he "had the power to change people, to make them better, to make them whole again."

Directly and indirectly Father Martin saved thousands of lives, and that's not hyperbole.

But that is why he's my hero.

Big wheel keep on turning

2009-03-03T11:38:00.000-08:00

In the past two weeks I've been contacted by three people I never expected to hear from: my first wife, my last boss (who fired me) and a girl who, in high school, once threw up in my car.

Apparently the karmic wheel is turning in mysterious ways, though I can't imagine what I've done to deserve this.

For the record I bear none of these folks any ill will. My ex-wife was, and probably still is, a great person. We just weren't great together. We both recognized that fact and moved on. My former boos taught me a lot, and although I wasn't too happy about being fired — "shocked" would probably be a better term — it ultimately changed my life for the better.

And the woman who once threw up in my car, who found me on Facebook, had to remind me about that incident. I'd forgotten all about it, and I never liked that car anyway. (She, on the other hand, was a sweetheart then, and probably is today.)

Now, though, I'm thinking about all of the people who ever wronged me, or who I wronged. Every day is a potential Ghost of Christmases Past.

I'm afraid to check my email.

Higher School

2009-03-03T11:23:00.000-08:00

During my sophomore year of high school, the school hired two gym — excuse me, physical education — teachers for the year, with the understanding that only one of them would be kept after that year.

One, a former Marine with a buzz cut, was close to being a fascist, and was astonished when any of us didn't share his enthusiasm for sweaty physical activity. (A passion, I'll point out, that he talked about but never appeared to partake in himself.) The other had longer hair and was much more laid back, occasionally cutting class short on hot days.

Unfortunately for most of the students, gym teacher #2's car was found abandoned along the side of the road, apparently after an accident. The police found a bag of marijuana in the car and, some time later, found the gym teacher. who'd fled after the accident.

You can guess which teacher received the contract for the following year.

That teacher, who insisted on being called "Coach" by the students, would have been surprised by what we called him behind his back: his name was Schlenker, but we referred to him as Canker.

"Clueless" might have been closer. He once asked us to form a semi-circle, and we dutifully sat in front of and beside him. He looked behind him and saw no one there. "Why isn't anyone behind me? he asked. Another day, when he was teaching the health unit, he asked us which would get a person cleaner, a shower or a bath. Our consensus was the shower, because laying in a bathtub meant soaking on one's own dirty water. With a gleam in his eye — the wily Coach had put one over on the students! — he informed us we were all wrong, wrong, wrong. A bath, he said, would get a person much cleaner. Why? Because after soaking in a bath one should drain the water and quickly rinse under the shower.

Our protest that his solution was neither a bath or a shower, but actually both, fell on deaf ears.

He also, during driver's ed, insisted that the gears on an automatic transmission car were Park-Neutral-Reverse-Drive. When I offered the observation that Neutral was, in fact, between Park and Reverse, he was so incensed that he sent me to the Principal's office.

It was the best day in gym class I ever had. No one ever had to exercise in the principal's office.

Boom!

2009-02-10T11:32:00.000-08:00

The Reno trip where I watched people get married — see post below — was notable for one other activity: breakfast with John Madden. There wasn't much breakfast, but there was plenty of Madden.

The event, which I guess I didn't mention earlier, was a convention for people in the coin-op (vending machines, video/pinball machines) industry. One of my stepbrothers was (and is) a video game guy, and he invited his brother and me to join him at his expense. We did. Most folks arrived Friday afternoon or evening, then were up late (or, in some cases, all night) gambling. Saturday morning was Breakfast with John Madden, and we were all excited to go.

Breakfast, as it turned out, meant sitting in a small theatre in the hotel while Madden spoke. Everyone stumbled in (the event was pretty early in the morning, as I recall), bleary-eyed and hungover. We all quickly discovered two problems: there was no coffee or liquids of any kind (and everyone was dehydrated) and "breakfast" was a small platter of stale Danish and muffins.

We all slumped in our seats, wishing for coffee and a nap. We got neither.

What we got was Madden, stomping around the stage like a man possessed, waving his arms and offering football stories and life's great lessons taught with sports metaphors.

Madden, apparently, feeds off the energy of his audience. We had none to give. His strategy: stomp more, wave more, get louder. The deeper we slumped into our seats, the more frenetic he became. All around the theatre, people cringed at his high volume assault.

Eventually, and mercifully, Madden reached the end of his speech. (Whether he'd plan to end it at that point or gave up on us I couldn't tell.) He left us with this:

"There are three kinds of people in this world: people who make it happen, people who watch it happen, and people who say, 'what happened?'"

I was pretty sure I knew what kind we all were.

Pay to Play

2009-02-04T11:55:00.001-08:00

I've had pretty good luck with ATMs over the years. In fact, they've been pretty profitable.

There was the time I withdrew $100 from my checking account using the ATM at the bank across the street from my office (not my bank) and according to the receipt my account had $30,000+ in it. This was off by at least a couple of zeros. I went in and asked our comptroller, who was a friend of mine, if I'd get in trouble if I withdrew that money and later claimed I thought it was mine. "Well," he said, "you'd have to show that you had a reasonable expectation of thinking that money was yours. Is $30,000 the average amount you have in your checking account?"

The answer was obvious. I left the money where it was. A few hours later when I checked my balance it was in the hundreds, where it belonged.

Another time, I walked up to an ATM, got out my card and noticed there was already a card in the slot. Apparently, someone had forgotten to take his card. I called the number on the back (it was the Navy Federal Credit Union — why do I remember that, of all things?) but it was in the evening and no one answered. Thinking I wanted him to get his card back, I figured I'd put it in the ATM, enter the wrong PIN a few times and the machine would keep his card. The bank employees would retrieve it (and, I thought, return it) in the morning.

I inserted his card and punched "1234" in as the PIN. "1234" turned out to be his PIN. I could have drained his account. In a panic, I cancelled the transaction, took out his card and cut it up. In retrospect, I should have noted his name and called his credit union the next day to tell them that he should change his PIN.

But the real profitable incident came a couple of years ago, when I stopped at a bank on my way to work at 8:50 to withdraw some cash. I asked for $40, but the machine gave me $140, though the receipt only showed $40. thinking I'd be honest, and noticing there were employees in the bank, I knocked on the locked door to return the extra $100. The employees pointed at the clock on the wall, to show me that the bank didn't open until 9. Insistent, I banged on the door and waved the $100 bill. The employees, no doubt thinking I wanted to complain that the ATM had shortchanged me, pointed at the clock equally insistently. I tried to mime that I wanted to give them the $100 bill, but apparently my miming skills weren't good enough. After trying for five minutes to give them back their money, I gave up. They didn't want their money? Fine, I'd keep it.

That bank is now out of business. Though I doubt my $100 exploit was the reason.

Wedding Bell Blues

2009-02-03T13:31:00.000-08:00

The first time I was in Reno, Nevada, it took me about an hour to get bored playing blackjack (I'm not a big casino person). The hotel where we were staying had a small chapel in the basement, and I thought I'd wander down there an watch people get married every 15-20 minutes.

It was even better than I expected.

I watched for an hour and a half, and it was one train wreck after another. Couples who were so drunk they were (barely) holding each other up. People who couldn't count out the money to pay for the wedding. Grooms who remarked "That's a nice name" when they heard their bride's last name, apparently for the first time.

None of them had any business getting married.

During rare breaks in the action I chatted with the minister about his job. Did people have to demonstrate any mental competence, or knowledge of what they were doing? Did people have to be sober enough to know what day it was? The answer was no: if they had ID, were old enough and had the money, that was all the minister needed. I wondered if legally marrying people who could barely stand up bothered him in any way. (I'm not being judgmental; I was just curious.) It turned out he was okay with it.

What percentage of the people he married, I asked him, were likely to remember what they'd done when they woke up the next day? What percentage would roll over, look at the person beside them and say 'Who the hell are you?'

The minister didn't hazard a guess and, by this time, he was starting to show some irritation with my questions. I left.

Did I mention the chapel was decorated in an Elvis motif?

Should you ever find yourself in Nevada — I was only there because someone else was paying for it — I highly recommend a visit to the nearest hotel which includes a casino and a chapel. You won't be disappointed.

As an aside, I had two friends who were walking by a chapel in a hotel in Las Vegas (I think they were there for a convention) and she, frustrated that they'd been dating for a long time and he hadn't asked her to marry him, pulled him into the chapel. Twenty minutes later they were husband and wife. He was still dazed when he returned home and told me about it a week later.

They're divorced now.

Clapton

2009-01-29T10:07:00.000-08:00

Just finished Eric Clapton's recently published autobiography, and for a man whose made some interesting music the story of his life, at least in this telling, is flat. Boring, even. How someone who was called God by his followers and was at the center of both the 1960s rock scene and the world's first supergroup (Cream) could offer such an unemotional look at his life is a mystery.

Anecdotes? Few. Insights. Fewer. Throughout the book, Clapton seems disconnected, with surprisingly little to say about the music he plays or the people he's played with (other than compliments about almost everyone being "the best," which seems unlikely).

Like many of his mid career albums, this book is lazy and uninteresting. Too bad.

Crying Game

2009-01-22T07:54:00.000-08:00

Up until Tuesday, there were only two times music has made me cry: Vladimir Horowitz's historic and emotion-filled Moscow concerts, when he returned to his homeland after decades being exiled from it, and Aaron Neville's version of "Ave Maria," my late mother-in-law's favorite song.

Now there's a third: when Aretha Franklin sang "My Country 'Tis Of Thee" at Barack Obama's inauguration. She hit the first few notes and the tears just started rolling down my cheeks. What that must have meant to her, growing up in a segregated Detroit, to be singing at the presidential inauguration of a black man. What that must have meant to her, to be invited to be a part of the ceremony at all.

Like Horowitz, whose performance was technically no better than competent, but whose performance was so emotional it overcame any technical flaws, the Queen of Soul was not in her best voice. (She later said the cold weather had affected her performance.) Her voice might not have been what it once was, but there was nothing wrong with her heart, and she was singing from her heart and nowhere else.

I'll take emotion over technical competence any time.

Hot Stuff

2009-01-21T08:22:00.000-08:00

The other day one of our son's friends was at our house for dinner — we had tacos — and used to our children's lack of ability to eat spicy foods, I warned him when he picked up the bottle of hot sauce on the table.

"Joe," I said as he picked up the bottle and started shaking it onto his tacos. "Be careful, that sauce is hot."

"Oh, this one isn't so hot," he breezily replied. "I use it all the time."

The little SOB. (This is not a criticism of his mother, who is actually a kind and gentle woman.)

Now, I would have characterized the sauce he was using as medium hot. Our children won't go near it. It reminded me of the time I was eating dinner at a friend's house when I was 12 or so. My friend's father was a huge man — a former lineman in the Canadian Football League — and I was a skinny, pre-pubescent kid. My friend's Mom served chili and plopped a bottle of Tabasco sauce on the table. My friend's father, whose name was Marvin, grabbed the bottle and gave a couple of shakes over his bowl of chili. I, who have always liked spicy food, did the same.

No one else wanted any Tabasco sauce. Marvin glanced at me, then picked up the bottle and gave it a couple of more shakes over his chili. I tasted my chili and did the same.

Suddenly we were competing. He added more Tabasco sauce, took a bite of his chili, then a tiny sip of water from his glass. I did the same. Then we both did it again.

Beads of sweat were appearing on Marvin's forehead. I felt some on mine as well. Everyone else had stopped eating, watching this huge man and skinny kid attempt to act as if the blistering hot food they were consuming was as bland as cream of wheat.

There was only a little left in the Tabasco bottle. Marvin gave his food one more shake of it. I did the same and the bottle was empty. We both ate in silence, not drinking any water or attempting to look anything but cool. We were both wiping the sweat from our faces.

Finally, we finished and sat back. We both looked at our cool, tantalizing glasses of ice water. We smiled at each other, determined not to crack.

My insides were burning. Marvin must have been in as much pain as I was. Suddenly, there was an unspoken signal and we both grabbed our water glasses and drained them in one motion. We raced to the kitchen, refilled our glasses and drank, Again and again.

Finally, the flames were out. We staggered into the living room and Marvin, a man of few words, clapped me on the shoulder. Apparently I'd passed some sort of test.

I ate dinner many times after that at my friend's house. I noticed his mother never served chili again.

Short Stacks

2009-01-09T14:33:00.001-08:00

For those of you in the Catonsville-Ellicott City-Columbia, here are some brief comments on a number of area restaurants.

Shin Chon Garden

I love Korean barbecue,though I'll be the first to admit that I don't understand it. I'm sure that I'mdoing it wrong, but I don't care. I've been to Shin Chon several times, and

almost always we're the only non Koreans, which has to be a good sign. ['ve
read reviews that say the servers speak excellent English, but that hasn't been
my experience at all. Ay questions about how to prepare or eat the food are met
with a shrug, and good luck flagging someone down if you want more water or
something else. But the food is excellent and if you order barbecue you'll get
plenty of it. Note to vegetarians: other Asian cuisines have much more to offer
you than Korean food does. Note to solo diners: barbecue is best enjoyed by
more than one person.

Oh, and be careful in this small, always packed parking lot: people drive like maniacs. Also, have
others have said, there is an excellent Vietnamese bakery next door. Save room.

Thai Heaven

Very good Thai food at reasonable prices. The dishes may not reach the heights of the best Thai
around, but for a midweek carry-out when you don't feel like cooking this is a
great option. Make sure you specify that you want your food spicy if you do,
because they'll tone down the spicy dishes a bit otherwise. Also, ask about the
specials when you call, because they always have some. My big complaint:
somehow my wife and I always want thai food on Sunday night, when Thai Heaven
is closed.

Taneytown Deli & Sandwich Shoppe

A menu with dozens and dozens of choices, including the usual and the unusual, in almost every
combination you can imagine. Cubs, subs, regular size, monster size, you name
it. Almost everything is excellent, though sometimes the quality control (such
as unripe tomatoes in the winter) is slightly lax. Although there is a small,
functional but relatively cheerless dining area, most folks are carrying out at
lunch time. Taken over by new owners a couple of years ago, and overall quality
has dropped a notch, but still the best sandwich shop around. If you get a
large order (my wife's school often orders for the teachers) double check your
order when picking it up: mistakes happen.

Sam's Bagels and More

Our kids love this place, and the list of bagel sandwiches offers something for everyone. But, in
the debate over bagels in Baltimore, I have to join the folks who don't care
for Sam's. I'm from the New York area, and these bagels, as my New York Jewish
mother would say disdainfully, are "rolls with holes." The first time
I walked into Sam's I asked if they sold bialys. "What are bialys?"
asked the woman behind the counter. Having said that, the place is clean and
bright, the employees are generally friendly, and if you don't know from bagels
you'll probably think Sam's version is just fine.

Mirchi Wok

For Indian food lovers who are ready to branch out a little, this is the place, with the usual Indian
fare and some interesting Indo-Chinese fusion. Luckily they don't mess with the
Indian breads, which I think are among the best in the world. Even luckier, if
you look at the menu and decide it isn't what you want, an excellent Indian
vegetarian restaurant owned by the same people (Mango Grove) is in the same
building.

Noodles Corner

All sorts of Asian noodle dishes (and a few without noodles). Service isn't very warm but is very
fast and efficient, and prices are low. Some of the menu descriptions are
better sounding than the actual dishes, and you have to be insistent if you
want it spicy, but this restaurant has been a favorite of our family's for
years. Highly recommended.

Mongolian Grill

Imagine a salad bar of ingredients to be stir fried, rather than eaten with salad dressing, and you
have this place: fill a bowl of meat and vegetables, add any combination of
sauces you wish, then hand it to a cook who stir fries it on a super sized
grill/wok with long cooking chopsticks. And, like a salad bar, you can go back
again and again.

Two caveats: the sauces are nowhere near as spicy as you might think from the descriptions (even if you add much more than the recommended amount printed next to each, this is no place
for fire eaters) and the traditional sesame buns into which you stuff your
barbecue are missing (rice is the starch). It's a lot of fun, though, but I
wish they didn't water down the sauces for "American" tastebuds.

Little Spice

From the outside, it's an anonymous restaurant in an even more anonymous strip shopping center near the airport. But the food is inexpensive and a cut above the average Thai in
the area, with one caveat (which I'll get to in a minute). First, Little Spice has a great gimmick: choose your sauce and method of preparation, then choose your protein. Want the usual Thai basil dish made with beef or tofu instead of the chicken that most places serve? Done. It may not be 100% authentic, but it's a great idea. Vegetarians, in particular, will love the fact that any dish can be made with vegetables or tofu, rather than meat. The service is friendly and servers refill and check on you often. The only downside is that food is milder than average. If you want it hot, you need to say so, and if you want it authentically hot you need to convince them that you mean it. The symbols on the menu that indicate spiciness are meaningless. It's a small place, with little in the way of decor. But the prices are low and, just like Burger King, you can have it your way. It's packed at lunch, less so at dinner.

