Francis Would Be Proud

Every time it arrives, I think I'm going to resist it. But, what can I say? It's something that just ... happens. Every four years, I become obsessed with The Summer Olympics. Well, perhaps not obsessed, but I sure do enjoy watching the games. And "watching" is a whole different ball game for me these days. I don't have a TV. I haven't had one now for ... 472 days, 14 hours, 3 minutes and counting. I'm kidding, of course, I haven't really counted the days, but it is pretty close to that time span. The fact is, not having a TV hasn't exactly cut me off from the world. The computer has stepped right into that void and provided content and distraction whenever I've needed both.

The NBC Olympics website is great - they've figured how to make it work, let me tell you. And to think that, at any point, there are millions of folks from all over the world signing on to watch The Games - it's incredible. Of course, NBC has fixed it so the user can't watch most of the events live - they want folks to be tuning in to the network for those kinds of events. But I have been able to watch some things live. I think it was the US/China basketball game the other night - I was able to see that real-time. An impressive team this time around, I must say. It appears Coach K has them taking things pretty seriously.

My favorite moments so far have been watching the swimming races (the finals of each event) online. The links take you to to the day's scheduled events and when you see the "In Progress" link and click on it - you're taken to a page where you see the swimmers listed by lane and then ... they're off. The start time is listed on the first page and by looking at the comparative Beijing/US times in the upper left corner, I can know precisely when the races have started. And, so far, they've been running the races right at the scheduled times. I'm talking, to the minute. Then, once the race starts, it's just a matter of continually hitting the refresh button, watching the new times unfold on the screen (along with position, first, second, etc...) until ... it's over. They list all the splits, world and Olympics' record times and the like. It's great. The relay breakdowns are actually the best. The first time I watched a race this way, I was surprised at how excited I was getting just from looking at a bunch of numbers flashing across my screen. But, I have to tell you - it works. (e.g. - The "RACE" - photo above - you know the one I'm talking about - the men's freestyle relay - The Jason Lezak comeback win. The split numbers unfolding on the screen kind of freaked me out when I first saw them). I suppose I've been broken-in to some extent, because of the "no TV" thing. I've been watching baseball on MLB.com's Gameday now for two or three years. I love it.

Once 12-24 hours has passed after an event, that's when NBC let's hold of its grip a bit and posts the videos on the site. By then, of course, I know the results and have read the articles, but it's still great to see the actual performances. And then, call me a sap, but I still love watching those medal ceremonies. Which brings me to my point (it took me what? About ten minutes to get here??)

Now, is it me or has anyone else out there noticed something about the American national anthem - the one they're playing at the swimming venue? Do you know what I'm talking about? I think that version of the "Star Spangled Banner" just may be the most beautiful version I've ever heard. I'm being serious about this. The combination of the strong brass arrangement with the soft, absolutely gorgeous string portion in the middle ... I have to tell you. It's brought tears to my eyes a few times already. And it's not like I'm Joe-Patriot or anything. Don't get me wrong - I love this country and don't take things for granted - I'm glad I was born and live here. But it's not like I'm tearing up every time I attend a Mets' or Royals' game and hear the anthem. This particular arrangement gets to me for some reason. And then, to see the looks on the faces of the athletes ... well ... I think Natalie Coughlin's gold medal ceremony the other night was one of the most touching things I've seen in a long time. It was just something about the way she was "feeling it" up there. It moved me.

Anyway, it's almost time for tonight's races. I have to get my fingers ready for a lot of clicking. By the way, I don't know how many of you have tried or even heard of "Wii" - my niece and nephew have turned me onto it, so we play whenever I visit them in Florida. Talking about getting one's fingers in shape - check out this video I found on YouTube. I thought it was hysterical - Extreme Wii Olympics 4X100 Relay

Knowing Your Place

Okay, so it's not quite "Twilight Zone" material. Still, I had to laugh this morning when the following happened.

My newest favorite place to organize and write these days is The Roasterie, in a very nice section of Kansas City called Brookside. A nice change of pace from Starbuck's, The Roasterie is basically right up the street from me. So ... I went in this morning, knapsack over my shoulder, marched up to the counter, thought about what I felt like ordering and then ...

"Grande coffee."

And as soon as the words rolled off my tongue and out of my mouth, I started laughing.

Then, the apology.

"I can't believe I just said that," I told the man in front of the register. "That was a bit wild."

"It's okay," he smiled, "It happens more than you'd think.

Not to make a huge deal out of this, but think about that for a second. Well, you don't have to. I'll do it for you. The funny thing about this is that it took me literally years to get into the habit of talking in "Starbucks-speak" whenever I'd place my order at Starbuck's. I'd always have to glance at the overhead menu board, just to get the correct wording down. We all know the dangers of not saying the right words. Heaven forbid, to end up with a latte with soy milk when the target beverage is a cappuccino with 2%.

But this morning at The Roasterie, one of the anti-SB's types of places - a local place, you know, fighting back against the "Wal-Martization" of our culture, etc...., And here I was throwing Starbuck's right smack into their faces. Shame on me.

Luckily, they didn't throw me out of the place, onto my tush. They not only allowed me to stay, but they actually served me my "16 ounce" regular coffee with a smile. I like these people. I think I'll continue to go there and will simply think before I speak when it comes to ordering my coffee. It's crucial in today's day and age, to know your place. I won't make that mistake again.

Talking Shop

I loved the way Janice was squinting as she held the Fiber One bar in front of her, squeezing her eyes, doing her best to make out the tiny print.

"Does that say shellac?!"

I laughed out loud, then chimed in.

"I know, can you believe it?"

I was having a bit of fun at work, this having been the 5th person that morning I showed the breakfast/snack bar to. I was looking to show my new-found discovery to anyone wanting to listen; something to break up the day.