Great Sage

You know how expensive organic produce, cheese made from certified hormone-free milk and other "healthier" food is? Well, it's equally expensive on the plate. Meat would be cheaper. The food is good, but everything is $2-3 more than it should be. Service is a bit more casual than the price you're paying would lead to believe. The organic beer I tried was awful. On the flip side, any vegetarian/vegan friends you bring to this restaurant will be thrilled. At least if you're paying.

Thai Aroma

When this restaurant opened it was called Viet-Thai, and had two chefs (one Vietnamese and one Thai) and two menus (also one Vietnamese, one Thai). My wife could eat Pad Thai twice
a week, while I love Vietnamese food, so it was perfect. Sadly, the Vietnamese chef and menu disappeared — I don't know the full story — although a couple of Vietnamese appetizers remain on the current menu, which is otherwise all Thai. I'd say the food is better than average, though not the best Thai in Howard County (I think Bangkok Garden Garden and Bangkok Delight, both in Columbia, are better.) Prices are pretty reasonable.

Friendly's Ice Cream Shop (Catonsville)

Consistently some of the worst service anywhere, from employees who ignore you when you're waiting to be seated to servers who ignore you when you need something. Even our school PTA
rejected the offer from Friendly's to host a school fundraiser — when it was brought
up at a meting, everyone just groaned.

El Azteca

Nice mix of Tex-Mex and regional Mexican food. Large portions, very fast service. Always crowded, and for good reason. Nowhere near the food I've had when visiting family in Austin,
but the best I've found around here.

Catonsville Gourmet

Seemingly always crowded, tables a little small and a little close together, but the fish is impeccably fresh and treated well by the kitchen. Too expensive for us to go often, but worth it when we're in the mood for a "not dress up" splurge. Service is always good. (Not outstanding, but good.)

Grace Garden

Let me add to the chorus of folks praising this restaurant: it's the first real Chinese restaurant I've
found in this area. (I don't mean this to sound snobby, but there is a huge difference between American Chinese food and, well, Chinese Chinese food.) A friend who'd just returned from China (and been complaining about local Chinese food ever since) was beside himself with excitement. Be warned: even the foods marked spicy on the menu won't excite a real fire eater, some of the food is a little clumsy in a "homemade" way, and the place is a dump on the
outside, plain on the inside, and not in a neighborhood where I'd park an expensive car. (Luckily I don't have one.) The service is very friendly, the portions are large and the prices are reasonable. This isn't the Chinese restaurant of my dreams, but it comes closer than anywhere else I've been outside of a Chinatown somewhere (which, unfortunately, doesn't exist in
Baltimore).

Einstein Brothers Bagels

I've been to the Ellicott City location of Einstein's Bagels a few times (generally because I
was meeting someone there) and the service has always been fast and friendly. The folks who work there are great. The bagels, unfortunately, are lousy: soft, puffy, bland. As my New York Jew mother would say, "rolls with holes." My 13-year-old son, however, loves the place. I think I've failed somehow. (My wife isn't Jewish; perhaps I can blame her.)

No Love For Christmas

2008-12-26T07:18:00.000-08:00

I was reminded on Christmas Eve that I'm not an attractive woman.

It was Wednesday afternoon, and I was at Petco picking up some stuff for our guinea pig. There was a line of several people, and one cashier. I was second in line, and a very attractive woman was ahead of me. The cashier, a slightly nerdy looking guy, called for the next person, and the attractive woman went to the cash register.

He began flirting with her immediately, commenting on the things she was buying (dog toys: "Some four-legged friend is going to have a great Christmas!"). He asked if she had a Petco preferred customer card, and when she said she didn't he extolled the virtues of it, then produced an application and began filling it out for her. Meanwhile, the line of people waiting to check out grew longer, and some began shifting impatiently on the feet back and forth.

Meanwhile, Mr. I've Got A Shot At This Good Looking Woman Because I Work At Petco was commenting on her address ("I've heard that's a nice neighborhood. I've always wanted to see what some of those houses look like on the inside."), her total expenditure ("You must be a very generous person.") and her outfit ("Did you make that scarf?") Finally he finished with her, and paused for a moment with a cheery look as she left. Then he looked up and saw me.

"Next person in line," he barked. "Leave the Timothy Hay in the cart," he commanded. "I'm highly allergic." (And you work in a pet store?)

My brief transaction was nothing like the preceding one:

"Do you have a Petco card?" "No." "Okay."

No offer to fill out an application for me, no comments about my merchandise or my outfit, no hinting about wanting to visit my neighborhood (he'd checked my ID when I used a charge card).

As I left the store I glanced back at him. No dreamy, wistful look at my departure, either.

At least our guinea pig was appreciative.

Charlie Says

2008-12-19T10:55:00.000-08:00

I'm working my way through John Harvey's Charlie Resnick series, and I have to say that Harvey is a masterful writer. (I read a review of his most recent, and I believe last, in the series, and read it. It was so good I had to go the library and get the first 14 in the series.)

Theoretically these are mysteries, more precisely police procedurals. But they're really more like novels with a mystery woven in. The characters, particularly the jazz loving, sandwich eating, cat owning, slightly overweight Resnick, are lovingly drawn and very three dimensional.

I was initially drawn to the series because his most recent book takes its title from a Billie Holiday tune, a theme that runs throughout the book. Resnick listens to a lot of jazz, particularly early bop and from the period just before bop, and has cats named after Dizzy Gillespie, Bud Powell, Pepper Adams and Miles Davis (I'm sure if he acquires a fifth he'll name it after Charlie Parker). He slogs his way through the human scum of an unnamed English city in the midlands (it's Notttingham), fighting a losing battle and occasionally wondering why.

Many of the other characters — most appear in more than one book — are equally three dimensional, and the series will tell most Americans more about a certain segment of English life than most of us would otherwise ever know. (There are, as it turns out, many things one can do with a sausage besides eat it for breakfast.)

These aren't slam bam page turners — long stretches go by with little action — but they're riveting just the same. Try one and see what you think.

Love For Sale

2008-12-15T10:35:00.001-08:00

I've now heard a good chunk of the Beatles "Love," the remix album by the son of the original Beatles producer, and it completely lives up to my expectations.

Which is to say, it's dreadful.

The concept is this: Giles Martin, son of George Martin, remixed, sliced, diced and mashed up a whole bunch of Beatles tunes for a Cirque de Soleil Las Vegas show. He assembled new medleys, slapped the guitar solo from one song into the break of another, swapped drum breaks and, no doubt, spent hundreds of hurs in the studio using all of the digital horsepower at his disposal.

The result, in my opinion, is like the old Stars on 45 records, where several current hits would be strung together using a cheesy disco beat.

I'm not a purist by any means, but this is no improvement.

Some People

2008-11-21T05:34:00.000-08:00

One of my shining moments in public relations — I don't do a lot of PR, and I typically do it for clients who are already using me for advertising work — was when a press release I wrote landed a client on the front page of the Washington Post. A glowing story. On a Sunday.

The client was a new medical spa, a concept that was big in Europe and L.A., but was just making it to the Washington area. (A medical spa is like a typical day spa, offering hair, nail and skin care, but with the addition of an on-staff physician who offers Botox injections and outpatient plastic surgery.)

The Post's consumer reporter was intrigued by this new trend, and did a very positive story which ran, as I said, on the front page of the Washington Post, by far the paper's biggest day for circulation. The story featured our client prominently, and included two photos taken inside the spa.

That Monday morning, everyone involved in the project was beside themselves with excitement. I figured the client would send over a case of champagne and ofer to wash my car for the rest of the year.

I was wrong.

The client called bitching about the photos (two, remember) that the Post had run, because "they didn't show the people I wanted them to show, and I told the photographer what to photograph."

The audacity of the Post, allowing their photographer to shoot what HE thought was a good photo.

The account executive was floored, and blurted out something a little earthier than he should have: "Are you kidding me? Every client we have would give their left nut for a story on the front page of the Sunday Post."

The client whined about the photos a bit more, and then hung up. I was as deflated as could be.

Apparently, there really are some people who can't be satisfied.

That client is now out of business. I think the moral of the story is obvious.

Cranks And Coffee Tables

2008-11-18T12:47:00.001-08:00

At the moment I'm reading a coffee table book about a long disbanded punk band while listening to a sardonic curmudgeon indict many of the events of the past few years.

I don't know which one I'm enjoying more.

The book is titled, quite simply, "The Clash," and although I'm not sure whether a punk band, ground breaking s it might have been, should be immortalized in a coffee table book, the book is terrific. Too big and heavy to hold and read for long, I've worked my way through it in bits and pieces. Because of the size the photos are both numerous and well showcased, but the text tells the story of a populist band that stretched the boundaries of British punk (notably by adding dub and reggae to the mix) quite well.

Oddly, although the book paints a detailed picture of the band's finances and living conditions during the early days of economic struggle, it's completely mum on life A.D. (After Dollars). Guess the mention of filthy lucre (a Sex Pistols phrase) would sully the purity of the bands ethos. Or something.

Still, rock 'n roll has always been about making money, and I don't begrudge bands for wanting to make a living. And if any punk band deserved a coffee table book, I'd have to say that the Clash and the Ramones would be the only two.

Meanwhile, the CD player is spinning Randy Newman's latest, Harps and Angels. Newman's dry wit has long been misunderstood, but the man is searingly funny. Who else would talk about "tight-assed Italians" on the Supreme Court? In fact, who else could work the Supreme Court, Pluto, Hitler, Stalin, George W. Bush (though not by name), FDR (also not by name), malaria, terrorism and Caesar's horse into one song? Not even Dylan.

Like all of his other albums, no one will buy this one, either. You don't know what you're missing.

Bless You

2008-11-17T09:51:00.001-08:00

My in-laws were very traditional, and so when my wife-to-be (Sarah) and I got engaged, we went to visit her parents to ask for their blessing.

Because they were Catholic and I wasn't (and remain not), I knew what their only question was going to be: Would we baptize and raise our children Catholic?

That, is it turned out, was not the only question, though it was the only question for which I'd prepared an answer.

We visited my in-laws on a Sunday, and I'm sure they knew why we were visiting, since we'd just been there a week before (they lived about 45 minutes from us). We sat around their table, and I started talking. Nobody else said a word, so I kept talking.

They stared. I talked. I talked about how I felt about Sarah, the life we'd talked about having together, our plans, everything. Finally, I'd run out of things to say.

My future mother-in-law asked the children-Catholic question, and I was ready: when that fat pitch came over the plate, I knocked it out of the park. I thought I was home free.

Then Sarah;s father, a retired Air Force colonel who had his gruff side, surprised me.

"Will you," he asked with a slight bit of darkness in his voice, "support her in the style to which she's become accustomed?" Then he thought about her teacher's salary. "Actually," he added, "would you do a little better than that?"

I assured him I would do my best. So far, so good.

(As an aside, when Sarah's older sister got engaged her fiancee was so nervous when visiting my in-laws to seek my father-in-law's blessing that he followed my father-in-law into the bathroom. My father-in-law told him that if he waited outside they could converse in a moment, but there was more pressing business at hand.)

Sales Job

2008-11-08T09:57:00.000-08:00

My current job search reminded me of a phone call I once received from a headhunter — sorry, executive search firm — pitching a creative director position at an ad agency in Kansas. (I'm an advertising writer and magazine/newspaper editor). I don't remember how he got my name, but from the moment I said hello he was pitching the position vigorously. The agency was great, he said, the work was strong, the atmosphere was friendly and the community was wonderful. I'd be challenged, I'd grow professionally, my family would love the community.

At one point I broke into his conversational stream to ask what the salary was. He kept talking as if I hadn't interrupted him. I asked again, and he ignored again. And again.

Finally, he'd run out of glowing things to say about the agency, the community, the cleanliness of the air, the four seasons of recreational opportunities, the good schools and non existent traffic. It appeared to be heaven without the wings and harps. Once again I asked about the salary.

He paused. "You do realize," he said, his voice deepening and becoming serious, as if he was about to share a closely held, valuable secret with me, "that the cost of living is much lower in Kansas?"

My reply: "Are you asking me to take a pay cut to move to Kansas?"

He danced around my question, but the answer was yes.

Now, I have nothing against Kansas. But to ask my wife to give up her career here, ask our children to give up their schools and friends and everything familiar to them, uproot ourselves and move would have to be for the job of a lifetime. Granted, we might be able to get a much nicer house for much less money, but food, cars and gas would still cost the same, and retirement would still require roughly the same amount of money.

I turned him down and, for the first time, he dropped his salesman persona and became himself. "Damn," he said. "I can't get anyone interested in this job."

Apparently, I was not his first choice.

Loco Motive

2008-11-04T11:09:00.000-08:00

Sadly, I'm now at a stage in life where I can pay professional movers to do the sweating and hauling, but that wasn't always the case. More than once, a friend has dangled the offer of free beer and pizza in return for helping him/her "move a couple of things."

We've eased heavy sofas out living room windows, stuffed giant dressers into non giant cars, and done things for pizza and beer that no professional would do for money. My favorite move, I think, was when our friends Kirk and Mary moved into a third floor apartment in Ellicott City.

Ellicott City, Maryland, is an old mill town, with narrow streets, narrower homes and not enough parking. Kirk and Mary's new apartment was above a store, with only one impossibly narrow and rickety set of stairs leading up to it. There was no way to fit any of their furniture up those stairs.

The only way to move their furniture was to park across the street, carry it across a railroad trestle bridge and behind their apartment, then bring it in through the back door. The trestle, like everything else in town, was narrow, barely wider than the train tracks it supported.

As we parked out cars near the trestle and began to unload the furniture we realized the error of our ways: no one had checked to see when trains might roar across those tracks. If a train came while we were in the middle of the trestle, there was no place to go. The only option would have been to leap to the street below, probably suffering a broken leg in the process.

We shuffled our feet uncertainly and looked at each other. Would one of us be macho and stupid enough to say "hell with it" and grab the end of a sofa to begin? Would the rest of us bow to peer pressure and do the same?

The answers were "yes" and "yes." We each grabbed ends of sofas, tables, beds and dressers, and began hustling them across the street. Since we didn't even know from which direction the trains might come, we peered over each other's shoulders while straining our ears for the sound of a train whistle.

It was the fastest move I've ever been a part of. Kirk and Mary were impressed and thankful. "Beer and pizza doesn't seem like enough to repay you," Kirk said to us.

Maybe so. But it was all we got. When Kirk and Mary moved out of that apartment a couple of years later, we had him check the train schedules before we arrived.

Ups And Downs

2008-11-03T10:29:00.000-08:00

Apparently it's Lackluster Books Month, because I just finished another. As usual, I kept reading, hoping it would get better, but the opposite occurred.

The book was Coronado by Dennis Lehane, a collection of five short stories and a play based on one of those stories. I've read several of his mystery novels, and enjoyed them: the writing is taut, the plots believable and fast moving, the characters fully three dimensional.

Coronado is none of those: characters and situations that defy belief, stilted dialogue and a play that was somehow produced at least twice (although the first time was by a theatre company that counts his brother among its members).

The play, which is the last piece, is based on one of the preceding stories. It somehow manages the trick of being both longer and less substantial than the story on which it is based.

Very disappointing.

On the flip side, I just picked up to solo-ish albums by Terry Adams, the sometimes brilliant, often idiosyncratic, keyboardist and co-founder of NRBQ. Only Adams would have the chops to tackle (and very well, I might add) a Monk tune and follow it with a tune that offers his dream of a perfect woman: one who loves the Three Stooges. I say solo-ish because one is a duet with guitarist Steve Ferguson.

Adams, who might be the American equivalent of lovable English eccentric Robyn Hitchcock, includes in the liner notes to "Rhythm Spell" a brief poem about pants, which is worth repeating:

Every morning I put on my pants

Go out there and take a chance.

Every night I take a chance,

Go in there and take off my pants.

Oh, and he promises "if you come see me I'll play extra good for you."

I've seen him half a dozen times. And he has, every time.

Tail Tales

2008-10-31T10:05:00.000-07:00

I'm mostly a dog lover, though I don't mind cats. Actually, I like all pets, though some — fish, for example — don't lead to deep relationships. We have a black lab who might be the best dog I've ever had.

But they haven't all been great. We had a beagle who was as cute and lovable as could be, but dumb as a rock. Whenever he escaped out the door (which was often) he would take himself on his normal walk route, because that was the only place he knew. When he dashed out the door and started on his route I'd walk it in the opposite direction, and catch him somewhere in the middle. He was always surprised.