Here's the deal. I'm not any kind of food nut, I'm really not. Am I becoming more careful with my eating habits as the years tick by? Of course I am. That just seems to be the smart way to go. So when it comes to reading labels, I'm right there. Scoping out for the big culprits like partially hydrogenated oils, trans and saturated fats, and one of the most silent, yet destructive ones - sodium. It's amazing to me how something can taste so completely un-salty while at the same time containing 1000 mg. of sodium. From what I can tell, so many foods today, especially the processed ones, are "built for the road" as they say. It's all about distribution and getting the goods out to the consumer so ... that means these items must last; they have to survive the long haul and then stay on the shelf until purchased. And to make something last that long, well ... it has to be preserved, kept alive, kept fresh. "Fresh" - isn't that a curious word to use here? Think of all those Hostess cupcakes sitting in their little display cases all over the world. My guess is those cakes can last just about 'til the end of time, if that's what it takes.

But that's a different subject for a different day. For now, let's talk shop. And I mean that literally. I'm talking wood shop. So, you may ask, "Where is Harry's mind headed here? How did he go from a Fiber One bar to wood shop?

At work, feeling hungry but not wanting to eat a whole meal, I went downstairs to the little cafeteria area and, not finding something I wanted, decided to check out the vending machine to find something of the low-salt variety; that's something I need to be more aware of these days. Again, a different subject for a different day. So, in the midst of the Cheese-Its and Pop Tarts, the Fiber One bar seemed to glow. It was the one item having at least the appearance of being, what I'd call, healthy. So - 75 cents went in and, within a few seconds, the bar was mine.

When I returned to my desk, as I often do these days, I immediately studied the label, partly because I really do care about what I'm putting into my body but also, because I genuinely hate it when companies market something as "healthy" when, in fact, the ingredients show the food is anything but healthy. At first glance, when I saw the clump of copy on the side of the Fiber One bar's wrapper, I pretty much knew things were headed in the wrong direction, health-wise. The numbers looked fine, actually. The sodium was low, about 90 mg for the whole bar - one serving size. And since the fat levels looked good too I figured I'd cleared those hurdles. But then came the long laundry list of ingredients. I'm not going to bore you with every item here - you can check this out, (click on the pic to the right - it should come up very large for you so you can read the copy easily) I pulled this from the General Mills website, where you can find the ingredients of any of their products. I love that companies are doing this now.

Take a look. What do you see?

Two words. "Confectioners Shellac."

Hmmm. Interesting.

The fact is, the word "shellac" stuck out when I first saw it. But because it appeared in tandem with the word "confectioners" I figured, "Okay. It's shellac but ... if it's confectioners shellac, that must be okay, right? I mean, it's confectioners, so ... It's not like I'm eating wood stain, or Cuprinol.

Okay, so I have to tell you - this one was weird to me. Come on - Shellac?! In a breakfast bar? In anything I'd ever eat? I read on and, sure enough, there was that word again. And the second time, it was alone. Now, there was absolutely nothing to counteract the effect. They're talking shellac here. Naked, isolated, unadulterated shellac. [FYI - From Wikipedia: "Shellac is the commercial resin marketed in the form of amber flakes, made from "lac," the secretion of the family of lac-producing insects, though most commonly from the cultivated Kerria lacca, found in the forests of Assam and Thailand."] Sounds delicious, doesn't it?

Come to think of it, the bar does that that light brown, glazy, shiny, smooth look to it. I figured it was syrup, honey, molasses or something.

Well, it's the "or something" that I've come to realize is the real culprit in most of the foods we eat. This is why I'm increasingly cooking and preparing my own foods at home. I figure that's the only way I'll ever really know what's heading into my mouth and then blood stream. Sure, even the produce may have God knows what on it but, I figure it's all relative and I'm headed in the right direction. When I go out for a meal? I do my best to get things as simply prepared as possible now - broiled, grilled, etc, ... And the "on the side" approach is fast becoming my default way to order. These days, it's the goopy sauces I look to avoid; all those things I used to love. Again, as I said before, I am most certainly not a food nut. Trust me, given the opening when the spirit moves me, (and it'll probably be with my brother the next time he visits me in KC), you'll be able to spot me sitting down to a nice helping of burnt ends and beans. And it will most likely be at LC's here in town.

Dietary prudence is a good thing and I'm glad I'm taking care. Still, there are times we simply can not prepare our own foods. Sometimes we have to rely on the likes of a General Foods Corporation to do it for us. And I suppose there is some good news here. If I ever choose to eat the Fiber One bar when I'm out in inclement weather, then I suppose I'm all set. At least my food and I are protected in that way and it's good to know the GF's product development folks have figured out a way to water-proof its treats.

"Well, all I know is there's chocolate in here." That was another colleague's reaction as she leaned in to check out the label.

"Oh. So let me get this straight then. As long as there's chocolate in there, that's cool then," I smiled. "It could read, 'cyanide, chocolate, arsenic, rat poison,' and you'd be okay with it, right?"

We laughed hard.

We're In Good Hands - So, that's that. I'm heading up to Mass. today to see family and I can tell you, the Fiber One bar is still in my bag, unopened. In an emergency, what can I tell you? I just might have to eat it. The fact is I'm not really sure why I still have it. I think I was saving it to snap a photo of the wrapper for the blog. But since the General Foods' folks have all that info neatly laid out on their website (see above), there's no more need for the photo. That being said, I figure there's no need to keep the bar any longer. Unless it's raining, of course. Then I'll eat it. At the very least, I can conduct an experiment. What do you think? Will the raindrops bead up on my arms and legs?

When did the American food distribution system get so amazingly advanced? Those folks are so, so smart. Isn't it good to know they're looking out for all of us this way?

That's What I'm Talkin' About!

Shocked.

For years - I'm talking 18 of them - I've been telling my folks about Saigon Grille. When I lived in the city, there were times I must have ordered from that place about four times a week. And, whenever I called, it felt as though my "Curry Ga, rice and salad w/ two Cokes" (standard order) was at my door almost before the phone clicked off. I love Vietnamese Food. Malaysian food, Thai food - anything ... what do they call it? Pan Asian? "Best deal in town, dollar for dollar," is what my friend Howard used to say. I couldn't have phrased it better.

My folks have taught me a lot of things over the years, but when it come to adventurous cuisine, they've been pretty much straight down the middle. Listen, they're NY'ers, born and bred in Brooklyn, so it's not like we had pot roast and green peas for dinner every night. Our upbringing was filled with good, what I'd call ethnic food. From the trips to Union Turnpike Deli - to Ratners - to Chinese food - to Italian food at God knows how many places - (I'm not going to list every restaurant I've ever eaten at here, or every meal, although ... I swear I think I could do it, as bizarre as that sounds). Still, when it comes to the more adventurous cuisines, the spicier, more unusual arenas - Indian food, Vietnamese, Thai - those categories have pretty much been my deal - discovered on my own as I made my way out to the world, independent of my folks tastes.

"Have you ever had Vietnamese food?" my dad asked the other night.

What?

At that point, I reminded my dad about my one-man-show of support for the Saigon Grille on the corner of 94th and Amsterdam.

"We went to a new place. Terrific food." he said, as I listened to my dad excitedly describe what they ate. I loved listening to him talking about this new discovery, with my Mom chiming in, in the background, talking over the loud TV.

It's not like my folks are narrow-minded. My God, they were the ones always looking to instill in me the instinct to branch out, try new things. And that included foods. The reason for their more conservative approach to food choices may have stemmed from the fact that my Mom has had stomach problems, pretty much since she was a teenager, so that's just the way things unfolded for them, and then, for us. And even with her stomach issues, My Mom's often made some bold choices, only to then sometimes pay dearly for those choices. I love that about her, actually.

So, all those years of me mentioning my love for Curry Ga, or Chicken Tikka Masala, really, anything curry - and my Mom would immediately shun the very idea of eating "foods like those." And I always understood that reaction since they would probably kill her if she ate them. And, of course, my Dad, out of respect and love for his wife of now, 58 years, pretty much steered clear of those foods, too. After all, there were plenty of other choices on the menu.

Gunfight at "The Hu Ke Lau Corral" - Interviewing all the seniors I meet, I especially love when they talk to me about discovering new things at a later age. New cities, sights, hobbies, talents, TV shows, a type of music, and so on. To hear about people "stretching," expanding their boundaries at a later age - it's inspiring. That's the way I plan to be.

My Mom has been going to a yoga class over the past few months, largely due to the fact that both Stuart and I are Bikram veterans and she has been watching us thrive in that environment for many years. And now, hearing my Dad excited that way, about Vietnamese food? I love it.

Talking about this reminds me about an incident; a funny (not so funny at the time) incident. It was back, I 'd say it was around 1968 or so; I was about 10 or 11. It was at the Hu Ke Lau Chinese ... well ... I think it was actually labeled Polynesian food. It was good, really good. Was it at the level of a Bill Hongs or any of the NY Style Chinese places? No. But, what else could you expect in Chicopee Falls, Massachusetts? I mean, I don't think there was anything even approaching good in Springfield, so, all I can say is thank God for the Hu Ke Lau. I remember meeting our best friends, the Posnicks, there on Sundays, I loved those nights out. Sundays, as most Jewish people know, seemed to always be the evening of the week chosen for the "Great Treif Escape" -a chance for the Reform to Conservative to Non-observant Jews to indulge in their lust for spare ribs and pork strips, not to mention the best Lobster Cantonese I've ever tasted. I've thought about the Hu Ke Lau over the years. I haven't been back there, but hear it's still very much around and, actually, quite the rage. Something about an amazing twin lobster special and the best comedy club in the Northeast?? Can you believe that?!

But, here's where the aforementioned incident kicks in. You see, I didn't always love Chinese/Polynesian food the way I'm describing it here. Apparently - and I vaguely remember this - I was a Chinese Food resister back in those days. You've heard about Viet Nam War resisters? Well, I was looking to steer clear of Moo Goo Gai Pan. And so, whenever we'd head out to "The Falls" for those special Chinese/Polynesian dinners, apparently, I would tense up, clench my fists, and sit tight-lipped when it came to order-taking time.

"What's Harry J. gonna eat?" That was the burning question.

Of course, my folks were tolerant of their first born son for the first few episodes, I remember that. And then - now, you're not going to believe this - I'd order a steak and French fries. At The Hu Ke Lau, "Chinese & Polynesian" Restaurant. Honest to God, the fact that they even had that on the menu strikes me as odd when I think about it now. (Note: I just checked the current menu and, sure enough, under "American Fare" they still have the NY Sirloin on the menu, now tauted as "the best steak in the valley!! Grilled to perfection..." So, at least I had the chops to choose only the best, even when I was so far afield). And the truth is, it was pretty good, I remember that - again, part of my "remembering-every-meal-I've-ever-eaten" syndrome. I think my biggest issue at the time was that they only used Hunts Ketchup at the restaurant. At 10 years old, that had the potential of being a personal breaking point. But I made the adjustment. My parents breaking point? They were flexible, I remember that. I don't remember how many times they let me get away with the steak and French fries gig, but I do recall the lectures, short and sweet. The "you've got to try new things," "stretch your palate" lessons. At first, they'd throw those lines at me and I'd simply continue to chown down on my meat and potatoes meal. That was until - the showdown. I like to call it the "Gunfight at the Hu Ke Lau Corral" - complete with the blue waterfalls and wishing-well fountains. It was pretty in there, kind of like a ride at Disney World, complete with palm trees, fountains, Hawaiian-style music, exotic women (wait-staff). It was like Bali Hai in there.

Anyway, the proverbial shit hit the fan one Sunday night; my folks finally made their stand. That night, when I went to order my 1 1/2 pounds of the "best steak in the valley," I noticed the shadow of my Dad's hand closing in from the right. And just like that, the option fell off the table, so to speak.

Now, I don't recall the exact moment, but I'm pretty sure some screaming was involved. Right in the midst of that placid South Pacific motif. I pretty much freaked out at the prospect of not getting my steak and French fries as planned, sans Heinz. But, to their credit, my folks held the line; I can only guess that they had discussed this well ahead of time. Some kind of pact where they said, "Okay. We'll give this little character 6 steaks and then ... that's it. He's got to make the shift." We'll, I'd certainly reached my limit and now, it was time to ... freak out.