I had an afghan hound, a mangy looking thing, who was a dead ringer for Cloris Leachman, the actress, and was, in fact, named Cloris. Whenever I'd take her for a walk people would stop me to excitedly say, "Do you know who your dog looks like?" Why, yes, I do.

My parents had a great dane named Duke who tipped the scales at about 160 pounds, closer to a pony than a dog. They never locked their door during the years that they had him, because no one in their right mind was going to break into that house. Once he escaped and was hit by a car. The driver jumped out of his car (it was a Toyota) to see if Duke was all right. Not only was Duke all right, but he was pissed, and leapt for the guy. Luckily, the guy got back into his car and slammed the door before Duke could get him. Not only was my stepfather the only person to whom Duke would listen, but he (Duke, not my stepfather) had a problem with flatulence. I wasn't that sad when he died.

But the worst dog, by far, was one we got from the pound a week or so before my borthday and only kept a few weeks. a mixed breed who was mostly German Shepherd, she was good natured, but very high strung. We thought that our relatively calm home might help her.

We named her Pinky, though I can't remember why. The week we had her prior to my birthday passed uneventfully.

Now, one my favorite parts of my birthday was the chocolate cake with rich chocolate icing that my mother would bake me. (My mother was an outstanding baker and cook.)

The morning of my birthday she baked and frosted the cake, and set it on the kitchen counter, where it sat undisturbed. For awhile.

I got home from school and rushed into the kitchen for an after school snack and a peek at my cake. Or what, as it turned out, was half a cake. Half the cake was gone, and the remaining part had bites that were suspiciously dog shaped around the edges.

It had to be Pinky. But where was she? I angrily yelled her name as I ran through the house looking for her.

I found her, cowering in my bedroom, afraid she was going to be punished. I also found the missing half cake.

Pinky had thrown it up. On my bed.

I was beyond furious. My mother threw out the rest of the cake, and my birthday was cake free that year. My cake was gone and, shortly thereafter, so was Pinky.

Man's best friend? Not on man's birthday.

Spin Cycle

2008-10-27T09:00:00.000-07:00

I was once the unwitting victim of a lonely, hopeful, carnival ride operator. My stomach will never be the same.

In the town where I spent most of my childhood, the carnival's annual arrival was the high point of every summer. The rides and attractions would set up in a dusty field on the outskirts of our small town (approximately 15,000 people), and everyone would spend at least one evening (and generally more) winning stuffed animals, tilting and whirling on rides and eating greasy, fried, sugary foods.

It was always one of the best weeks of the year. I had every reason to believe that the summer I was 16 would be no different.

At the time I had a girlfriend named Barbara. The evening we decided to go to the carnival she asked if her friend, Beryl, could tag along. Beryl wasn't much for rides, but she was visiting Barbara from out of town that weekend, and really had nothing else to do. So of we went as a trio.

After the girls insisted on some carnival food, we hit our first ride: the octopus-like creation (I can't recall the name) where riders tilt, whirl and spin. Barbara and I squeezed into one of the cars, while Beryl declined. The operator pushed a button and off we went.

Beryl, bored with just watching us ride, began chatting with the ride operator, who was only a few years older than us and, as it turned out, still filled with teenage hormones. Sensing that he had a chance to get to now Beryl more intimately, he began flirting madly with her.

As we spun and swooped he told Beryl he had a private spot (his trailer — classy guy) and a break coming up, if she wanted to try a ride of a different sort. Beryl, too polite and non assertive to turn him down, kept talking to him. Emboldened by the fact that she hadn't said no (even though she also hadn't said yes), he kept talking to her. Once she mentioned that she was waiting for her friends (us) to get off the ride, our fates were sealed.

There was no way he was going to let us off that ride until Beryl agreed to join him in his trailer. So, as Beryl continued to not refuse his advances, Barbara and I rode the ride. And rode. And rode.

Finally there was too much of a line for the guy to continue letting us ride, even though he hadn't come any closer to his goal with Beryl. Reluctantly, he pushed the stop button and we slowed to a stop.

Barbara and I staggered off to the nearest bushes and promptly threw up. Beryl, sweet innocent that she was, filled us in on why we'd received such great value for our ride dollar.

Our comments didn't include much gratitude, I'm afraid, and the relationship between Barbara and Beryl was frosty for awhile.

And I haven't been on that carnival ride since.

In-laws

2008-10-23T08:20:00.000-07:00

My in-laws, for the most part, made me feel welcome and part of the family from day one. But that's not to say that all of them did.

When my wife and I were dating she waited until the relationship was solid — in fact, until we got engaged — to introduce me to her Aunt Hody. I'd been warned about Aunt Hody's attitude and nastiness by every other in-law, so I thought I knew what to expect.

In her 80s, confined to a bed in a nursing home by a broken hip, Hody has lost much of her hearing and eyesight, and even the ability to feed herself. But her tongue was as sharp as ever.

After greeting her, my wife-to-be introduced me: "Hody, this is my fiance, David." Hody's greeting: "Are you cross-eyed?"

My wife-to-be was horrified. "Hody, does he look cross-eyed?" she sputtered, unsure of what to say. "Yes, he does," was the reply.

I thought the whole thing was pretty funny. If I was cross-eyed, Hody was certainly the first person who'd mentioned it.

The second incident happened during the first Christmas dinner with my future in-laws. Knowing that cherry pie was (and is) my favorite dessert, my (sadly now, late) future mother-in-law had made a cherry pie as one of the desserts. My future father-in-law, a sometimes gruff sort (retired Air Force colonel) also loved cherry pie. We each had a slice.

After dinner he and I were the only ones left at the table, finishing our coffee, as everyone else drifted out of the room. My future mother-in-law came into the dining room, noticed there was one slice of cherry pie left, and asked me if I'd like it. Before I could reply, my father-in-law answered for me: "He doesn't want it."

I guess I didn't.

Car talk

2008-10-20T08:23:00.000-07:00

A few years ago, I inadvertently hit upon a brilliant car buying strategy. It's yours if you can use it.

I walked into the nearest Honda dealership one cool, drizzly, weekday evening, with no appointment. I had some spare time and I wanted to look at a new Civic Si.

When I walked in a woman at a desk near the door asked me if I had an appointment with a salesperson. I asked her if I could use the bathroom before I talked to anybody. She gave me directions to the bathroom, which was down the back hallway behind the showroom.

Now car dealerships, like other sales organizations, generally have a sales chart outside the sales manager's door showing how each salesperson is doing that month. I happened to pass that sales chart on my way to and from the bathroom.

Although it was almost the end of the month, one salesperson had only sold two cars, while all of the others had sold at least 10. I looked at the name of the laggard, and had an idea.

I walked back to the front desk, and told the woman I had an appointment with ... I had to guess at the gender, since the sales chart had only listed last names — Mr. Jackson. Luck was with me, because he was a Mr. and he was working that night. "Hi, Mr. Jackson," I said. I introduced myself. "I called you earlier about the Civic Si." I stuck out my hand and he shook it. "Oh, yes," he said, remembering the call I, of course, had never made. After being unable to find the information he was sure he'd taken down during our phone call, he apologetically asked for my personal information again and off we went for a test drive.

I really liked the car and wanted it, so we went back to his desk to negotiate. Although this was pre-Internet I had a pretty good idea of what the invoice amount was on that car. His first offer was $200 under sticker. My first offer was what I thought was invoice, a good $1,000+ less than his offer. He grimaced slightly, and trotted off to the sales manager, no doubt hoping for his third sale of the month.

"Good news!" he exulted when he returned, showing me the number his sales manager had authorized: another $200 off sticker. "I'm very sorry," I said, rising and shaking his hand. "I think I need to look somewhere else." I turned and starting walking towards the door.

I made it six steps. "Wait," he pleaded. "Let me talk to the sales manager again. I think I can get you your price if I tell him you're a serious buyer. You are a serious buyer, aren't you?" I assured him I was, and he disappeared.

I sat in his cubicle for a long time, imaging the conversation. "Please, Mike, I've only sold two cars this month. This guy is serious." "I can't go this low." "Come on, it's only three days 'til the end of the month, and I'm hurting." "I don't know."

Finally he came back, with my offer approved. Because it was late, we agreed that he'd prep the car the next morning, and I told him I'd be in after work to pick it up, which I was.

When I came back and sat with him and the finance guy to complete the paperwork that next morning, I overheard a couple in the next cubicle agreeing to pay $400 more for a Civic that was one model down from mine. I felt pretty good.

I notice that in the dealership where I bought my most recent car (a Subaru) the sales chart is nowhere near the bathrooms. Maybe they're getting smarter at the dealerships.

Name Game

2008-10-17T06:37:00.000-07:00

The name of this blog grew out of an odd period in my life which was the basis of a philosophy which remains the cornerstone of my world view to this day. (In fact, "Yikes" has been my license plate for 25 years.)

When my first wife an I separated, I moved into an apartment in a big old house in Catonsville, Maryland. Catonsville, with roots in the early days of the railroad, has a number of big, old houses that were once the homes of railroad executives, and have now been broken up into apartments. The building had eight apartments, I think, and it was magnificent: 10 foot ceilings, (non working) Italian marble fireplaces, beautiful woodwork. It was drafty and expensive to heat, but it was lovely if you didn't have to pay for it.

It was also filled with the most bizarre collection of characters I'd ever met.

The landlords were a man and woman who were heavily into est — look it up — and were constantly trying to get all of us to go to a free introductory seminar. I eventually went to one, which was another story. Bill, the male half of the duo, was completely incompetent when it came to repairing anything in the house, often turning minor problems into major ones. He never did get the heat working correctly, so we alternately froze or roasted. The female half of the duo swung both ways, I think, because she was always visiting the lesbians' apartment (more on that in a minute).

The other inhabitants of the house included:

a woman who tended bar in a topless bar (she invited me to come down for a free drink, but I decided I couldn't see her topless and then pass her in the hallway),

a guy who made his living playing the horses (and did pretty well),

a guy who played violin in a string quartet in the U.S. Army (they played a lot of fancy generals' balls and events like that) and was stoned every waking moment (he was amused that the generals had no idea),

a woman who filled her Volvo station wagon with everything she owned and left her husband and children to find herself (she ended up in bed with every male in the house at one time or another, except for me — I declined — including my oldest stepbrother when he came to visit me once),

a musician who played trombone in a jazz band and bass in a punk band, was superb in both, but definitely tended toward the dress and lifestyle of the punk side, rather than the jazz side,

two lesbians who used to have screaming, throw things at each other, battles at least once a week,

and Bill, one of the only two fairly normal people in the house (I count myself as the other one).

The house was semi-communal, in that many folks kept their doors propped open and sometimes people would wander in and out of each other's apartment, generally when looking for the occupant.

One day Bill and I were walking up the stairs from my second floor apartment to his third floor place. His apartment was at the end of a hallway, with the lesbians' apartment next to his. As we approached their open door we heard yelling. Just as we were bout to pass their door, a teacup came flying out the door to smash against the opposite wall, missing us by inches. As we paused to make sure no other missiles were about to be launched, the saucer followed it.

Bill turned to me and shook his head. "Yikes" was all he said.

I decided there were too many things in life that all you could do is shake your head and say,

"Yikes," and that's been my philosophy ever since.

Just before I moved out of that house I took a play-writing class, and decided to write about some of the people and incidents that took place while I was living there. I handed in my play, and proudly waited for what I was sure would be the professor's glowing praise.

"Is this farce?" he asked me. "No, it's my life," I replied. I got a B. His criticism: "often humorous, but not believable."

Furry Friend

2008-10-14T07:29:00.000-07:00

If your office holiday parties are boring, do what I do: rent a gorilla suit.

Several years ago I worked for a company that was bought by a competitor. The first holiday party after the acquisition was deadly dull: everyone clustered with their immediate co-workers and talked shop. No one from any department talked to anyone from any other department. No one from the new company talked to anyone from the old company. The venue was fancy, the food was great, the party was boring.

The following year the company hadn't lost any of its cliquishness. The holiday party had every indication of being another deadly dull affair. Someone, I thought, had to do something to liven up the party. I nominated myself.

At the best costume shop in town I rented a gorilla costume — not some cheap kid's Halloween costume, but an expensive, authentic model. From what little I could see through the eye holes when I tried it on at home, I looked smashing.

Wiggling into the costume in my car outside the party was no easy task. But once inside it was worth it.

Heads turned. People laughed. The entire atmosphere of the party (100+ people) changed.

Unfortunately, I hadn't counted on the fact that the head allowed me no peripheral vision whatsoever. I could barely see right in front of me, let alone to the sides. I'd turn to the side and knock a tray out of a passing server's hands. I knocked over a couple of chairs and a couple of people. The more I moved, the more chaos I created. Servers were making wide paths to avoid me as they carried trays of drinks and finger food. I started to sweat, and not just because I was covered in fur.

Meanwhile, no one knew who was inside the costume. Not having much of a reputation as a jokester at the company, everyone who spoke to me guessed I was someone else. It was only my anonymity, I thought, that was protecting me from getting fired. But I was there, the damage was done, and I thought I'd see how it all played out.

A couple of hours into the party the president of the company, a very serious man who hadn't said 10 words to me in the year and half I'd worked for him, came up to me. He asked me to take off my gorilla head so he could talk to me.

"How much did this costume cost you?" he asked me. I told him. "Put it on your expense account. This is the best holiday party we've ever had."

I bet the servers didn't think so.

In (my) heaven there is no beer

2008-10-13T09:19:00.000-07:00

I don't mean for this to turn into Kids Say The Darndest Things, but I was reminded yesterday of one of the many times out oldest, Madeline, publicly embarrassed me (a great talent of hers).

We were visiting my in-laws at a timeshare in Naples, Florida, back in the days when they were alive and spent every winter in Florida. One day I took Madeline, then bout two years old, to the grocery store. In Florida, as in many other places (but not most of Maryland), beer and wine are sold in the grocery stores. I drink very little, and a six-pack of beer could, at the time, last me for two weeks. Still, it was a warm week, and when I passed the beer coolers it seemed like a good idea. I was getting a little tired of orange juice.

The store was quiet, with only one cash register open and one older (of course) couple in line when Madeline and I, she in the cart, approached the checkout line. I put my groceries, including a six-pack of beer, on the conveyor belt. No one was paying me any attention.

Madeline saw the beer and spoke up. "I like beer," she chirped brightly. The couple behind us, who'd been quietly talking to each other, stopped in mid sentence.

"Madeline," I said, as lightly as I could, "you've never had beer."

"Yes I have!"

"You don't even know what beer is," I said, this time a little more forcefully.

The older couple had turned to look at me. So had the cashier. I didn't get the sense that they were considering nominating me for the Father of The Year award.

"Madeline, you know you've never had beer. You have no idea what it tastes like."

"Yes I do!" Her honor impugned, Madeline was getting louder. The more I doubted her, the firmer she became.

The older couple fumbled for their money and one of them paid the cashier. The cashier, transfixed by the scene, fumbled the change, but eventually recovered and processed the money.

She began ringing up our groceries. I was afraid to say a word, and even more afraid of what words Madeline might say. Luckily, we finished without further comments on Madeline's part, and I fled the store with Madeline.

The beer wasn't quite as refreshing as I thought.

Your Guess Is As Good As Mine

2008-10-13T09:14:00.000-07:00

I'm reading a new biography of Cheech and Chong, by Tommy Chong, which is odd in more ways than one (the book, not that I'm reading it).

First, although it purports to be about both members of the original stoner comedy team, Chong wrote it without Cheech Marin's input while the two weren't talking (they've since reconciled and are, I believe, touring again).

Second, although I'm only about halfway through, the book is poorly written: it meanders, repeats itself, skips large chunks of time and then backtracks, almost as if the author was ...

Nah, couldn't be.

Little Pisser

2008-10-07T19:45:00.000-07:00

Should you ever have children, or if you have a baby or two in the house, here's my advice: keep a close eye on your coffee. Especially if you have a boy. Especially especially if you're suffering from extreme sleep deprivation.

When our son, Adam, was born, he was our second child, following his sister by 19 months. We were sure that with all of our baby memories so fresh there would be no surprises with Adam.

There was one.

We had a changing table in his room and early one morning my wife, Sarah, had him on the table and was changing his diaper. He was, at only a couple of weeks old, significantly smaller than the table top, so Sarah had plenty of room for both Adam and her cup of coffee on the table. It was safely out of the way of his feet, so no worries about spilling.

Spilling, as it turned out, wasn't the danger.