"Broadened Horizons" - Okay, so the happy ending is that I ended up loving Chinese and Polynesian food. The fact is I suppose I can credit that one unfortunate scene as a graduation, of sorts. I mean, if my folks hadn't done what they did, I'd never even thought about approaching places like Saigon Grille. The fact is, I might have ended up being a very boring person. Thank God that didn't happen.

So, back to the other night, hearing my Dad talk about their new taste sensations. That interchange caused me to smile all the way out here in Kansas City. That whole "circle of life" theme popped up in my head again. To remember how my Mom and Dad had been the ones to teach me to expand my taste bud horizons in those early years. With the training wheels off, I took their lead and later went off to college, then Europe, then the South, and then traveling cross country for Eldercation - all the time trying all kinds of tremendous new foods along the way. I was the one branching out and my folks pretty much stayed close to home, food-wise.; again, often for practical health concerns. And yet, the other night, it was so good to hear my Dad, at 84, sounding kind of excited about, of all things, Vietnamese food.

"And, what about Thai!?" he added at one point.

That's what I 'm talking about!!

Stretching culinary wings, even in their 70's and 80's.

The circle of life - They teach me; I teach them; We learn together.

Good Lord, I miss my Curry Ga.

"Next Stop - 86th Street/Broadway."

1-9-train, here I come.

Spirit Wins

As always, I arrived early, very early for my flight. And as I stood in the airport's Economy Parking “A” Lot at five AM, the cool, humid air, sounds of intermittent jet engine roars with a few bird tweets mixed in – I couldn’t help but stare up at the Eastern sky. That pale, kind of dark yellow, navy blue – the slightest hint of a new day.

“It’s perfect,” my old college buddy, Deb Galkin used to say. “No color grading like it. We try to recreate the grading in the arts world, but, you know, you can't outdo nature," she'd laugh.

I thought of Deb this morning while watching the sky change shades that way. The gibbous moon with Venus close by, a few other stars disappearing into the encroaching light, about to be tucked away for the day. I also thought about my Uncle Seymour while looking at that morning sky.

I hadn’t seen him in several months, perhaps longer. Two months ago, my Mom and brother told me Seymour was very sick, in the hospital – it wasn’t good. I didn't think I’d ever see him again, actually. I checked in with them daily for the reports. Up and down, his body failing, organ by organ; his spirit fighting back. Hospital to rehab to hospital to rehab … this was some tough going for Seymour, as well as for my Aunt Florence. Still, sure enough, to everyone's amazement, Seymour rallied.

“He looks good,” my brother reported after his visit with Seymour a few weeks ago. My June 14th NYC trip already in place, I was hoping I would have a chance to see Seymour at some point during that visit. I was praying that spirit would triumph over body.

It did.

And last Monday, I walked into Room 2002 at the South Nassau Medical Center in Oceanside, NY. At first, I can’t lie – it hit me hard, the way he looked. This large, robust, jovial, yes … sometimes loud and outspoken, but enormously kind and loving man – he looked very different. I won’t go into it here but, within two seconds, all the reports I'd been hearing had been confirmed.

“Know who this is?” Aunt Florence asked him.

His eyes watery under his silver-rimmed glasses, Seymour turned his head, looked up and did his best to say something; it was hard for him.

“Harry J.,” he whispered and smiled.

I smiled back and, heading his way, started to lean over and down to kiss him on the cheek. But he pulled away.

“I wouldn’t,” he struggled to talk. I wasn’t sure why he said that. Perhaps it was because of the way he looked? The fact is I didn’t care. I simply wanted to hug him but, instead, settled for a holding of his right hand – I felt him squeezing.

The three of us visited together for some time as I settled into a chair across from Florence, both of us next to the bed. Seymour slept off and on and then, when Florence had to leave to meet someone over the house, I chose to stay. I’m glad I did.

The Rabbi from Seymour & Florence’s synagogue came in at one point – introducing himself to me and offering his soft rabbi-like hand. Rabbi’s hands are always like that, I’ve noticed.

“How’re ya doing my friend?" The Rabbi walked over to the other side of the bed. Seymour smiled at him.

“You know, I have to tell you,” the Rabbi looked over to me. “Just last week, I was watching him enjoying a corned beef on rye. And some chopped liver.” Seymour smiled at that.

“Bens?” I asked.

“No, no …” Seymour mouthed something. The Rabbi picked up on it and corrected me, telling me the food was from Woodro Deli, in Hewlett.

I remembered the Woodro. 1985, studying for the NYS bar exam, my friend Michael Feit and I used to eat ungodly amounts of food from that place. It was our way of dealing with the ungodly amount of data being gorged into our brains at the time – our delicious way to de-stress, I suppose. I think I may still be digesting some of that meat.

That was the summer I lived with the Mensch’s – a summer filled with Torts, Contracts, Property, tons of New York law stuffed into the Pieper bar review course. That summer was a strenuous but wonderful experience, to be able to live with family like that. It was actually the second time in four years I’d done that, the first being in 1982 when I worked my first job in the music business at MCA Records. Those were great times – the corner room, (I'm pretty sure that was Fred’s), the two beds, the corner bathroom, piano, Scotty at The New Yorker, Carvel, The East Bay Diner. The house on Balsam Street in Oceanside, Long Island was a second home for me. I loved it.

You know, I’ve often thought that life's joyous moments often boil down to some very simple things. For me, one of those moment types is eating and drinking delicious food and drink with good friends - people I love. I mean, can it really ever get any better than that? And the fact is, I've had plenty of those experiences with the Mensch family and those memories are going to be fixed in me for the rest of my life, right along side the same kinds of memories of my own family.

* * * * * * * * * *

I sat by the bed, my mind wandering too much, as it normally does. The thoughts floating off to my own Mom and Dad, and then to Emma; to the days when, perhaps, I’ll be sitting next to their beds this same way. I pushed those thoughts aside, bringing my attention back to Uncle Seymour.

He reached for the TV controller, which we worked together until the selector landed on Channel 4. The U.S Open playoff between Tiger Woods and Rocco Mediate was winding down, an incredible event. Seymour and I watched it together until he dozed off again. My mind wandered again, minutes ticking by.

“Who won?”

Seymour was awake again.