If you've ever changed an infant boy's diaper, you probably know what Sarah learned that morning: when cool air hits that boy's penis, he's going to pee. In Adam's case, it was a perfect arc that landed dead center in her coffee cup.

Luckily she saw it, though at first she couldn't believe what she was seeing. Adam looked proud and, given his aim, he had every right to be.

Sadly, when we were potty training him his aim didn't turn out to be quite as good. Then again, he wasn't aiming for a coffee cup.

That's Rich

2008-10-02T11:24:00.000-07:00

I was checking On Demand the other night (love FiOS) and stumbled across this odd show, apparently either the first of a series or a promo for the series, called All U Need Is Love, put together by Tony Parker. A quick Internet search turned up no information, and I don't know a thing about it, but some of the clips of upcoming shows were hilarious.

The clips ping ponged dizzily from B. B. King to Cream to Edith Piaf — Edith Piaf? — with both interviews and live performances. My favorite clip was an interview with Buddy Rich, the master of pyrotechnic jazz drumming. Rich, who disdained most rock drummers, comes out swinging in his interview, and I mean swinging in the boxing, not the jazz, sense. "They hold their sticks wrong!" he thunders about rock percussionists. He demonstrated, holding his drumsticks like two flags, and showing all of the things a drummer can't do when holding his sticks that way.

He flipped his sticks to hold them "correctly" unleashed a typical volcanic solo, and then sat back, with just the hint of a smile flickering across his face.

A few clips later the show cut to Cream's drummer, Ginger Baker, a strong contender for the most ham handed drummer in rock. Baker was, as Rich noted, holding his sticks the wrong way. Sure enough, he attempted a couple of the moves Rich said couldn't be done when holding the sticks incorrectly ... and couldn't do them.

Rich was, at least when I saw him, somewhat prickly, and known for being less than pleasant to those he considered lesser musicians. Still, it's not bragging if you can back it up (a quote credited to both Muhammad Ali and Dizzy Dean, two names you rarely see in the same sentence), and Rich could back it up.

Or two paraphrase, "if you listen to only one drum solo this year, make it Buddy Rich."

Tris

2008-10-02T08:20:00.001-07:00

This post will be neither humorous or music related, so it's a bit of an anomaly for me. I was thinking today about graphic designers/art directors; I've met many and worked with and managed several.

The finest art director I ever had the privilege to work with, and someone whom I still think was one of the best advertising art directors in the Baltimore-Washington area, was the late Tris Johnson.

Tris graduated from the Rocky Mountain School of Art + Design, where he was a gifted sculptor, primarily working in bronze. He apparently blew everyone away at the annual student art show in his freshman and sophomore years, to the point where he was asked not to compete during his junior year, so someone else would have a chance.

Unlike most artists, Tris saw no difference between commercial art and fine art. To him, your job was to communicate something, and the only difference was the medium and the tools. He won many advertising awards for his work, and deservedly so.

For reasons I won't get into, Tris and I saw many, many designers and writers and their portfolios. For the three years we worked together, I'm sure we saw at least one person most weeks, even if we didn't have a job opening, because we liked seeing who was around and what they were doing. For Tris, who valued substance over style, the worst criticism of any graphic designer was this: page decorator.

"Tris, what'd you think of that guy?" I'd ask after we'd reviewed someone's portfolio.

"Page decorator."

"Didn't like his work, did you?"

"No. Good typography, though."

To this day, when I look at beautiful, empty work, I think of Tris' two-word dismissal.

Tris was a large man, 6' 5", holder of a Bronze Star from his tour of Vietnam. He rarely spoke and was, in fact, rather shy. Given his size and silence, most folks were intimidated by him. I, a foot shorter and ten times more gregarious, got along with him famously.

We worked together in a very high pressure, high volume ad agency. Freelancers who worked with us couldn't believe the volume of work we sent out the door. It was quality work, too: the first year I was there we won eight ADDYs, finishing second only to an agency 15 times our size in that year's competition.

The agency owner would bring in an impossible project with an insane deadline, and I'd look at Tris.

"Tris, we're screwed."

"I know."

"Are we gonna dodge the bullet this time?"

"Yeah."

And we always did.

Now I'm a writer, and not a designer. But I try to never be the writing equivalent of a page decorator.

Your Witness

2008-09-30T17:01:00.001-07:00

Today I got an unexpected letter: handwritten, in the type of handwriting that made me think the sender was older, from someone I've never met who lives about 10 or 15 miles from here. It was a letter exhorting me to become a Jehovah's Witness, and inviting me to a church. The sender, a woman (according to her signature), helpfully enclosed a tract about the serenity that awaited me if I became a Jehovah's Witness, and the eternal damnation that was my future if I didn't.

Although I support some of the group's pacifist beliefs, and applaud the many contributions they've made to civil liberties in this country — the First Amendment would be a mere shell if not for many of the Witness' historic court cases — I think I'm going to pass.

As an advertising writer who's written many direct response campaigns, I wonder how successful this one will be. The rule of thumb for the success of a direct mail campaign is this:

50% of the success or failure of a direct mail campaign can be attributed to the mailing list

30% depends on the offer being made

20% hinges on the design and writing

Granted, study after study shows that a personalized, hand written letter gets much higher results, so we can assume that last 20% is taken care of. The offer — eternal salvation — seems pretty strong. (Certainly stronger than the other piece of direct mail I received today, which was a buy one, get one free offer on a Big Mac.)

But I think the mailing list — Jews who have never expressed any interest in Christianity in general, or Jehovah's Witnesses in particular — might be the problem. Surely there are other groups, such as people who are already Christian, that might offer better odds of success.

The real question, of course, is who this woman is, how she got my name and address, and why she decided to invite me to her church. I man, my wife is Catholic, but I've never received a solicitation from any Catholic church (although I did once give a check for $350 to the Baltimore Archdiocese, but that's another story.)

I might follow up with the woman and see how the campaign is going. Or I might just go get myself a free Big Mac.

Strike

2008-09-24T10:47:00.001-07:00

Everyone should have a childhood friend who is at least foot taller, and preferably of a different skin color.

I did — my best buddy, Alvin, ultimately grew to 6' 6", exactly a foot taller than me, and was (and is) as brown as I am white. We were the interracial Mutt and Jeff.

When I was a teenager I had hair down the middle of my back. When Alvin an I would hitchhike together, we'd wait a long, long time for someone to give us a ride: 90+% of the population was guaranteed to dislike one of us on sight.

Alvin's whole family, in fact, was the Land of the Giants: his brother was well over 6 feet as well, his mother was around 5' 10", and his father, who'd once played in the Canadian Football League (he was a lineman) was one of the largest human beings I ever saw. To this day, he's the only person I ever saw pick up a sofa by himself and carry it up a flight of stairs.

I remember one time Alvin, Alvin's brother, his father and I went bowling. His father, whose name was Marvin, had never been bowling before, for some reason, and when we arrived at the bowling alley the three of us began giving Marvin a stream of unsolicited advice. As he picked up a 16 pound ball — the heaviest in the place — our advice became critical. "No, Dad, stand this way." "No, put these fingers in the holes." "Don't start from there, start from here."

Alvin's father got madder and madder. Finally, he yelled give me the damn ball and get out of the way, took one step and launched the ball down the alley. It bounced once and slammed into the pins, shattering two of them.

Needless to say, it was a strike.

He picked up another ball. This one bounced twice on the way to the pins, which exploded when the ball hit them. Another strike.

His third ball broke another pin on the way to strike three.

At that point the manager approached and nervously asked us if we could either stop shattering pins or perhaps do our bowling elsewhere (or not at all). Marvin was convinced he'd made his point, and none of us were going to argue with him.

Needless to say, we all decided he'd won.

It's In The Bag

2008-09-22T11:05:00.000-07:00

Our weekend at the beach ended the way I always like a vacation to end, which is to say it involved a car chase and a narrow escape from an angry pursuer.

And, of course, a big bag of trash.

My wife's sister and her husband are on an Alaskan cruise, and so they offered us their house, which is just a couple of miles from the Delaware beaches, for the weekend. Because we didn't want to put trash in their trash can that would sit for a couple of weeks until they returned, we brought one of those giant lawn and leaf bags with us. and used that to collect all of our trash for the weekend.

Sunday comes, and my wife suggests that we drop the bag of trash in a dumpster behind a nearby grocery store on our way out of town. Sounds like a good idea to me, so with the car packed we head to the store, with the bag jammed between the dashboard and me in the passenger seat.

We pull around the back of the grocery store, and there sit three dumpsters and one sign "Not for personal trash. $500 fine." Out of the six of us in the car, I'm the only one who notices the sign. I don't say anything, but get out of the car and look around. No one in sight (we're behind the building). I gently put the bag of trash next to the dumpster, turn to get back in the car, and

"Hey!" The yell is much too deep to be my wife and children. I jump back in the car. "Go! Go!"

Around the corner roars a large, older blue pickup truck, from which a large man is yelling. He is pissed.

My wife starts driving out of the parking lot, the truck with the yelling man in hot pursuit behind us. Who is this guy? Why does he care? I have no idea.

We race to the parking lot exit, ready to make a left turn. There are no cars coming from the right, but a long line coming from the left. My wife hesitates. The blue pickup is behind us, and the yelling man is opening the door to get out.

I yell for my wife to go, and she races out of the lot. The man closes his door, but it's too late: the line of cars has blocked him from turning left out of the lot to follow us. My wife drives off, with all of us peering anxiously out of the back window of our van. Is he after us? Have we given him the slip?

As we're watching, I tell the kids about the sign threatening a $500 fine. Our 13-year-old son: "Did it say anything about going to jail?"

That opens the floodgate to questions from all four children. "Do you think he's still following us?" "Can he follow us home?" "Will he call the police?" "Will they come after us?"

I assured them that the Delaware police were unlikely to follow us to Maryland to pursue the crime of illegal dumping, though I don't even know that what we did was illegal. (In retrospect, legal or not, it wasn't a very nice thing to do, and we should have found some other spot for our trash bag.)

Anyway, if you don't see any posts from me for 30-60 days, you'll know why.

Rahsaan

2008-09-18T07:03:00.000-07:00

Jazz has always been known for its eccentric characters. There was pianist Thelonious Monk, who would sometimes stop playing in the middle of a solo, leap to his feet and begin dancing, Why? Just because. There was Sun Ra, who claimed to be from another planet (generally Saturn).

But perhaps the most eccentric, as well as arguably one of the most talented, was Rahsaan Roland Kirk.

Kirk played a variety of instruments, some of his own design, often simultaneously. A one man horn section, he could play three different horns at once — fingering one with his left hand, one with his right, and playing a drone note on the third. He was a walking encyclopedia of jazz, with his solos spanning the range from Dixieland to Duke Ellington to bop to what we would now call post modern, a genre that Kirk pioneered.

A master of circular breathing, a technique that enabled him to play without pausing for breath, Kirk could be both lyrical and intense, often at the same time, hilarious and jaw droppingly ground breaking. (He could also play through his nose as well as his mouth.)

Ian Anderson's (Jethro Tull) flute technique is a third-rate Kirk imitation. Entire horn sections have tried to duplicate Kirk's feats, and it took a three-man section to do it.

Kirk's music was both deep and joyous. If you want the history of jazz in one package, one of his anthologies might fit the bill.

Money Honey

2008-09-15T10:21:00.000-07:00

Four times I've had a bank or brokerage try to give me money that wasn't mine. Twice I've been successful in returning it.

The first was when I was 16, and withdrew $100 from my checking account. I dutifully handed my passbook and withdrawal slip (yes, this was awhile ago) to the teller, who just as dutifully counted out 10 bills and handed them to me.

Ten $100 bills.

"Ma'am," I said, "I think you should count these again." "Why, didn't I give you ten?" she asked. I silently handed her the bills and my passbook. She looked at the bills, and her face turned white. A $900 shortage in her cash drawer at the end of the day? She would have been fired, and possibly liable for the $900.

She was so stunned she never thanked me. No big deal.

The second time was one morning, many years later, when I stopped at an ATM (not at my bank) for cash on the way to work. It was about 8:45 a.m., 15 minutes before the bank opened. When I got my cash, some $20's were stuck together, so although I'd asked for (and was debited) $40 I received twice that.

Seeing the employees inside the locked branch, preparing for the day, I thought I'd do the right thing. I knocked on the door.

A couple of them shook their heads "no," pointing to the clock on the wall to indicate the branch wasn't open yet. I held my money up and pointed to it.

They shook their heads "no" more vigorously. I pointed to my money more vigorously. They. no doubt thinking I wanted to complain about not receiving ENOUGH money, continued to shake their heads and indicate that they had no intention of even coming to the door and talking to me, let alone letting me in.

I needed to get to work and decided I'd been as honest and helpful as I was going to be, and left. That bank is now out of business, perhaps because of the great customer service.

The third time I received money that wasn't mine, it wasn't from a bank and it wasn't money. One month when opening our brokerage statement (it was Merrill Lynch at the time), I thought we had an unusually high amount in our account. Had one of our stocks or mutual funds suddenly skyrocketed without my noticing?

I scanned the statement and discovered the culprit: there were 1,000 shares of Kansas City Power and Light (why do I remember that?) that we hadn't bought and didn't own that had mysteriously found their way into our account. According to the statement, they'd been in our account for a couple of weeks.

I called our account manager, who wasn't at all alarmed. Nor, it seemed, did he know who owned those shares, but he assured me he'd find out and our next statement would be correct. I asked him what would have happened if I hadn't called him, and he assured me, "Oh, we'd have discovered the mistake."

Maybe so.

The last time was, coincidentally, at the same ATM of the same bank where I'd tried, unsuccessfully, to return the extra $40 I'd actually received. One lunch hour I withdrew some money and was startled to see on the receipt that my checking account had a balance of just over $30,000. (Just over $300 was probably more accurate.) Wow, $30,000 in "found" money.

I rushed back to work and asked the comptroller, who was a friend of mine, what my liability would be if I withdrew that $30,000? Would I have been arrested?

"Well," he said, "if the $30,000 COULD have been in your account for real, the worst case scenario would be that you'd have to give the money back once the error was discovered."

"How would the bank know or prove that the $30,000 wasn't a legitimate number? I asked."

"They look at your average balance over the last couple of months and see if a $30,000 balance would be an assumption you could reasonably make. Do you typically have $30,000 in your checking account?"

The look on my face answered the question. His advice: "Don't withdraw the money. They'll figure it out."

And they did.

I was sorry when that bank went out of business. I had good luck at their ATMs.

Food Fight

2008-09-12T10:23:00.001-07:00

I've had some of the best and worst service I've ever received in a restaurant at Bob Evans, a place I only go to when someone else makes me.

The worst service happened one evening when I told our four children I'd take them out to dinner if they could agree on a place, and they chose Bob Evans. Not my top 10, but they agreed with a minimum of arguing, and I thought I should encourage this temporary cessation of the sibling rivalry hostilities by being supportive.

The hostess gave us the back room all to ourselves, and our server was prompt with drinks and order taking. The food arrived in a timely fashion. Well, all of the food except for mine.

The kids dug in while I sat. And sat. Our server, who'd been very attentive up to this point, was nowhere to be seen. Finally I walked up to the counter and spoke to the person who turned out to be the assistant manager.

When I asked where my food was, she assured me everything we'd ordered had been delivered to our table. I assured her it hadn't. Then (I'd ordered a salad with fried chicken strips on top, can't recall the name), she'd told me that they'd been unable to prepare my salad because "we had to turn off the deep fryer to clean it."

I told her I couldn't believe they'd turn of their deep fryer in the middle of the dinner hour, when a high percentage of the menu items were deep fried. I also asked how my children were able to get their french fries if the fryer was out of commission.

Finally, I said, "Please don't lie to me. If someone forgot to turn my order in, or forgot to make it, just tell me."

She assured me that wasn't the case. Since my children were done eating by that time, and we were ready to go, I told her just to forget it. "We can make it for you to go right now, at no charge," she said.

"I thought your deep fryer was shut off for cleaning."

"It's working now."

"No thanks, we'll just go."

A year later Bob Evans redeemed itself, sort of, to me. Our son, Adam and I were in Detroit for a long weekend (he was in his car phase at the time, and we went to visit several auto museums as a father-son trip). I let him choose the restaurants, and our first night he picked the Bob Evans near our hotel.

The manager, alerted by our server that with our accents we were probably from out of town, stopped by our table to say hello. He and Adam chatted about the origami figures Adam had made from our placemats while waiting for our food (Adam is an origami expert, which is going to look great on his college applications). Hearing we were from Maryland, he exclaimed, "I have a great gift for you. It's perfect for someone from Maryland. I'll be right back."

Two minutes later he returned, beaming, and gave us his gift: a map pinpointing the locations of every Bob Evans in the continental United States, complete with addresses and phone numbers.

I wa speechless. Though not with delight.

Politically Correct

2008-09-10T13:27:00.000-07:00

In this political season, it seems appropriate to mention that I once lost a job — well, I was fired, actually — over a political candidate.

The candidate was an evangelical Christian, very conservative. The owner of the ad agency where I worked had been a long-time supporter of him, and when he decided to run for president she was ecstatic. (Much of the agency's staff was less so, but that's another story.)

She offered the agency's resources — I believe she initially proposed charging $1/month — and we became his advertising and marketing agency. Immediately shredders, locks on doors and an upgraded security system appeared, and all employees were directed to drop what they were doing and begin working on his political campaign.

I, politely and professionally, asked not to be assigned to the project and, much to my surprise, wasn't. One other employee, an art director, asked for the same treatment, and he received.

Now, when you turn down the company owner's pet project, you can assume that you should update your resume, because your time at that company is about to come to an end. I redid my resume and cleaned up my portfolio, just in case.

The months went on, his campaign began to sputter, and despite the regular messages on our paychecks about who our next president would be, he withdrew. Life seemingly returned to normal.

A couple of months later I was suddenly dropped from the distribution list for memos that went to everyone in the department. My assignments dried up. Clearly, in the mind of the agency president I ceased to exist.

I bet someone in my department $50 that I'd be fired on a Friday two weeks in the future, at 3 p.m. The bet was that I was correct within an hour.

I actually got fired a little after 2, and collected the $50. More importantly, I was able to clean out my desk, say my goodbyes, and leave before rush hour (the agency, which no longer exists, was in Washington, D.C.)

Interestingly, when I told friends and family at the time I asked not be assigned to the account, I received all kinds of reactions. Some folks said, "Good for you." A few said, "You're an idiot." My parents, rabble rousers from way back, were proud of me.

My favorite part was trying to explain to the folks at the unemployment office why I'd been fired. This was one they'd never heard before.

The art director who'd also not worked on the account? He quit before he was fired, and hasn't worked on a political campaign since.

Nor, in fact, have I. Though, to be honest, no one has asked.

NRBQ

2008-09-09T15:34:00.000-07:00

For my money, NRBQ remains the best bar band in the world: that is, the line-up with guitarist Al Anderson remains the best bar band in the world (later incarnations didn't compare).

The name stands for New Rhythm and Blues Quartet, but rhythm and blues is about the only type of music the band doesn't play. Who else could put together a set list that featured Johnny Cash, Thelonious Monk, Carl Perkins, Sun Ra, traditional tunes and their own wacky paeans to girls, marijuana, cars, dictionaries, biting dogs and Moon Pies? WHo else could cover the themes from Bonanza and old John Wayne movies? Who else could jam with Carl Perkins, Keith Richards, Skeeter Davis and the young lions of jazz?

Just to prove their versatility, the band had a gimmick they employed at live shows for years: pass a box through the audience and invite audience members to write song names on scraps of paper and drop them in the box. Later in the show, the band would randomly draw one or two slips of paper out of the box and attempt those songs. They always succeeded.

Bassist Joey Spampinato was good enough to be tapped by Keith Richards to play in the backing band in Richards' film about Chuck Berry, when the Rolling Stone guitarist could have called any bassist in the world. Keyboard player Terry Adams, sometimes brilliant, sometimes catatonic, recorded an album in which he led several jazz masters (and more than held his own).

They've backed wrestlers (Captain Lou Albano) and rockabilly singers (Perkins), played music from the 1950s and music from outer space, and presented some of the tightest and sloppiest live shows on the planet. Never imitated, never equalled, they're more fun than any other three bands you can name.

Quick Hit

Award for the best title for a live album (best live album remains, of course, James Brown Live At The Apollo) goes to The Replacements, one of the best things to ever come out of Minneapolis-St. Paul (Prince and Husker Du would be the others). Known for their drunken, lurching live shows, where wrong chords sometimes battled with forgotten lyrics, the 'Mats' (fans affectionately dubbed them The Place-mats) live album is named, appropriately, The Shit Hits The Fans. The album is better than you might think.

Lost

2008-09-04T07:40:00.000-07:00

A person with no sense of direction probably shouldn't be a navigator in a sports car rally. That, at least, sums up my rallying career to date.

Now, when I say no sense of direction, I mean I once took a wrong turn in a hallway in the middle of the night and walked into a closet instead of the bathroom. (Luckily I realized my mistake in time.) Truly, I think I could buy a GPS for my car and deduct it on our taxes, claiming medical necessity. I get lost constantly.

The first rally I ever did was with my first wife, and I suspect my poor navigational skills were part of the reason why we divorced. God, did we argue that day.

After that, I began rallying with my friend, Elliott, and what a pair we made.

Elliott had an old, bulbous Saab, with manual steering and a steering wheel the size of a pizza pan (for leverage to turn the wheels, I suppose). It was, as I recall, a Saab 96, with a four-speed on the column. It was slow and not very powerful, which proved to be a problem.

If you've never been on a sports car rally, here's how it works: every car has a driver and a navigator, A few minutes before the start (cars generally start one at a time at five-minute intervals, give or take) the navigator gets a set of instructions that involves following difficult directions (sometimes only using clues or riddles) to specific points in specific amounts of time. Teams must make their way to a series of checkpoints, each of which must be reached at a certain time. (And by certain, I mean to the second: teams get a point for every second early or late to a checkpoint, and a winning team might get through 7-10 checkpoints and only have 20 points.)

Sometimes the navigator is given a distance and needs to calculate the speed at which the team should drive, sometimes the opposite. Experienced rally folks have sophisticated computers in their cars. Novices, such as us, have a calculator, a couple of pencils and a pad of paper.

I should have known how the event was going to go for us when I gave Elliott the first direction 20 seconds into our first rally. "Left! Left! Turn left now!" And turn we did, into a parking lot.

"This can't be right!" And we were already a minute behind.

Now, what happens during rallies is that each checkpoint has a couple of folks staffing it, and they pack up and leave after the last car SHOULD have come through. Elliott and I employed the same strategy in every rally: get hopelessly lost, than have to drive like maniacs to get to the next checkpoint before it closed. At awards ceremonies, as winners came forward with their scores of 20 points or 30 points we scanned the leader board for our score, which was always in the thousands.

We got lost every way you can get lost. We'd pass signs that said Now Entering ________ County when the directions had made it clear that the entire rally was going to remain within the county we were leaving. We'd see other cars we were sure were in our rally (and had started long after us) going in the opposite direction. ("Think we should turn around?" "Uh, yeah.")

The Turn Around Strategy — second only to our Drive Like Maniacs Strategy — ultimately proved our downfall.

On a narrow country road in the middle of farm country, we realized we were hopelessly lost. In attempting to make a U-turn, Elliott got stuck in a ditch.

Since he was driving, I was the one who had to get out and push. The tires spun, covering me with dirt and mud, but the car stayed stuck in the ditch. As we pondered what to do, a farmer came along in a truck and, in less than two minutes, pulled us out of the ditch and got us back on the road. We gave him our heartfelt thanks, and as he left the trouble started.

Elliott took one look at my dirt and mud covered clothes, and reached a decision: "You can't get in my car." "What?" "You're covered in mud. You can't get in." "I'm covered in mud because I had to push your car out of the ditch you drove into. Stop wasting time, we gotta get going." "I don't want my car to get all dirty."

Finally, Elliott relented and let me in. We drove until we saw a Burger King, and I tried to clean myself up in their bathroom.

That, I think, was our last rally. We're still very close friends — I've known Elliott for 30 years — and since that rally, which was 20+ years ago, we've never had a disagreement.

Nor, now that I think about it, has Elliott ever asked me for directions.

Bar None

2008-09-03T07:55:00.001-07:00

Sitting through my nephew's Bar Mitzvah this weekend reminded me of why I like ice cream.

Prior to my Bar Mitzvah, I went to three years of Hebrew school, which meant classes after my regular school at the synagogue one or two afternoons a week (I can't remember the exact schedule).

Next to the temple was a Dairy Queen, and occasionally when the six boys in that class arrived before Hebrew school started, we would go to the Dairy Queen for a cone.

One day we arrived at the temple and the rabbi hadn't. The doors were locked. So we went to the Dairy Queen and bought ice cream, and then sat on the steps of the temple with our book bags and ice cream cones, waiting for the rabbi.

When he arrived and saw us he was furious. Why? Because the ice cream wasn't kosher. Even though we weren't inside the building with it, he felt we were being blasphemous in some way.

He yelled at us for awhile, and then said, "I suppose you'd rather eat non kosher ice cream than study the Torah." Before we could admit that, well, ice cream was preferable to Hebrew School, he hit us with the worst punishment he could think of: "Fine, sit out here and eat your ice cream, then."

We spent the entire class period outside, while he sat inside the building. No doubt he felt that by denying us our Hebrew studies he was causing us great sadness.

It was the best class we ever had.

This End Up

2008-09-02T07:56:00.001-07:00

I once dated a woman who was finishing up her residency as an OB/GYN at the University of Maryland Medical School, and our one date at the theatre proved to be much more of a comedy than the show's producers intended.

It was a one man show with, I think, Jason Robards; probably the life of Mark Twain, but I'm not sure. Halfway through the second act, an older gentleman in the front row collapsed.

Just as in the movies Robards stopped the show, broke character, and bellowed, "Is there a doctor in the house?"

My date leaped out of her seat and began rushing down the aisle towards the front. On the other side of the theatre, a man jumped out of his seat and also scurried to the front.

My date and the man arrived at the passed out theatre goer at the same time. "I don't know how much help I can be," my date said. "I'm Obey/Gyney."

The other man looked at her for a second. "I," he said, with a funny look on his face, "am a proctologist."

They called an ambulance.

Stoned

2008-08-29T06:36:00.000-07:00

This morning I heard the Rolling Stones' "2000 Light Years From Home" (from "Their Satanic Majesties Request") for the first time in years, and was reminded by how much I disliked that album.

(Critics, then as now, were split on the album, some hailing its daring experimentation, some dismissing it as a second-rate Sgt. Pepper copy).

I fall into the latter camp.

There are, in my opinion, three glaring flaws in the album:

Unlike the Beatles' psychedelia, many of the Stones' bleeps, bloops, sweeps and flourishes sound as if they were afterthoughts, rather than being integral parts of the song.

The song writing, which strays far from the band's blues-based/swaggering hard rock roots, is weak.

Charley Watts, possessor of the best back beat in rock 'n roll, abandons his usual drumming style, which is no improvement. He's also buried in the mix.

The Stones would never seriously attempt psychedelia again and, in fact, as the hippie dream faded (with their own debacle at Altamont serving as the coda), the Stones would musically grind the peace and love era under their boot heels.

And don't get me started on "Angie," the most irritating ballad of all time.

Happy Place

2008-08-29T06:19:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow I'll have the pleasure of my nephew's Bar Mitzvah. Held in an orthodox synagogue, the service, according to my sister, will come in right around the three hour mark.

At least, unlike the Catholic services I sometimes attend (my wife and children are Catholic), in Jewish services there's more sitting and less rising, meaning I'll have more quality thinking time to drift off mentally.

First, I'll pitch the entire final game of the World Series for the Orioles, concluding a perfect game by striking out Jeter on a nasty slider low and away. He'll flail helplessly. (Yes, my fantasies are completely cliche ridden.) At my post-game interview, I'll be modest, deflecting all compliments and opining that what matters is that we've brought the World Series trophy back to Baltimore.

Then I'll record the first quintuple double (double figures in points, assists, rebounds, steals and blocked shots) in Washington Wizards history, a sterling achievement for a 5' 6" player. For my last blocked shot, I'll slap Lebron's attempted dunk into the fourth row. The look on his face will be priceless.

Once again, I'll be modest at the post-game press conference. (I'm known for my humility in the sports world.)

Then it's on to the Super Bowl, where my defensive exploits (two interceptions run back for touchdowns, half a dozen forced fumbles, tackles so savage Tom Brady completely avoids my side of the field after the first quarter). My comment to Ray Lewis just before the start of the game will be a classic: "You just be Ray Lewis. I've got your back." He'll dismantle the parts of the offense I don't. Afterwards, we'll probably hug.

Once again, my post-game press conference will stress that the team won the game, not me.

I'm not sure what I'll think about for the second hour.

Holiday Cheer

2008-08-27T13:23:00.001-07:00

My favorite time on the New Jersey Turnpike — and God knows there have been many — was one Sunday evening a few miles from the foot of the turnpike, when I was returning to Maryland after spending Thanksgiving with my parents. (Who have since, thankfully, moved from New Jersey to Northern Virginia.)

As is customary on holiday weekends — or almost any other day — there was a five mile back-up at the toll booths. One mile into that back-up my car died.

Completely.

I got out and began trying to push it across five lanes of traffic to the shoulder. Of course, since I was surrounded by drivers who were stuck in traffic and going nowhere, several of them were happy to leap out of their cars and help me.

Yeah, right.

Not only did every driver between the shoulder and me move up and block my way as soon as the car in front of them pulled up and gave me enough of an opening to push my car another few feet, but they honked, yelled and gave me the finger if I dared to try to push my car in front of theirs.

As if they weren't at a standstill and staring at a five-mile parking lot. I mean, how was I slowing their journey in any way, shape or form? I didn't expect sympathy, but I certainly didn't deserve hostility. (On the other hand, we ARE talking about New Jersey.)

The karma scales were way out of balance that day ... well, unless I'd done something really bad in a previous life.

I eventually got to the shoulder, no thanks to my fellow drivers, and hiked to the nearest exit (luckily not far) and called my stepbrother, an ace auto mechanic, who was living with my folks (now about 100 miles away) at the time. (This was well before cellphones.)

I hung out at a Howard Johnsons for a couple of hours until my stepbrother, Bobby, arrived. He popped the hood and found the problem in five minutes: the points (this story also predates electronic ignition) had broken into pieces inside my distributor.

Now where on a Sunday night on Thanksgiving weekend are you going to find a set of points for a 1979 Volkswagen Rabbit in a small town in southern New Jersey?

Here's where the karma scales righted themselves. For some unknown reason, I'd done a tune-up and changed the points and plugs a week before Thanksgiving, and thrown the old plugs and points in the trunk. When Bobby held up the pieces of points and wondered out loud where we'd get a replacement, I remembered I had the old, worn, but still working set in the trunk and pulled them out.

Bobby was floored, as was I. I was also embarrassed, because if I'd popped the distributor cap I would have spotted the shattered points instantly, and replaced them and been on my way hours sooner.

Still, Bobby popped in the old points and I was on my way.

And for the rest of the trip I never honked, cursed, or gave another driver the finger. Just to prove that it could be done.

Patience of Job

2008-08-26T11:00:00.001-07:00

My two favorite job interviews — ones where I was the interviewer, not the interviewee — both involved people who didn't get the job. One, in fact, didn't even get the interview.

When I was a creative director at an ad agency once I was in charge of finding a new copywriter, and once we ran a help wanted ad the resumes came pouring in. One of the folks who looked promising had worked at an ad agency where I'd previously worked, though a couple of years after I'd been there. I called and invited her for an interview.

In she came with her portfolio — usually called a "book" in an ad agency — and she was showing her work. It was good, and she had a great attitude.

Everything was proceeding swimmingly until she turned the page to show an ad that I'd seen many times and always liked.

Partly because I'd written it.

Now, every ad in someone's book has a story: what the client's problem was, how the creative team or person came up with the idea, what the results were. I asked her what the story was behind that particular ad.

She told me a great story — much better than the real story — that had nothing to do with how and why that ad had actually been produced.

When she finished, I told her that it had just become an unlucky day for her. "Only one or two people would have known that you didn't write that ad," I told her. "Because I wrote it. At (name of agency). Two years before you worked there."

What could she say? I asked her if any of the other work in her book was someone else's, and she swore up and down that that was the only ad she'd included that wasn't hers.

I told her I was flattered that she'd included my work in her portfolio, but I was afraid she was out of the running for our job opening.

In a way it was kind of amusing, and I felt bad for her. What were the odds that she'd interview at the one agency in town that would have known that ad wasn't written by her?

The second person I remember from that process, coincidentally also a woman, was also someone who looked promising and was invited for an interview. When I called her to set the appointment, the trouble began.

She lived in Baltimore (we were in the suburbs), and she began quizzing me about the closest bus stop, and which buses stopped there. When I didn't know, she told me which buses stopped near her apartment, and asked me if any of them stopped near our office. When I told her I didn't know that, either, she demanded I find out.