“Who do you think?” I looked over at him, happy that he was so interested and alert, which he most definitely was.

“Tiger,” he whispered.

I can't tell you now glad I am that Seymour and I had that chance to share the 2008 Open that way together; I’ll always remember that. The same way I still remember Tiger’s 18-under win at the 1997 Masters. My dad was in Miami Beach's Mt. Sinai hospital that day, the day after his heart bypass surgery. It's interesting how Tiger’s been there for me and my family in ways he’ll never know.

************

I leaned in to say goodbye, this time smiling as I lifted his hand to kiss it.

“Like the Pope!”

He smiled as he also tried to cough. It was hard for him, I could see that.

“So … Uncle Seymour…”

He looked up. The plastic tubing slipped from his nose, which I helped to replace.

“Next time … (I was fully aware of the significance of those two words, by the way) ...
Corned beef sandwich?”

His eyes shut quickly as he shook his head back and forth.

“No," he whispered hard.

I thought I’d said something wrong, which, come to think of it, would be just about impossible with him. I always felt I could say anything to my Uncle Seymour.

His eyes still closed, a pause, then a deep breath. His eyes opened wide. And then ... one word.

“Tongue.”

And then, a huge smile. A Seymour smile. The smile everyone else who knew Seymour loved.

In that moment, spirit kicked body’s ass, I can tell you that for sure.

I kissed his hand one more time and watched his eyes shut again. And, as I left the room, I thought that thought. You know what I''m talking about.The one that has me never seeing this man again – my overactive imagination again doing its thing. My brother calls me the “Fellini of mind movies.” Still, unfortunately, that particular thought proved to hit the mark. That was, indeed, the last time I'd see my Uncle Seymour alive. He passed away two days later, two days after we watched the U.S. Open together.

* * * * * * * * * *

I’ve never won a lottery but I have to tell you, life appears to be filled with what I would call “mini-lotteries.” My visit with Seymour and Florence the other day – the timing of it – that was the equivalent of winning a mini-lottery, to be sure. What a blessing, to have been able to experience moments like that.

I’m on the plane now, heading North to meet my Mom in New York to attend Sunday's funeral service. Seymour was Mom’s only brother and she his only sister. I feel strange saying this, but I’m kind of looking forward to the next few days. I feel calm. I was thinking during my 4:30 AM drive up 29 North to airport, this will be the first time in I don’t know how many years where I’ll be spending some time alone with my mother. Quality time, as they call it. She’s been so dedicated to taking care of my Dad for such a long span now. I will cherish, I mean really cherish this next 48 hours with my Mom, with my family. The Mensch family. Yes, yes, that Fellini mind again, delving into that “zone.” Thoughts about the day I’ll be heading to my own parents funerals. But, that will be then. This is now. And, right now, I’m on a plane heading up to NY.

And when I’m there with my Mom, if there’s time, you know what? Why not? A trip to Ben’s or Woodro for a nosh? Perhaps a nice sandwich? I know, I know, what could be worse for you? But, what the hell? Enjoying delicious food with people you love. And not with just any people. We’re talking genuine Mensch’s here.

Nothing could be better.

Here's to you, Uncle Seymour.

Those Were The Days

Every time I pass by this sign, I can't help but laugh.

When I first moved in to my KC apartment, needing to find some places to get some basic living essentials, I started scoping out the neighborhood. As it turns out, there is an intersection just up the street from my place - about a five minute walk, if that much. Cleaners, post office, breakfast/brunch restaurant, pizza joint, and not one, but two Italian restaurants, both of which are supposed to be pretty good. Who could ask for anything more?

I remember the first time I made my way up the street, my peripheral vision caught a glimpse of the sign you see here - it's on the corner of Main and 53rd. At first, the numbers kind of freaked out my system; they didn't make any sense. "The numeral order must be wrong," I thought. They guy posting the digits must have been in an altered state. Within seconds, of course, I saw the messed up building in back of the sign and and put things together. The whole South Plaza area is undergoing a face-lift so I'm sure this corner won't stay the way it is for that much longer. Still, I love that the landowners are allowing the sign to remain, "as is," - a snapshot from days gone by.

The sight of this sign caused me to think: When was the last time gas (unleaded) was $1.25 a gallon? That seemed like something easy to Google. Then again, what isn't easy to Google? Here's what I found.

Unfortunately, the days of $1.25 didn't occur all that long ago. The first time we saw those prices (I'm talking New England here - my home) - it was April, 1996. (See this EIA - Department of Energy site) It's interesting, because soon after that level was reached, there was a reprieve of sorts; the prices dropped to 94¢ in March, 1999 (I love writing the "¢" sign, when talking about gasoline. It's thrilling) But, that was it. From 1999 on, the "gasoline ¢" sign-combo was to be left in the dust. It's been up-up-and-away ever since then.

Just a thought: I just noticed looking at this data that, historically, when the prices burst through a dollar level (e.g., $2.00) in May, 2004, the same pattern emerged. It crept past $2.00, then fell back and forth a bit into the 1.80-1.90 levels, doing a kind of little dance. Then, it finally slipped back into the $2.00 region, never to return to the $1.XX levels again. It kind of makes you wonder. It's as though the industry was dipping their toes into the water, just to see how the new concept would take? Just how much we would take. And, once free and clear into the new dollar region, the mental barrier then broken, it was on to the next frontier, the next level. It will be interesting to see what happens as we burst through the $4.00 level. Just a thought

Anyway, I hope they keep this sign up at Main and 53rd; at least until the new restaurant or Walgreen's comes into the neighborhood. It's fun to reminisce. But it makes me wonder - as we keep looking at the real signs, the ones in front of the open gas stations - how much more are we going to take? How many dollar level bustings are we going to go through until this country does something about its predicament?

The Current State Of Pajamas

The bed was made perfectly. I mean perfectly.

"You did that?" I asked.

"Every mornin'," Mac smiled. I can hear his voice now as I write this. By the way, his age: 101.

The bed was tight.

"I could bounce a quarter off that thing. Wasn't that the test?"

"You were in the Army?" he asked.

That, of course, made me laugh and prompted me to start in about my extensive camp experience. It wasn't exactly the military but ... we did have daily inspections, so I knew how to make a mean hospital corner, too.

We chatted about beds and inspections as we sipped some coffee.

On the side of Mac's large bed, there was a shelf. And on that shelf there were a few piles of stacked and folded clothes, also organized neatly by Mac. That's when I saw the pajamas. And that got me to thinking.

First of all, I like that word: "PAJAMA."
Say it with me a few times.
Nice, huh?
First stop, you guessed it - Wikipedia.

Pajama - if you want to learn more than you really want to know about "pyjamas", check out the history at this link. It's interesting to me how this night sleepwear found its way to our culture.

Anyway, after I realized how much I loved the sound of word and repeated it to myself about 20 times, the next thought rolling into my ever-busy head was this: Do people - not toddlers - I'm talking adults here - do they even wear pajamas any more? I don't think I've owned, let alone worn a pair of PJ's for ... let's see ... about 40 years? That would be about right. It's just something that dropped out of my lifestyle, slowly; I can't pinpoint when it occurred. I mentioned camp before and I think that may have been the last time I wore them. Two or three pair would find their way into my truck, all complete with name tags, of course. August Berkshire Mountain nights were pretty chilly so we needed all the coverage we could find - pajamas + sweatshirts and pants + ten blankets = we were still freezing. It was great. Until we had to step out onto the cold floor after reveille each morning. That wasn't so great.

Writing this out apparently opened up a long-lost brain-file because a very specific image popped up. I remember having this one favorite pair of PJ's, which may very well have been my very last pair, come to think of it. It was a kind of navy blue and white, small checkered pattern pair, with navy trim along the collar and cuffs. It was long sleeved and ... soft? Oh my, yes. It was the kind of soft that emerges in a piece of clothing after it's been washed hundreds of times; that snuggly kind of cotton soft. I loved wearing those pajamas. And they looked good on me - I have to say, I wore them well. Not that that meant a hell of a lot, seeing as the only people who ever saw me in them were my immediate family and closest sleepover friends. (I noticed this pic on the left, the one with the model-boy. It reminded me of that last pair. Of course, I had a head)

But, again - do men wear pajama's any more? I'm curious but not curious enough to do a full-blown mini survey, although I thought about heading down to Macy's or Hall's to interview some sales clerks. I have my research limits, though. I've pretty much figured out that my time is better spent working on my book. Still, it seems to me that PJ's have become somewhat impractical. I mean, most of the time, unless my place is freezing, I figure there's simply no need for what I'd call full nocturnal dress. I'm not going to get too up close and personal here but let's just say I don't see myself heading out to buy a pair of PJ's any time soon.

As I'm jotting this down, it just dawned on me - is this is a non-father's experience talking here? Because if I did have kids, I probably would be "dressing up" more at night. Perhaps my dad friends can let me know.

So, that's that. Enough speculation.
Pajamas.
Mac wears 'em ... and folds 'em ... neatly ... every week.
I love that.

Singing With Friends - Part 2

I hung up the phone, thanking Stu, and wrote for awhile. And that was that.

Well ... actually, it wasn’t. The stirred-up memories didn't dissipate so easily.

I thought about home, where I grew up. The LHS music department, long the pride of the state, and how Peter took what was handed to him and created what then became one of the most formidable music programs around. The chorus I heard over the phone sounded every bit as tight and professional as any I’d ever heard, cell or no cell. As good as my early 70's group? Never. lol - I’m kidding ... sort of. Seriously, I wasn’t the least bit surprised about the excellence. I knew they would be great because I know all about the excellence Pete expects from his students; he always instilled that in people. I know he did that for me. As we know, high school can often be a very confusing time for students. I know it was, at times, for me. But to have a guy like Pete ... He was a teacher, sure. But it was different with him. Sure, we all respected him. Because he was a teacher. But he was also a friend – a good person. Talented, sensitive and … cool. I mean - this teacher sang the music we all loved back then. It wasn't just about Brahms and Mozart. This guy played guitar and, at times, performed like he was a recording artist. He really was one of us. And it was that sort of "hip" side to him that opened the music door to many others who might otherwise have never peaked behind that door. I remember my more jock-like friends - guys who played baseball, football, lacrosse - who took an interest in the music department because Pete was heading up the program. That was special.

I'll wind down with this memory. As special as my personal Lyrics experience was, there was also a group called "I Cantori" - a nine-person madrigal group selected each year as a sort of sub-group of the Lyrics bunch. I was lucky enough to be part of that experience as well. I loved those Cantori rehearsals - I think they were Sunday nights? - at Pete's home? Near or on Trafton Road, across or very close to Forest Park, from what I can remember. It's funny, I remember "Mandy" was hit song then and for some reason I connect that song with those rehearsals, go figure. And the ten of us (Pete included) would get together once a week and run through some pretty intricate and challenging music. And from what I can remember, we were pretty good. Sometimes, a group member would host a rehearsal. I remember the group once coming over to my house, where my mom had fixed snacks and we sang in the living room, by the big grand piano. I remember my folks telling me what a treat that was hearing us downstairs that way. Eve, Candy, Sheryl, George, Anna, Ryan, John, me (I think I'm missing a tenor??) – quite the group. Lots of fun.

"Lau Dote Nomen Domeni ... " That was our particular I Cantori signature tune, I believe. I can still remember every Latin word. Just in case, I looked it up - here's the sheet music:

Laudate nomen Domini, vos servi Domini; ab ortu solis usque ad occasum ejus. Decreta Dei justa sunt, et cor exhilarant: laudate Deum principes et omnes populi.

Beautiful song. I found a bunch of YouTube links - here's one - you can hear how pretty this melody is. Our default version was much more up-tempo from what I can remember. Still, it was good to hear this again.

As I wound down after the calls, I thought about my time as Peter’s student. After high school, I stayed in touch with him for a bit of time. At one point, some 15 years later when I was managing and working as an attorney in the music business, we even collaborated on something. Pete was working with one of his students who was a member of a very talented R&B group, and he was trying to get something going with them in the city. As it happens, our lives unfolded after that and we gradually lost touch, reconnecting periodically and even for a flash last year during my trip cross country.