Then, when I told her how far the bus stop was from our office (a couple of blocks), she made her second demand: pick her up at the stop, and drive her back to it after the interview.

I told her I wasn't going to do that, and she'd have to find her own way to the office if she wanted to come in for an interview. She insisted that that was a great hardship, and I HAD to drive her.

"If I do that and we hire you," I asked, "how will you get to work every day?"

It turned out that she thought I (or someone in the office, "like one of the secretaries") could drive her two and from the bus stop every day, though she grudgingly admitted she could possibly walk "in nice weather."

The woman we ultimately hired had her own car.

Bono Vox

2008-08-21T11:23:00.000-07:00

Since I installed an XM radio receiver in my car a couple of years ago I rarely listen to CDs, but today I accidentally hit the CD button on my car stereo (I have a six CD changer) and I was instantly blasted by a semi-forgotten live Good Rats CD I'd downloaded and burned onto CD.

The sound quality (converted from mp3) isn't much — one notch below a good soundboard recording — but I was struck once again by what a great rock and roll voice lead singer Peppi Marchello has: like Burton Cummings of the Guess Who, if Cummings had been an angry, disillusioned Italian street punk from New York, rather than a fey Canadian popster.

Peppi, like John Lennon in his early years, just puts it out there, and throat shredding be damned. Peppi can howl and yowl like the best rockabilly front man — the Stray Cats would have killed for this voice — then roar with defiance at one of his many perceived injustices (union busting bosses and record company executives are his favorite targets).

Sadly, the Good Rats are now, and have been for years, Peppi as the only original member, often with his sons as backing musicians. The twin guitar attack and early synergy are gone, and Peppi seems bitter at his band's many decades of non stardom.

Having said that, aging gracefully is not in the rock and roll job description. Someone better tell Keith Richards.

Happily Ever After

2008-08-20T12:05:00.000-07:00

I briefly managed — in this case, "managed" meant "hangs out with us and gets in for free and is the only one wearing something nicer than a T-shirt" — a band that picked up the occasional wedding gig.

My favorite wedding was the one where a huge fight broke out. Apparently, the family of the Italian bride and Polish groom (I might have those reversed) had, as they say, cultural differences. Someone's uncle took offense at something someone else's cousin said, words were exchange, someone grabbed someone's arm, that someone told the original someone to relinquish said arm, and well, you get the picture.

Adding to the comedy was the fact that the bride was both drop dead gorgeous and a head taller than the groom, who was far from drop dead gorgeous.

As the fight spread beyond the original two participants, the band had two crucial questions:

Should we stop playing?

Is the guy who's supposed to pay us involved in the fight?

Luckily, the guy who was paying the band was not among those who wound up being arrested. He didn't even try to negotiate a reduced price because the band hadn't played a full set.

I often wonder how that couple is doing.

My second favorite wedding — well, besides my own, which didn't involve violence of any sort — was the wedding of two friends, Ray and Teal. They had a band whose singer fancied himself quite the MC and comic, and when the bridesmaids/groomsmen walked into the reception, h introduced each couple with a flourish.

My friend Elliott Finkelstein happened to have the good fortune of walking in with a bridesmaid named Lisa Frankenfeld. The MC, who was in no danger of giving Einstein a run for his money, glanced at the list of names in his hand. "Presenting," he bellowed, "Mr. and Mrs. Frankenstein!"

Elliott turned to Lisa, and in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, asked her, "When did we get married?"

When Elliott, who is almost a dead ringer for Groucho Marx, actually did get married years later (not to Lisa), he and his new wife turned around after making their vows to discover that half of the guests had donned Groucho glasses while the happy couple was facing the other way.

But that's another story. And Ray and Teal, as far as I know, are still married.

Maine Event

2008-08-20T11:58:00.000-07:00

No doubt you’ll be fascinated to hear about our recent vacation in Maine. (Come over any time for a two-hour slide show.)

We did see an actual moose, albeit through binoculars from a distance (they’re very good at avoiding people) and ate a ton of wild blueberries. We also had some of the worst tomatoes I’ve ever had in August; couldn’t wait to get back to our garden.

On a side note, since Kodak ceased making carousel slide projectors in 2003 how do people clear the room of family and friends? With a PowerPoint presentation of their last vacation? A special effects laden horror overproduced and under edited in iMovie? And, without a movie projector, how do folks make shadow puppets? Can today’s children even make a duck or rabbit using only their hands and a bright light?

Maine, if you’ve never been there, has three industries: blueberry products, maple syrup products, and gift shops. Apparently, state law decrees that every town of more than 500 people must have a gift shop. Since every shop carries the same moose and loon themed merchandise, I’m not sure why this is. Visit the state and see if you don’t agree.

Shoot Me The Answer

2008-08-18T12:03:00.000-07:00

You may have heard that the teachers of Harrold, Texas, a town whose school system boasts 110 students, will now be allowed to carry concealed weapons if properly certified by the state of Texas. That certification, the town's trustees assured, includes training and tests. (Teachers, or anyone else seeking a permit to carry a concealed weapon in Texas, must score at least a 70 on the test.)

The reasoning is simple: the nearest law enforcement officers is 30 minutes away, and the school district is just off a heavily travelled highway. The school system is afraid that if someone decided to exit the highway and terrorize the school, armed assistance would be half an hour away.

There's been a predictable uproar, since anything involving abortion/birth control or firearms/the Second Amendment is guaranteed to raise a ruckus. My favorite part, at least so far, was that the trustees assured parents that the teachers would use bullets designed to minimize the chances of ricochet in the halls. Oh, and the superintendent saying that the need for teachers to carry guns is "just common sense."

Not common enough, apparently, for any other school district in the country to have come up with a similar regulation.

No doubt classroom discipline will improve tremendously as will, I suspect, test scores. I know that if my teachers had been armed with something larger than a red pencil, I would have done better. Who wouldn't?

I don't think the reason is that the teachers fear the students: the one school, which houses students from kindergarten through 12th grade, reportedly has 50 teachers and staff members to watch over 110 students. I'm not sure why 110 students require 50 adults to teach them — there can't be more than one class per grade level, or 13 classes total — but apparently they do.

The real question, at least for me, is what this might do to the school district's liability insurance premiums. If I was the school's insurer, the idea that dozens of teachers and administrators are going to be walking abound with guns would make me nervous. And make me want to jack up the school's premiums.

Perhaps the teachers will institute a new school tradition of firing their guns in the air on the last day of school. After all, it is Texas.

Yee-hah!

Monster Mash

2008-08-14T12:01:00.000-07:00

If you're ever thinking about becoming part of the world of amateur theatre, I have one word of warning for you: monsters. I'll get to that in a minute.

Back in my 20s I joined a local amateur theatre company, not because I loved acting, but because I liked the backstage stuff: set design and construction, lights, sound, special effects. I did some acting, though I was by no means God's gift to the acting world, and did some directing. But mostly I worked backstage (literally) at a particular theatre company, partnering with someone to run lights and sound. I worked on dozens of shows over an eight-year period, and, as you might imagine, I have a lot of stories about the odd characters and situations that cropped up.

Here are two:

During one show, my friend Elliott and I were backstage running the lightboard, a huge, primitive box that featured giant levers to control each channel of lights. We rented it for every show, and it took two people to carry it up the stairs to the second-floor stage. Our "sound system," a stereo receiver and two tape decks (this was awhile ago) was on a rickety table next to it.

The light/sound area was just behind the flats that made up the scenery, so with the actors only a few feet away (and the audience not much farther) the light/sound crew had to be quiet. This was normally not a problem with Elliott, since he spoke very little, but one particular performance he had a hard time keeping silent.

No doubt the wisps of smoke he noticed coming out of the lightboard had something to do with it. The wisps became more substantial, and we commenced a furious, albeit almost silent, argument. Should we tell someone? Should we stop the show? Was the thing about to catch fire? Was it just overheating? Was the smoke normal? Had either of us ever seen any smoke before? Should we err on the side of caution, since the theatre was a 100-year-old firetrap?

And the show was going so well, too.

As we gestured and hissed at each other, the smoke stopped, never to reappear. The next day we returned the lightboard to the rental company for a replacement. "Oh yeah," the guy said. "That one smokes sometimes. It's never caught on fire."

The second story began with a cache of LSD that my friend Glenn's brother-in-law left in his freezer during a visit, promising to return for it in a few weeks. Noticing that there were over 100 hits of acid in the package, Glenn was quite sure his brother-in-law wouldn't miss one.

By this time the theatre's backstage had been reconfigured, and lights and sound were in opposite corners. The lightboard was now next to a set of stairs that actors used to go between the stage and the dressing room. The sound equipment was on the other side of backstage, beside the stage manager's area. Typically, the light operator was alone.

One night, just before show time, Glenn apparently dropped a hit of acid and then came to the theatre, ready to run the lights (I was running sound). The show had very few light cues, so it was boring for the light guy, but tons of sound cues. I was busy, Glenn wasn't.

Midway through the second act, cuing up a sound effect with headphones and peering at the script for my next cue, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I jumped and turned around to be confronted by Glenn, his face contorted by fear.

"Monsters," he whispered a little too loudly. "There are monsters coming up the stairs."

I looked at him. Even in the dark of backstage I could see his eyes. They were almost whirling like pinwheels. Yes, the LSD had kicked in big time.

Knowing Glenn had no light cues for awhile and, in a pinch, I could run both lights and sound for the rest of the act, I told him to sit tight until I played my next sound cue, and then I'd help him. He stood stiff as a board until I could take off my headphones and gently guide him back to the lightboard.

There didn't appear to be any monsters.

Glenn insisted the monsters were coming up the stairs from the dressing room. I hadn't recalled seeing any monsters in the dressing room — just actors — and I was at a loss until I had a thought: "Glenn, what do monsters that creep around in the dark fear the most?" "Uhh, I don't know." "Light, Glenn, light. They're scared of light and they run away." "Yeah, okay, I guess so."

I gave him my flashlight and told him to be ready to flick it on any time he saw anything coming up the stairs. "Make sure you flick it right at them," I told him, hoping that the audience wouldn't notice the flashes of light from backstage.

That seemed to satisfy Glenn, and the rest of the show passed without incident. After the show, a couple of cast members were asking Glenn why he'd shined his flashlight at them every time they came up the stairs from the dressing room to get ready to go onstage.

Glenn stared at them blankly. "Monsters," I helpfully explained. "Glenn was keeping the monsters away."

It must have worked. There hasn't been a monster since.

Land of Lincoln

2008-08-10T17:10:00.000-07:00

I had the pleasure of reading Doris Kearns Goodwin's "Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln," and while the first 100-150 pages were tough sledding (at least for me) and the book comes dangerously close to becoming hagiography, in general it kicked ass. I was sorry to see it end.

Seeing how Lincoln elevated the office of the presidency made me think about how much the current occupant of the White House and his recent predecessors have diminished it. Bush, the frat boy Cheney puppet; Clinton, the philanderer (who even with a Democratic majority in Congress wasted much of his presidency and could have accomplished so much more); Bush the Elder, who had no idea what to do with the position once he achieved it; Reagan, who slept through most of his presidency (talk about plausible deniability!) and committed the unpardonable sin of Bitburg, for which he should never be forgiven; Carter who more than lived up to the words of Golda Meir (she was speaking of someone else, and there are some who attribute the quote to Mark Twain), who said, "Don't be so modest. You're not that great."; Ford, whose sole claim to fame appeared to be that he was a nice, and not scandal tainted, guy; and Nixon, who would have bombed his own people (and certainly bombed the Constitution) if Kissinger had told him to.

Small men all, who made the office of the presidency smaller with their pathetic attempts to fill it.

Another Lincoln would be nice. I'd even settle for another Harry Truman.

Moose On The Loose

2008-07-31T09:18:00.000-07:00

For a group that doesn't own a watch and can't tell time, most wild animals seem awful regulated, and often at odds with the human world.

Both fishing and hunting, for example, seem to require getting up really early. Fish apparently, consider breakfast the only meal worth eating. Miss that and you miss your chance to land a couple of big ones (though, luckily, the serious fishing time ends just as the serious beer drinking time begins). If the weather is cold, rainy or just plain horrible, that increases the odds that the fish or animals will be waiting for you.

We're leaving for Maine tomorrow, and the two things I've learned is that if you want to see a moose you have to:

1) Get up at 5:30 a.m.

2) Kayak a great distance away from your cabin (the point where your arms feel like they're about to fall off is usually perfect)

The third thing I've learned is that if someone else goes moose "hunting" (actually "moose looking") and brings back a photo, it will look for all the world like a large brown rock in the distance. You won't regret sleeping in.

For those whose moose knowledge begins and ends with Bullwinkle, this is quite a disappointment. Having said that, it makes the decision not to get up at 5:30 on a perfectly fine vacation morning very easy.

Every year (this will be our fourth summer Maine trip) my wife and brother-in-law go looking for moose at least one morning, and my wife proudly brings back her camera to show me this year's picture of a far away brown rock. Sadly, she never gets the thrilled reaction she wants.

From either the moose or me.

(We're off to Maine, far from computers and the Internet, so I won't be posting for 10 days or so. Keep smiling.)

Let's Roll The Tape

2008-07-29T13:25:00.000-07:00

If you like a story that combines sex, religion and public embarrassment, there's only one place to go: your local electronics repair shop.

Next to the elementary school our youngest daughter attends is an electronics repair shop. One day I stopped in lugging my large, heavy, broken Mitsubishi TV, 27" of glass surrounded by what felt like a ton of wood.

The guy behind the counter told me parts were unavailable, but he had some good news: a customer had left a 27" Zenith to be repaired and never picked it up, and I could have it for the $95 he'd spent in time and materials to repair it.

I jumped at the deal, but what was even better were the stories he told about some of his customers.

People, it seems, like to hide things in VCRs. Sex toys, for one. Drugs, for another. And if you think it would be embarrassing to have a technician remove a vibrator from a VCR, a bag of pot or cocaine would be more than embarrassing.

The first time the technicians found drugs in a customer's VCR, he said, they did the dutiful thing and called the police. The amount of time, trouble and paperwork it led to convinced them that in the future they'd just throw the drugs away and not bother calling the police, so that's what they've done ever since.

One day a very sexy woman brought in a VCR with a tape jammed in it. After she left the technicians removed the tape and then used that same tape to test the repaired VCR. It turned out to be home porn featuring the customer.

Being all male, the technicians made a copy of the tape for themselves, then packed up the original tape and VCR for the customer. When she picked it up, she asked if they'd viewed the tape after removing it from the VCR. No they hadn't, they assured her. "Too bad," she replied. "It was some of my best work."

But the better story was one that only involved the guy who was working the day I stopped in. (I'll call him Ed, because I can't remember his real name and he looked like an Ed.)

Ed, a nice Catholic boy, grew up and went to church on the east side of Baltimore. When he got out of school he moved to the western suburbs, 10-15 miles away from where he'd grown up. Consequently, he was a little surprised when a priest from his old church walked in the door carrying a VCR.

"Hello, Father________," said Ed, greeting the priest (whom he knew) by name. The priest suddenly got a funny look on his face. dropped the VCR on the counter, mumbled that there was "something jammed in it," and fled.

Ed opened up the VCR and found out why: yes, it was a porn tape jammed in the VCR, and the priest had, obviously, brought his VCR way across town to be repaired so no one would know him.

Oops.

Sadly, the death of the VCR and the rise of the DVD may mean the end to stories like these. Hopefully, even as you read this, there's an historical society working to preserve these moments of American history.

Although I know a certain priest who's hoping they aren't.

Tainted Love

2008-07-29T08:43:00.000-07:00

Comcast loves me more than ever.

Oh, when we had a relationship — granted, a relationship based on my paying them for television and Internet access — I felt much less love.

Like many relationships, the honeymoon period was the best: I had a shiny new router and cable box, I was getting some promotional savings, the service was fine. The installer knew nothing about our Macs, so I had to set up that part myself, but nobody's perfect.

Then, the relationship began to lose its luster. Promises were made and broken. Lies were told. Appointments were missed. Sometimes, patronizing tech support reps would tell me I didn't know what I was talking about when a router went bad (happened twice). Sometimes, tech support didn't know that service was out in our area and wanted to schedule an appointment (always for the following week). Once, without asking, Comcast ran a cable from the cable box in our yard across the yard and sidewalk to a neighbor's yard, then knocked on our door and said a crew would come to bury it within a week. For weeks we mowed around the cable, and finally after four phone calls someone dug up our yard to bury the cable. (It was another two calls to get them to return and repair the damage to our yard.)

And, of course, as our service went down — Internet service went out so often I had tech support on speed dial — the price crept up.