I plan to reach out to him when the dust settles; after he's had a chance to take in, what I can only imagine has been a very special period for him. I'll call him because I want to be the next person in line who lets him know, not only what he’s meant to me, but what he's meant to all of the people who have come through his program - through his life.

It was wonderful to be swept back in time like that this afternoon.

Okay. So I know I was in Kansas City and they were there - what did I say - 1357 miles of American real estate between us? But you know what? What I said back in high school still stands. “Singing (or mouthing words) with friends ...” - It is, most definitely, still a great experience. Even from all the way out here.

That should be testimony to the kind of thing Pete has given all of us.
I will never forget him and what he’s about.
Never.

Singing With Friends

The End Of An Era - A few weeks ago, my brother called and told me our music teacher/director/guru from high school, Peter Thomsen, was retiring and that they were having this big party and concert for him in Longmeadow (see the "Education" portion, the part about the music program). Stu sent me an invitation and a link to a great website showing photos of Pete during his own musical training, then with students over his 34 years of teaching. (The website provides a good snapshot of what Pete's all about so I encourage you to click this link and head over there - "A Musical Life.") Looking through the photos nudged my thinking back to those days and brought a huge smile to my face. So of course, it didn't take long for me and Stu to start talking about the possibility of us heading back home together to be part of the celebration. I then spent a good deal of time on the web researching flight and car info, coming within a whisker of locking in plans for a trip to New England. I was that close.

Of course I wanted to see Pete; honor him. After all, singing in "Lyrics" (Longmeadow High School's cream-of-the-crop, chorus-wise) provided some of the best times of my young life, maybe my whole life, for that matter. In my yearbook at graduation, I wrote something which ended with this line: “... singing with friends is one great experience.” And it was. Come to think of it, it still is. Music has been, and always will be, a huge part of my life – it’s in the family blood. Apparently more than I ever knew, having discovered one long lost relative during this trip who ended up being a conductor of a major symphony orchestra. (See "We Are Family" - April, 2007)

I joined Lyrics in the fall of 1971, after making the team via a rare mid-season audition, (George Rommell will remember that). And that was it. The transformation was pretty amazing. Immediately, I went from being a low-B student who didn’t give a hoot about anything – to a straight-A student who started the process of putting things together, at least the pre-20 part of it. Just like that (snap!) I was in with a more-or-less different crowd, the honors students. Sure, I still played ball with my friends, but something shifted when I entered the music program. And I loved it.

Unfortunately, I wasn't able to get to the retirement shindig, having too much on my plate here and not feeling right about leaving my boss in a lurch with a key colleague being out for a bit. Add to that, I’ve been away a bunch lately and ... well … something had to give. I'm really digging in to finish this book. That, and that, alone, has become my priority.

Fastest 1,357 Mile Trip Ever - Stuart called me about ten minutes ago. There was a racket. It sounded like people clapping? Then singing? What the f ... ? I saw the caller ID so I knew it was him but what the hell was that about!? I tried to call him back. No Answer. "He’s playing games," I thought. Was he calling to tell me the Mets/Yanks score? I knew the Mets had won, so I wanted to fill him in in case he didn’t’ know that. I tried him back again. No answer. He left me a 2nd message in the interim. "Playing games," I thought again. I listened to the second message. Noise and more noise. It sounded like he was in a train station - somewhere in a crowd. Or a concert??

Light bulb - "On."

Stu had driven back to MA a few days earlier to pick up some things to bring back to Chicago, see Emma, friends and … that's right. To head over to Pete’s retirement celebration.

I felt ... well … I was thrilled for Pete. Happy for Stu. But suddenly I wished I was there, too.

I kept the phone on vibrate and set it next to the laptop while I continued my work at Starbucks on 39th.

Stu called back a few minutes later. Somehow I was expected this call.

“Ready?" he asked. "I’m sitting next to Scott and Kim Hamilton ...”

“The Lord Bless You and Keep You?” Have they done it yet?” I asked.

“Here’s the thing….” Stu paused as the crowd started to settle down. There was lots of noise going on and clapping doesn't pick up all that well on a cell's tiny speaker.

“Okay. H? They’re about to do Hallelujah Chorus” and then “The Lord Bless You ..."

More clapping. I think I heard some cheering as well.

"And George is here. Rommell. "

My brother was like Dan Rather on the front lines in Viet Nam, providing me with a blow by blow description of everything unfolding in the LHS auditorium.

Man, Oh man - Western Mass. was tugging at my insides. "I blew it," I thought. "Really blew it."

You know something? A person has a chance to pick special moments in a lifetime, and those kinds of moments don't, how do they say it? Grow on trees? This was one of those moments, I could tell. And I wasn’t there. I made a choice, sure. But, I don’t know. This may have qualified as one humdinger of a mistake.

Singing with Friends - “You ready? Stu asked. "Okay, now – I’m going to put this on speaker. Don't say anything."

I sat at my Starbuck's table and covered up both ears so I could hear better.

"Okay, here we go. Now, don’t say anything – you’re on speak ...”

"You already said th ..."

"I said, don't say anything!!"

I smiled. Everything was in place.
Me in a Kansas City Starbucks.
Stuart with his cell phone sitting on the his lap in the Longmeadow High School auditorium.
The chorus, poised to do their thing.

Then, it was easy. I just listened.

Now, not to sound over dramatic ... Oh, what the hell? I'll be dramatic. It's as though the music coming over the phone lifted me from that little wooden Kansas City Starbuck's seat and transported me back to Longmeadow in the early '70’s. I was in high school, again.

Within about a minute of listening to Peter’s most recent and last Lyrics and super-chorus groups, I smiled when I noticed I was singing along, mouthing the words – every one of them. First to the Hallelujah Chorus, and then … well … here’s what happened next.

“Okay, we're goin’ up now…" Stu continued his play by play. H - It's like half the people here ... At least half the audience is alumni ...”