Our parting, when it came, encapsulated the entire relationship. When I called to cancel, here's the entire response I received: "Return all equipment within 30 days or you'll be billed for it." Luckily, I knew the location of the closest Comcast office (I'd been there more than once to swap defective equipment for new).

I thought that was the end of my relationship with Comcast. My new relationship with Verizon FiOS was going well — the one time we had a problem, I called in the morning and two repair people came and fixed the problem that afternoon — and we had better service and more "stuff" for less money.

Apparently Comcast had pangs of regret: after a month of no contact, I started to receive little enticements in the mail if only I'd return to my first electronic love. At first, the sweet nothings whispered in my ear were small: a price break for three months, a little bit of free HBO, a discount on equipment upgrades. And, mixed in with these little entreaties to return were veiled criticisms of my new love: "If your new service isn't quite everything you were promised..."

But when my stone heart refused to melt, the enticements became sweeter: free HBO and Showtime for six months, a discount price for a year, a free high definition LCD TV (size not specified).

Yesterday came the best offer ever: a free Nintendo Wii ($249 in a store if you can find one), and the promise of a faster Internet and more high definition channels than I have now. But I must be strong. I cannot weaken.

I wonder if they'd throw in a couple of games.

Leaky Career

2008-07-25T07:30:00.001-07:00

My career as a roofer was brief but, at least for onlookers, humorous.

One of my best friend's Moms had a rowhouse (townhouse for you non Baltimoreans) with an enclosed front porch that had a very leaky roof. In ay storm, large puddles would appear on the floor. Because she was an older woman who lived alone and had little money, hiring a professional to fix the problem was out of the question.

No problem, she had us.

On one of the coolest February days ever (temperature was in the teens) we grabbed a tube of caulk and a caulk gun and headed over there. We had no ladder, but figured we could crawl out on the porch roof from a second story window. It was a little damp as well as cold, but we were manly men and could handle it.

The roof, as it turned out, was slippery slate and had a very steep pitch. Anyone climbing out the window onto the roof would immediately slide off and land on a concrete walk that was a long way down.

My friend, Chip, was (and is) deathly afraid of heights, so the person on the roof was going to be me. Luckily, Chip was also larger and stronger than me, and together we hatched our plan: He would tie a rope around my waist and lower me out the window, so I could hang over the edge of the roof and caulk the eaves (where we were sure the leak was). To ease his load, since we had no pulley, we decided that Chip would loop the rope around a cast iron radiator that was near the window.

With the wind blowing, adding wind chill to the ass freezing cold temperature, I crawled out the window head first and crawled/slid to the edge of the roof. I began frantically caulking every gap in sight while hanging upside down, my head 20 feet above the concrete walkway, hoping to use up the tube of caulk before it or my fingers froze. (Oh, yes, we'd neglected to bring gloves.)

I scrabbled along the edge of the roof upside down, caulking like a maniac, until the tube was empty.

It was noisy on the street, and the blowing wind didn't help. "Chip, I'm done. Haul me in." "What?" "Pull me in." "What?!" "PULL ME IN!"

Inch by inch, with a few fits and starts (a cast iron radiator makes a lousy pulley), Chip pulled me back in. Half frozen and dizzy from hanging upside down, as well as a little damp from the roof, I was relieved to be inside. Chip's Mom made us hot chocolate (we were in our late 20s at the time), and we strutted around the house like Testosterone On Parade.

It rained the next day. The roof leaked like a sieve.

Ring A Ding Ting

2008-07-24T10:14:00.000-07:00

Our oldest daughter loves the Ting Tings, and the other day when we were in my car one of their songs came on.

"Gee, these folks sound familiar," I thought. In fact, they should an awful lot like the Tom Tom Club.

But unlike the joyous, never too serious Tom Tom Club, which was mostly a side venture for Talking Heads members Chris Frantz and Tina Weymouth, the Ting Tings are calculated and, at times, a bit annoying. The Tom Tom Club's sunny, island "don't worry, mon" has been replaced by a "we're cooler than you" snideness.

They may be cooler than me (actually, almost certainly so). But they ain't much fun.

Clients

2008-07-23T11:49:00.000-07:00

It's hard for me to say which clients of mine qualify as the wackiest. There have been a number of contenders.

There was the gentlemen who was starting his first business, and came to our initial meeting armed with a spreadsheet that listed every penny he planned to spend on marketing: newspaper ad space, radio time, my services, a graphic designer's services, radio production, everything. It was one of the most beautifully formatted spreadsheets I'd ever seen.

It was all wrong.

Ignoring media rate cards and average prices for various services, he'd plugged in numbers that suited his budget. His number for ad space in the Baltimore Sun, for example, was less than half of the rate card price. "Everything's negotiable," he explained to me, in the same tone you use to explain bedtime to a four-year-old. His new logo was going to cost him $175 because... that's how much money he had. (Most designers in this area charge $750-3,000 for a logo.) The radio voice talent he planned to use would cost 1/3 of union scale because... "I'm paying in cash!"

He'd listed everything I was to write, and helpfully listed how many hours each project would take and what he was going to pay me per hour. I can't remember everything, but I remember that he figured I could write a brochure in four hours and a radio script in an hour and a half, all for the princely sum of $15 an hour.

I tried to gently tell him that nothing he'd budgeted was going to happen for the amount he'd listed, and he became quite angry. He threatened to take his $60 budget for writing a brochure and $22.50 for a radio script elsewhere. I wished him luck.

I never saw any evidence that his business actually got off the ground.

Of course there have been the clients who wanted my home phone number "so if I get a brainstorm at 11 p.m. I can share it with you right away," the ones who couldn't understand why I stopped working when their deposit check bounced, and the ones who wanted me to work for free initially, "because when my (fill in the blank) becomes a big success you'll share in the wealth."

I think my favorite, though, was the man who'd inherited a paint company from his father, and apparently was sick of talking about paint. His creative direction for the print ads, radio commercials and TV spots we'd proposed: "Don't mention paint or talk about painters."

Uh, OK, what should the ads be about? "Talk about how paint makes people feel. But don't use the word paint."

While we were scratching our heads over that, he added his media plan to the creative direction: "I don't want the usual media, the magazines, the newspapers, the TV, the radio. I want outside the box gorilla marketing stuff. You know, guys with sandwich boards, media events, flyers stuck on windshields, things like that. Be creative!"

You won't be surprised to learn that his company was bought by a competitor and it was "suggested" he retire.

Don't get me wrong: I work with a lot of folks whom I greatly respect (and, hopefully, vice versa). I've worked with many who trusted my recommendations, and wanted to learn about marketing and advertising from me. I remember the ones who wore sunglasses to every meeting or insisted that their color blindness wouldn't prohibit them from choosing logo colors because there have been so few of them.

And because they've been so memorable,

Just Floored

2008-07-21T14:52:00.000-07:00

Today the linoleum (or was it vinyl?) in our kitchen and dining area, and trashed, stained, worn Berber carpet in our family room, was replaced by wood. Well, that fake wood, but it looks as real as the hardwood floor in our entrance.

It is gorgeous. It, of course, makes our walls and furniture look shabby. (Too bad we don't have the money for new furniture.)

What I like best about it, though, is what our sock wearing children did as soon as they saw a large, open expanse of wood floor: they slid/surfed/skated around and around. The two that weren't wearing socks immediately put some on and slid into the new family skating rink.

For a few moments they left the digital, screen laden world, and were the same kid I was decades ago.

It was heart warming. And it saved my wife, at least for the moment, from having to buy a dust mop. That floor is now the cleanest it will probably ever be.

Unless we don't move any furniture back in.

Model Behavior

2008-07-18T12:52:00.000-07:00

You might be surprised to hear this after looking at my photo, but I was a model. A paid, professional model.

Twice.

The first stemmed from the year I was Wolfman for Halloween. My then girlfriend was skilled with theatrical make-up, and a photographer at the publishing company where I worked (I was a newspaper editor at the time) happened to see me. A few days before Halloween, my girlfriend and I trekked to the company's main office with a huge bag filled with make-up, glue, fake hair and a shirt I could slice so my "fur" would come bursting out. It took hours to apply the fake hair and makeup in stages, so I could "metamorphisize" into Wolfman, and I was scraping glue and bits of hair off of various areas for days, but it was worth it. I wound up on the cover of one of our newspapers.

The second time was when my roommate, a photographer, asked me to come to the studio to be a hand model. Puzzled, I agreed.

On the day of my modeling gig the manager of the department, a very attractive young lady, gave me a manicure on one hand and massaged lotion into every pore. It was great.

I held my hand as instructed in front of a white seamless background, holding a small school bell, as instructed. It was then that I found out why my right hand, which never seemed particularly remarkable to me, had been chosen.

The photo was to illustrate a story on parochial schools and my roommate thought it would be funny to have a Jewish hand holding a school bell. It was the "Most in" of in-jokes, because only he and I knew that I was Jewish.

Humor is a tricky thing.

The shoot went great, though the department manager showed no interest in continuing her massaging after the session.

Maybe if I'd been more of a diva.

Small Wonders

2008-07-18T06:22:00.000-07:00

Sometimes huge life changes hinge on seemingly minor incidents.

I was thinking of my friend Debbie (not her real name), who was trapped (or at least felt so) in an abusive marriage. With no job and two children to support, she felt there was no way she could leave the marriage. Debbie and I had worked together at an ad agency, where she was the head designer and I was the copywriter.

Years later I was an associate creative director at my third ad agency, and we needed to hire an art director. I gave the other ACD, my art counterpart, a list of three names: Debbie and another person I'd worked with at that same agency, and someone else.

The ACD called the first person on my list, who wasn't home. He then called Debbie, who normally would have been out but was home with a massive headache.

Shortened story: Debbie came in, got the job, and with an income felt able to leave her abusive husband. They got divorced, she got her life in order, and life has, so far, been great for her and her children.

All because she was home one day to answer the phone when someone else wasn't.

Now, if you're religious, you might see the hand of God in this story. If not, you might just think it's a nice story.

I think it illustrates the utter capriciousness and randomness of life.

Game On

2008-07-15T13:37:00.000-07:00

Though my children will never believe it, I was once pretty good at video games. In a bar a friend and I frequented, I could make a quarter in Galaga last through two beers sometimes. I could make it deeply into the upper levels of many arcade games. I almost always got extra plays on pinball machines.

Now, thanks to a four-person Nintendo Gamecube, I know the joys of fourth place. And only fourth place. Somehow, my Mario drives of the road every hundred yards. My fighter turns the wrong way and kicks the air behind him. I leap into the pixellated arms of enemies. A nine-year-old child can wipe the floor with me. (I know, because I have one.)

I remember with great fondness when I used to play cards with the kids, and deliberately lose. Same with chess and checkers. As they got older and smarter, it became more and more difficult to deliberately lose without looking as if I'd deliberately lost.

I miss those days. Initially, our kids were suspicious about my ineptitude, but now they've realized that I really am as clueless as I seem when it comes to Tony Hawk, Mario and the rest of their electronic playmates.

My only hope is teaching the dog to play Gamecube. He's younger and has much faster reflexes, but I have opposable thumbs.

I think I can take him.

Lead Pipe Cinch

2008-07-14T13:31:00.000-07:00

WHen I was a kid, probably around the age of six or seven, I almost literally stumbled upon what I thought was my ticket to fame and fortune.

Walking down our driveway, I spied what I thought was an odd looking, dull gray rock. A contractor was building a house on the lot next to ours, so all sorts of debris drifted over into our yard and driveway every now and again. But this was different from anything I'd ever seen.

It looked softer than normal rock, and was slightly warm to the touch. Amazingly, when I picked it up, it seemed "soft" for a rock. And I watched in wonder as I pushed on it and it bent. It bent!

Instantly, I knew this was money. "Come see the Amazing Bending Rock, 25¢" was the banner I pictured above our front door. The line of people would be down the block. I'd be famous! I'd be the school hero!

I dashed into the house to show my mother. "Mom, Mom, look what I found!" I shouted as I ran in the door. She looked at the Amazing Bending Rock in my hand.

"Where'd you find that piece of lead?" she asked me. "It must have come from the house next door.

Poof! Riches, fame, gone in an instant. I was crushed.

And I'm still neither rich nor famous.

Drink To Forget

2008-07-11T14:44:00.000-07:00

I listed my sister's orthodox wedding below as one of life's marathon events, but I have to give equal time to an equally long day of nuptial bliss, which was the wedding of a co-worker.

She was an advertising rep at a newspaper where I was the editor. I think her name was Debbie (this was years ago). I don't know if Debbie had few friends, or had few friends who were willing to attend her wedding. (They may have known what attendees were in for.) Anyway, she invited the features editor, who happened to be my best friend, elliott, and me. The church was five minutes from my house, so it seemed about as convenient as a wedding could be.

Debbie was a born again Christian, and after surveying the crowd at her wedding I was pretty sure that Elliott and I were the only Jews in the place. I'd never been to a born again Christian wedding before, and didn't even know if there was such a thing.

Boy, was there ever. The service, on a hot day in a non air conditioned church, was two hours long. The sermon was a good 5 minutes, though the minister (I guess that was his title) said only these few words at the beginning of his sermon: "Words cannot express what's in my heart about the marriage of Debbie and (whomever), so I'm going to offer a musical interpretation of the way I feel about these two fine Christians. He then sat down at the piano and began to play.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but he was awful: wandering rhythm, wrong notes, inability to stay in one key for any length of time (or even play in the same key with both hands). It was excruciating. Every time he started to fade and I felt hopeful that he was near the end, he'd rev it up again.

When he finished I, along with everyone else, applauded mightily. Some may have been applauding his playing; I was applauding its end.

Sitting in the back I could have easily nodded of in the heat. Unfortunately, Elliott, an amateur hockey player at the time, was in pain from a recent hockey injury. Because the pain made it impossible for him to grab a catnap, he decided I should share his misery and nudged me every time I started to nod.

Finally the service ended and we proceeded — maybe stumbled would be more accurate — into the church's social hall, which was the setting for the reception.

Fate delivered the coup de grace: the beverage choices had one glaring commission — no alcohol. Surrounded by born again Christians, I waited in vain for Jesus to turn my water into wine.

Apparently, that was a one shot deal.

Love Your Sofa

2008-07-10T13:37:00.001-07:00

Just as the Nigerian gold bar scam (and many other "just send me your info and share in my late husband's $300 million") attempts to separate the gullible from their bank accounts have spread across the country, so, apparently, is a scam I wrote about a couple of weeks ago: the devilishly clever furniture scam.

I don't know precisely how it works, since I didn't bite on the scam, but the way it works is this: someone contacts you about furniture you're offering for sale (generally on Craigslist), tells you he's on his honeymoon but wants your furniture, tells you he'll pay $50 more than you're asking and asks you to send him your address/contact info so he can have his secretary send you a check and his mover come to pick up the furniture.

Other folks who've had this happen to them say the scam is this: you're sent a "certified check" for too much money — generally, his secretary adds an extra zero — and you're asked to send back the overpayment via Western Union. By the time the certified check bounces and gets back to you, your money is long gone.

(Oh, and he assures you that he's fired his incompetent secretary. Who wouldn't, after she/he sent $2,500 for a $250 sofa?)

So the next time someone emails you that he's on his honeymoon and all he can think about is your sofa, futon or dining set (or bunk beds, in my case), tell him that the only thing he should be screwing is his new bride. Not you.

Fizzle Ed

2008-07-10T06:18:00.000-07:00

I'm not saying that many Phys Ed teachers operate well below genius level — one of my many brothers in law was an elementary school gym teacher for several years — but I've had a few non Einsteins over the year.

One, in high school, was Coach Schlenker. He insisted on being called "coach," we insisted on calling him "Coach Canker" (though not to his face). Yes, we were a mature bunch.

"Line up in a semi-circle," he'd say. Then: "How come no one is behind me?"

"How can you add more zinc to your diet?" he asked once during health. I raised my hand: "Go out in the parking lot and lick someone's bumper." (I wasn't the class clown, but I had my moments. That one earned me a trip to the principal's office. What can I say? I was bored and blurted it out. I don't even know if there was any zinc in a car bumper.)

I had gym teachers who didn't know how many laps around the track equalled a mile, whether the markings on the track indicated metric or English measurements, how many people were on a soccer or volleyball team, and all sorts of other things that a gym teacher should probably know.

My favorite, though, came during my sophomore year in high school. The school hired two gym teachers on a temporary basis for the year, intending to keep one after seeing how the year went. Just before the end of the school year, the one who was younger (and, I thought, much cooler), was in a car accident and apparently left the scene on foot. When police searched his car they found a big bag of pot and some drug paraphernalia.

Sadly, the Board of Education decided to offer a contract to the other gym teacher. Not the decision I would have made.

Walter Falters

2008-07-07T14:52:00.001-07:00

I'm a big time Walter Mosely fan, with a caveat: the man's mystery stories, which are really character studies with a mystery as a backdrop, are superb, extending the genre and bringing something new to it. Unlike, say, Robert Parker, who has been on cruise control for half a dozen books, Mosely's mysteries work hard.

His non-mysteries? Ehh. I just read The Tempest Tales after spotting it in the new books section of the library, and despite the five very positive reviews on Amazon I have to say that I thought it was weak: a very talky book that tried to make the point that situational ethics might justify the conventional notion of sin if your skin is brown.

The story involves an African American man, Tempest by name, who is accidentally shot by the police. When he gets to Saint Peter at the Pearly Gates and is told he has to go to Hell, he refuses. Apparently you can only be sent to Heaven or Hell if you agree that your life on earth warrants it, and Tempest is the first person to ever argue that his sins don't deserve an eternity in Hell. This throws Heaven into a tizzy.

Tempest and an angel are sent to earth in human form, and the angel spends years attempting to convince Tempest that he must go to Hell. Tempest continually disagrees, eventually meeting the devil (and besting him, as well as Heaven).

I won't give away the ending, but you'll see it coming a mile away. It involves an apple. (I bet you have a pretty good idea about the ending already.)

I wish Mosely, a gifted writer, would stick with Easy Rawlins, Fearless Jones and his other great, great mystery story characters. Of course, he has more than earned the right to write what he wants. I think he could have passed on writing this one.

Bumpy Career Paths

2008-07-07T08:40:00.000-07:00

I don't know if they still do this in high school, but when I was a sophomore we all had to take something called the Kuder Occupational Interest Survey. By answering a series of questions about things you did and didn't like to do, the survey (after the company had analyzed your answers) was supposed to tell you the occupational choices that would make you happy and miserable. (One or the other, not both.)

The problem was that none of the questions were direct. They wouldn't ask if you liked waking up early and shoveling manure — aha, a potential farmer! — but whether you liked animals and being outdoors. Actually, the test was too clever by half, so the real question would be: What would you rather do, ride a horse or go to a movie? If you chose the equestrian option, being a farmer or a jockey was clearly in your future.

I dutifully answered the questions, and a few weeks later, with great fanfare, the teacher handed out our computer generated career recommendations. I eagerly tore open the envelope.

Top four recommendations: psychologist, psychiatrist, social worker, minister/priest.

I thought minister or priest was an odd career recommendation for a nice Jewish boy, but no matter. Clearly there was a thread running through the recommendations.

Unfortunately, the test had omitted what would have been the key question for me: Which would you rather do, keep going to school until you have a Master's Degree (or better), or be done with school as soon as possible?

Since I skipped my senior year of high school and finished college in 3 1/2 years, I think we know what my answer would have been. Unfortunately, psychiatry, psychology and social work all require an advanced degree, and even, in the case of psychiatry, medical school.

Yikes!

Bottom three occupations? Police officer, editor, reporter. Apparently the solitary, antisocial life of a writer is making me miserable.

Who knew?

Jew Eat Yet

2008-07-03T09:21:00.001-07:00

If you're ever invited to an orthodox Jewish wedding — I realize that most people will never have this pleasure — my advice is to politely decline. Barring that, pack a sandwich, and maybe a change of clothes. You're going to be there for awhile.

My sister went from a casual interest in religion to a full speed ahead mega mode in college, and met, dated and became engaged to a man who was pretty religious. When they decided to get married they chose an orthodox synagogue. Un-airconditioned. In July. In his hometown of Richmond, Virginia.

Sitting in the stifling heat of the synagogue, while the rabbi prayed for a happy marriage and I prayed for a breeze, I had an epiphany: this is what it must have been like for the Jews who wandered the desert with Moses for 400 years. On the other hand, they didn't have to wear a suit and tie and sit on unpadded metal folding chairs for two hours. All things considered, the desert thing looked easier.

The groom's family had imported a whole bunch of orthodox Jews from Brooklyn, who looked quite snappy in their all-black attire, beards, payot (look it up) and wide brim hats. They, unlike the rest of us, never wilted during the two-hour service, probably because:

they were used to it

they understood the 95% of the service that was in Hebrew.

After the service we enjoyed an orthodox reception, which included both a lack of alcohol and a lack of mixed (men with women) dancing. The orthodox women danced with each other, the orthodox men danced with each other, and I briefly considered dancing with my friend, Larry, before rejecting the idea.

Perhaps if alcohol had been served.

Crime Time

2008-07-02T13:32:00.000-07:00

If I'm ever chosen for jury duty and asked if I've ever been the victim of a crime when interviewed by one of the attorneys, I'll have to say yes. Twice. Though both crimes were slightly odd affairs. And both involved cars.

When I was in college I had a 1966 Ford Fairlane 500, which cost me all of $600 and ran for two years before it threw a rod. (Right through the engine block, but that's another story.) One semester I was taking a night class, and when I walked out to the school's parking lot (I commuted to school, since it was only five minutes from our house) I noticed one thing immediately, even though it was night time and pretty dark: both of my car doors were wide open.

"I didn't leave it that way," I said to myself. (If you're thinking I had a 4.0 GPA, think again.) As I got closer, I noticed the hood was slightly open, too.

Someone had ripped both speakers out of the doors, cheap ass things that had come with the car and weren't hooked to anything. That same someone, presumably, had also stolen the wingnut — the wingnut! — that held down my air cleaner.

I wanted the guy to get caught just so I could ask him why.

Years later, someone broke into my Mazda Miata — maybe "broke into" isn't accurate, since the top was down — when it was in my driveway, and stole the ashtray. At first I thought he'd stolen it for the change I kept in it for tolls and parking meters (probably all of $3), but when I went to the dealer for a replacement I learned the real reason: a new ashtray was $80.

Seeing the look on my face, the guy behind the parts counter asked, "Do you smoke?" When I told him I didn't, he suggested I live without an ashtray.

I should have asked him about the prices of wingnuts.

Ex Marks The Spot

2008-07-01T08:31:00.000-07:00

There's nothing like an email exchange with your ex-wife (or ex-husband) to add a little sparkle to your week, especially when you haven't had any contact for 25 years or so.

This actually happened a year or two ago, but I was reminded of it yesterday in a client meeting, for some strange reason.

My first marriage was relatively brief — less than two years — and we parted on neither good nor bad terms, in my opinion. We weren't compatible, probably shouldn't have gotten married in the first place, recognized it and separated. No children, few possessions, a painful parting but relatively quick healing. (At least for me.)

So a couple of years ago, out of nowhere, I got an email from a woman with the same name as my ex-wife, saying she had googled and found a few folks with my name (it's not common; there are probably only a handful of folks with my name in the country). She asked if I was her ex-husband, and apologized for bothering me if I wasn't.

I wrote back, telling her that yes, she'd found me, and she almost immediately sent back a long email telling me all about her life, where she was (Silicon Valley), and what she was doing. I responded with an email listing my situation.

She then sent anther email with photos of her family. In that email, she went out of her way to mention that her second husband was quite tall. I'm 5' 6", and hadn't realized that height was in an issue in our relationship, but apparently it was.

Since I didn't really care about her life — or, for that matter, the height of her second husband — I thought I might as well get something out of the email exchanges. So I emailed her back, asking what she thought of our marriage and what she'd learned, now that she'd had the benefit of 25+ years of hindsight and reflection.

I never heard from her again. Apparently, she'd communicated everything she wanted to communicate, and she was done.

"F"

2008-06-30T08:10:00.000-07:00

While you were doing whatever you normally do on Saturday mornings, I was driving a Lexus around a race track. Very fast. In West Virginia.

Which part of that paragraph makes you the most jealous?

For some odd reason, a friend of mine was invited to take part in a Lexus Performance Event. (Lexus uses a lot of capital letters to denote the fact that this is a Big Deal Event.) Apparently owners of eight-year-old Mitsubishi Galants are Lexus' next untapped target market, because somehow he got on the mailing list. He was allowed to bring two friends, and I was one of them.

The deal was this: spend two hours at Summit Point Raceway in West Virginia, auto crossing some of the sportier Lexus', do a couple of laps on the track following an experienced race car driver, then get one VERY high speed lap around the track as a passenger in a vehicle driven by one of said drivers. That one was in a Lexus IS F, with 416 horsepower on tap and brakes that would stop a train.

(As an aside, there was a chalk talk given by one of the drivers before we drove on the track, which also included the story of how the IS F came to be. The driver asked if any of us knew what the "F" stood for. It turned out that the "F" didn't stand for anything, but after we drove it a friend of mine offered this guess: "Fuck, this thing is fast.")

I'd never driven a Lexus before, or been invited to a Lexus event. (Unlike Mitsubishi Galant owners, Subaru Legacy owners apparently aren't one of Lexus' target markets.) It was class all the way, from the fresh fruit and fresh baked muffins we received upon arrival to the nice tote bag stuffed with a hat and, for some inexplicable reason, a cable to attach an mp3 player to a car stereo, we were given when we departed. And it was all free.

The drivers were all pretty big names in the sports car and drifting circuits, including an Andretti, and they couldn't have been nicer. And we did have theopportunity to wear real racing helmets while driving, which proved to be very handy when the race car driver took me for a hot lap and I repeatedly banged my head against the window during hard cornering.

I've been to other driving events, including GM's Autoshow in Motion (sadly, discontinued) and an event where a Mitsubishi stunt driver whipped a Galant through 180 and 360 degree turns and power slides while he casually chettedabout his career and I not so casually turned green. This was by far the best one ever.

Previously, I would have told you that there were two reasons I'd never consider a Lexus: they were well-built and luxurious, but not fun to drive, and I couldn't afford one.

This event wiped out excuse number one. And excuse number two? Well, I did stop and buy a lottery ticket on the way home.

Danny Boy

2008-06-26T14:53:00.000-07:00

Any guitarist who was honest with himself (or herself) would give his (insert body part here) to be able to play like this. And Danny Gatton was like this on every song. A notorius perfectionist in the studio, his longtime engineer once said, "I've erased more great solos than any other engineer has ever recorded."

Oh, Baby

2008-06-26T12:53:00.000-07:00

The funniest example of racism in action I ever saw was during the classes my wife and I took at the hospital where we were going to have the first (and, as it turned out, all) of our children.

It was a combined birthing and baby care class, designed to teach about both pregnancy and childbirth and how to care for the new baby during the first few weeks of life.

To say it was a room full of nervous people would be an understatement. During every sentence of the nurse who was teaching the class' description of labor and delivery, someone would gulp. The occasional moan or muttering was part of the soundtrack as well. But the nurse was confident, breezy and a very warm person, and she assured us that all would turn out fine.

Still, the atmosphere was pretty heavy for the first two sessions, which were about pregnancy and childbirth. But things got much better, at least for me, during the third session, which was devoted to infant care.

One of the other fathers-to-be in the class was a little older than me, probably around 40. (I was 36 at the time.) His shirt of choice was the wife beater, and his decoration of choice was the tattoo. His wife, a pretty, petite (except for the pregnancy part), much younger woman, was quiet, friendly and sweet, everything he was not. "Jerk" would have been too kind a description for him, but hey: I didn't have to live with him.

During the first couple of sessions, he had communicated two things continuously:

he didn't want to be there and was only going as a favor to his wife (and no doubt demanded sexual favors in return as soon as they returned home after every class)

he was a racist.

At the third session, the nurse brought out a big box of soft baby dolls, so we could learn how to carry, diaper and care for a newborn. Most of the dolls were white, but there was one African American doll.

My respect for the nurse soared when she, while passing out the dolls, handed Mr. Racist the African American doll with a straight face. His expression was worth the price of the class.

As the rest of us cuddled, cradled, diapered and "fed" our dolls, Mr. Racist attempted to swap his doll with someone else's, tried to "accidentally" lose it, and treat it as if if had a bad smell. The nurse, again with a straight face, would gently admonish him: "Don't forget to always support your baby's back and head," she noted as he tried to carry the doll by the ankle as if he was about to toss it away. "Your baby won't be able to relax and drink from her bottle if you're rough with her," she observed when he was anything but gentle.

At the end of the class the nurse handed out an evaluation forms. "I got a lot more out of this class than I expected," I wrote.

I wasn't referring to information about childcare.

Persons Of Influence

2008-06-25T09:06:00.000-07:00

You can tell a lot about a musician by the folks he/she cites as influences. If a metal band mentions Led Zeppelin, you know they'll huff and pound, with all of the volume and none of the style, of Led Zep. (None of them ever grasp the many dimensions Jimmy Page and company bought to the genre.) If a sax player mentions Charlie Parker, chances are he's a second-rate wanna be. Unfortunately, the same is often true for guitar players who call Jimi Hendrix their idol. (Yes, Frank Marino and Robin Trower, I'm talking to you.)

But if a bass player mentions James Jamerson, he might be pretty good. Because when Jaco Pastorius, considered by many the gold standard of electric bassists, terms himself a second-rate James Jamerson clone, Jaco wasn't being falsely modest. Yes, Jamerson was THAT good.

You may never have heard of him — in fact, you almost certainly haven't — but you've heard him. Hundreds of times. Jamerson was the bassist on almost every great Motown record, a musician so gifted that Stevie Wonder said, "Jamerson's bass playing made a certain fabric of my life visual."

If you're thinking that a bass player — a bass player! — can make a blind man see, then you have to figure he was something rare and special. He was. In an era where most bassists just played the root notes of a chord, Jamerson played complicated lines that pushed, pulled, skipped and slammed, never content to play a chorus the same way twice. He could soar with a jazz band, furiously spitting out a barrage of 16th notes, then anchor an R&B tune with such a deep bottom that you could smell the funk.

How deep was his sense of rhythm? In the studio, as a practical joke on his fellow musicians, he'd play his bass part in the song's 4/4 time while beating a completely different rhythm in 3/4 time, or even a more complicated time signature, with his feet. Any musician who listened to Jamerson's feet, rather than his bass, was in trouble. Luckily, his bass groove was normally so deep the other musicians could fall into it.

Jamerson took his rhythm from the way people walked and talked, or from the way a tree swayed in the breeze. Everything he saw and heard suggested music to him.

Sometimes, though, the music it suggested to him didn't always meet with approval. Motown evolved into a two-part system, where certain musicians were considered studio musicians and were almost chained to the studio, while others were touring players and went out on the road with the Temptations, Stevie Wonder, and the other Motown acts. Jamerson, being a master in the studio, was confined there. It wasn't a problem for him, but it was a problem for the bassists in the touring bands who had to duplicate his complicated bass lines on the road. Several of them complained often, asking Jamerson to make his lines simpler. (He never did.)

Sadly, his lifestyle was the often heard story of self destruction, substance abuse and money squandered. That lifestyle took its toll, and he died long before his talents were recognized by most of the world.

His 1962 Fender Precision bass was named The Funk Machine by both James and a number of his fellow Motown hitmakers. But the funk wasn't in the bass. It was in James Jamerson.

Float Like A Butterfly

2008-06-24T20:20:00.000-07:00

I was reminded today of a great film I saw years ago, which I highly recommend: "When We Were Kings." It's a boxing film, sort of, but you don't have to have any interest in boxing to really enjoy it. (I'm not a boxing fan at all.)

Even the story of how the film was made, after the footage languished for years as lawsuits filled the air, is interesting. But the film itself, about the Muhammed Ali-George Foreman "Rumble in the Jungle" fight, is fascinating.

Here's the synopsis: Ali is, at 32, considered well past his prime as a fighter. Foreman is far from the smiling pitchman we see now: he's young, he's strong, he's angry and he's a ferocious fighter. But Don King, the boxing promoter, hasn't yet made a name for himself and is desperate to do so. The president/dictator of Zaire, Mobuto, is as well. He organizes a huge music festival built around the fight, to show off Zaire to the world, and puts up the money for the fight as well.

Ali, visiting villages and inviting folks to run and train with him, thoroughly charms the people of Zaire. Foreman, sullen, trains alone and keeps to himself.

On the day of the fight, every spectator in the place is screaming for Ali.In whatever language folks in Zaire speak, they're screaming themselves hoarse, "Ali, kill him! Ali, kill him."

In Ali's dressing room no one — no trainer, no corner man, no one — will even meet Ali's gaze. They know Ali is going to lose badly, humiliatingly. Ali could easily be the one killed, literally. Every spectator who knows nothing about boxing believes in Ali. Every member of Ali's team, who knows everything about boxing, doesn't.

But Ali knows something none of them do. And that something changes the fight and makes the movie close to incredible.

Trust me, it's worth the rental. Even though you have to suffer through George Plimpton. Lots of George Plimpton.