[A little background here: "The Lord Bless You And Keep You" (hereinafter -"TLBYAKY") is a gorgeous SATB choral piece, the signature sign-off piece for every Lyrics chorus for as long as I can remember. Pete actually carried that tradition over from his predecessor, Mr. Alfredo Carbonell (another terrific music teacher, by the way). I just remembered - Our group of students was Pete’s first at LHS. Mr. Carbonell retired after my freshman year and then - enter Peter Thomsen. Anyway… TLBYAKY was the song. In the years that followed, post graduation, off to college, then back for Thanksgivings ... I and fellow LHS music alumni would return to the LHS auditorium for concerts; we all wanted to keep that experience going for us, at least for a bit longer. We all loved returning home and seeing Pete with his new crop of talented voices. And when it was time to conclude a concert, Pete would turn and make his request. And alumni would head up to the stage and, for another moment, we all had a chance to, once again, sing with friends].

Some jiggling, lots of noise, then quiet. A few seconds passed. I could just picture it. Pete standing in front of this huge chunk of his past, right smack in front of him. Faces. 34 years of faces. People whose lives he has touched and have touched him, in return. The ultimate 2-way street. The obvious line: Mr. Thomsen's Opus - I'm positive that very thought ran through more than a few minds in that room. I could picture Pete, the first dip of his arms - the signal to ... commence.

I listened to the song. I remember thinking the tempo was very slow, slower than I ever remember singing it. Who knows? Was the chosen tempo Pete's doing - him holding back a bit? Trying to hold onto the moment - make everything last just a bit longer? I could hear Stu's voice every once in awhile and was trying to picture him singing while holding the cell phone.

This was great.
The song was great.
The chorus was great.
Everything was great.

"Something's Happening Here"

So, when I first heard the sound, I reached to turn down the volume dial on my laptop.

"What the hell is that?" I thought. "Could it be?"

Someone at work mentioned earlier in the day that there was some "weather" headed our way. A euphamism for severe storms, or worse, tornadic acitivity; I love that last term.

Anyway, I lifted the window a bit and put my ear closer to the opening. Sirens blared in the distance. First loud, then softer ... then much louder, over and over again. I figured this was the tornado warning sirens doing their thing, on some type of revolving mechanism, shouting its warning from county to county; a kind of mechanized Paul Revere. I'd seen a few of these contraptions on the side of the road on my drives to work, but never heard them in action. It was eerie - as though an air raid was imminent ... or worse. I remembered hearing these sirens when we'd do the "duck and cover" nuclear explosion exercises in the 60's. They had those at Tiffany Street School all the time. Yes, yes - I remember those. (See "Bert, The Turtle" to the right)

"When you see the flash ... duck and cover." Plll-lease?! Can you imagine? I mean, what the hell was the point with that? And the funniest (saddest) thing is, our government was serious about that stuff.

So, the sirens reminded me of that, to be sure. But it wasn't just the sounds that weirded me out. It was also the lack of sound. A stillness - it was unmistakable.

Something was happening. And it wasn't clear what it was. What to do?

Making My Move - Well, I suppose I did precisely what they tell you not to do at a moment like that. I grabbed my camera, put on my sandals, and headed out the door and down the stairs. I wanted to see this. I needed to see this. I'm guessing there's a bit of stormchaser in me. I think there's a piece of that in all of us.

Happily, there's not much to report here. I'm glad I didn't end up in a tree five miles up the road and all that. I snapped off a few pics which you can see here, but they don't do justice to the actual view that afternoon. It's the coloring I wished I could have captured a bit better. A great camera might have been able to give you a better shot - I wish you could see that pre-storm coloring. It looked just the way I've heard it described. A kind of greenish, yellow color. The lighter photos show what it looked like at around 6:00 PM or so - which, in May, means it's still supposed to be daylight outside. You can see how dark and ominous the sky got around that time. And the quiet - very strange. I remembered thinking as I walked up the street, no birds. Not a sound at all. My guess is birds and other wildlife know what to do when something dangerous is on the way. I'll tell you one thing - they don't grab their cameras and run outside to take photos. (Note: A few funnels/tornadoes were generated out of that same sky you're looking at - just a short distance away. Knowing that now, gives these photos new meaning).

The darker photo below - I think this was taken around 8 PM, perhaps a bit later. I love seeing lighting, especially the streak kind. It's next to impossible to catch a good shot, so I decided to simply close my eyes and start to press the button every 5 seconds, which I did for a minute or two. Once I was done, I was thrilled to see that I had caught one shot showing a few bolts just above the KC Board of Trade building, directly across the street from my apartment.

Rolling Thunder - I'll close with this. I think it was around 1:30 later that morning. Something woke me up and I'm a pretty heavy sleeper. (I slept through the mini-earthquake they had here a few weeks ago). There was this sound; not sirens this time. It sounded like thunder but, no - it couldn't be. It just kept going and going and going. A roar, rumble, deep tone - sort of like - ?? Well, what do they say? How many times have we heard those testimonies? "It sounded like a freight train." Isn't that what folks always say about a tornado? But there weren't any sirens this time. Then again, if a tornado had already lifted every telephone pole in the vicinity out of the ground, why would anyone even think there would be any sirens left?

No. This wasn't a tornado; it was definitely thunder. But perpetual thunder. The lightning kept flashing, over and over again, keeping the thunder company. It looked and sounded like what I'd imagine a bombing raid would be like. This fiasco lasted for what seemed like an hour, perhaps more. And I'm telling you, for the 4th time now, the thunder had no breaks. Have you ever heard such a thing? The wind whipped and the rain was coming down in a big way. I smiled when I thought about my car, nicely tucked away, four floors below ground in the garage next door. I had no hail worries this time. That calming thought, alone, allowed me to fall asleep I think. Add the rain, the thunder, the lightning - at some level, it was all kind of soothing to me. I like storms; once I know I'm in no danger, that is.

I heard stories the next day at work, confirming that, in fact, a very strange line of storms had passed through the area earlier that morning. And that was, in fact, an hour of non-stop thunder. And these weren't just some one-day visitors talking here. These were Mid-West storm veterans who were passing along this info, so I figured I'd experienced something unusual.
Okay, then.

Hail - check.
Tornadic Activity - check.

And this is just the start of tornado season. I'll keep my camera ready.
I won't do anything stupid, Mom.