Whenever I get into a 3 – way conversation with a man I’m proud to call my friend, Scott Taylor, I invariably ask the third person, “What’s the first concert you ever went to?”
It’s not a bad conversation starter anyway, but I’m teeing up Scott for victory as his first concert was The Beatles on Ed Sullivan – period, end of story, check please. As mine was The Carpenters at Westbury Music Fair (I keep telling myself that my parents meant well, “Look Howard, it’s in the round! The stage is turning!”), I’m dead to rights before the conversation begins.
Scott even has proof, as a recent compilation of all The Beatles appearances on Ed Sullivan has been released on DVD, and if you don’t blink on the last appearance in 66, you can see Scottie, his sister and his grandpa (bless his soul) in the audience. Actually they’re relatively easy to pick out, being the only three people in any shot that aren’t girls between the ages of 13 – 20 screaming their heads off (Scott’s sis was 8 at the time).
So it was a “Circle of Life” moment when his oldest son Alex got tickets to David Letterman (prephilandering exposed) and unbeknownst to him, it just happened to be the night Paul McCartney was playing live, on the top of the Marquee, with Alex easily spottable in a lime green T near the front of the crowd. It seemed that serendipity had struck, with Alex seeing the essence of what his dad had seen, the most popular musical group in history, in the same place, 43 years later.
Serendipity, shmerendipity. Fast forward about three months to a trip that Alex and Scott just took across the pond to what for them was really jolly old England because;
- Scott was going on a business trip for a week and got to make it a father/son excursion
- They went to see first cousins, as Scott’s folks are from the UK and had migrated to the U.S. as youts*
- On their first full day in London, they walked into a restaurant and sitting there was…Sir Paul!
What I would have given to see their faces as they recognized him, went up to him and shared this story, and as they walked away (he wouldn’t take a picture, didn’t know Scottie from Adam, didn’t want where he frequented to be publicized) overheard him say to one of his grand-kids, "Did you hear that! Did you hear that!"
* Not a typo, just homage to Fred Gwynne in “My Cousin Vinnie”
If you’ve got another example of real life kicking the crap out of fiction, let’s hear it!
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
109
When I told my family/friends I was going to my junior high school reunion they looked at me like I had three eyes, primarily because they haven’t made that stop in the Wayback Machine http://www.toonopedia.com/peabody.htm. Many of them commented on how they didn’t even remember many people from that far back, let alone stay in touch with them.
I/we did.
Seeing everyone on Saturday night, May 2nd, 2009 felt more than special, it felt unique. Once, twice, maybe three times in a lifetimeish, made possible for two reasons.
First, the environment that motivated us to get together when so many others don’t after 36 years. An environment fostered by the administration and teachers that managed it, and we were fortunate enough to have two of our most beloved representatives with us in Mr. Reginald Landau, Assistant Principal and Mr. Allen Stier, Music Teacher.
When I picture Mr. Landau, the snapshot’s in Ms. Marzulli/Mrs. Farmulare’s 7th grade Math/Homeroom class, wearing a grey 3-piece suit (think “Clyde” Frazier sounding like the “Cos” talking about education - on steroids - then read paragraph 6 of this Daily News editorial www.nydailynews.com/archives/opinions/1995/06/20/1995-06-20_______and_make_this_chancell.html ). Putting his thumbs under his vest by the armpits, striking a masterly pose, he asks, “How are my cherubs doing today?” .
A wise man, very precise in his vocabulary, he always seemed to be thinking three steps ahead of us (which probably meant at least one step ahead of the teachers). Even the night of the reunion, when he’d ask anyone of us open ended questions, we’d be afraid to answer. Indirectly, through his presence and sublime delegation (more on that in a moment) he made us (me anyway) smart (it’s a relative term). Period. End of sentence.
I recall the day in 9th grade when he came to me and said “Fertig, I need you for two periods before lunch” (the good news), and then walked me to the cafeteria where he handed me a pencil, paper, and tape measure? Turns out I had to measure the entire 9th grade class for their caps and gowns, which really turned out to be a lesson in hair maintenance (the not so good news). With the wonderful diversity in our school, by the time I was done, my hands could wax a limo. And of course who did I get near the end? Barnett Crawford (the bad news). All I needed was to pull the tape measure too tight around his fro. I had a vision of Mr. Flug presiding over my funeral and calling, “Barnett Crawford 7-12 up to the mike” just like he did most days at lunch.
When I think of Mr. Stier, I get multiple images. The name Charles Ives, with each letter written separately on yellow construction paper over the instrument room door. Ives was a modern American composer by night and an insurance salesman by day. He brought home the bacon but kept his passion, and so did Allen Stier. I think of a certain smile, right after he tapped the baton and right before we started to play, like a little kid who might get what he wanted for the holidays, but then again might not.
Somewhere during the 8th grade Mr. Stier either had a renewed interest in guitar, or thought it would add to our sound, and he started playing with us in the jazz band during performances, becoming even closer to some of us – a player/coach. I can’t quantify it, but bottom line, he was everybody’s favorite teacher, and the bands didn’t sound ½ bad (yes I’m trying not to sound biased). We wanted to play for him. He cared.
And he pushed us. The hell with “Plink, Plank, Plunk”, we were playing “Night on Bald Mountain” by Mussorgsky from the movie “Fantasia”. And when the trumpets couldn’t play quiet enough (near the end of the piece, after the storm), he came to the back of the room with me, Bill Robinson, Mike Desimone, and Byron Williams*, and said, “You know how after you get done kissing a girl? After the excitement? When you feel really calm? That’s what this should sound like.”, only thing was, because we weren’t David Hanson or Michael Sada (the only two guys who knew what that was like, hell, they had probably had their drivers licenses by then), we had no idea what he was talking about.
The second factor that made the evening memorable was us. Whether we see each other regularly like Aff (Tom), The Captain (Pete Marchelos), Hesh (aka Howard Alan Hoffman, hell, Hesh and The Captain are like me and Mrs. Jones), and me, once every decade or so like me and Mitch Seiler, or once every thirty six years (which is how long it’s been since we’ve graduated), which means if we do this in another 36 years we’ll be 86 (that‘s older than Mr. Landau and Mr. Stier now! - kidding sirs), there’s a bond I felt when I looked into everyones eyes, a shared history that in the grand scheme of things few of us on the planet are fortune enough to experience, that we’ll always have.
So here’s to us!
Here’s to 109!
And here’s to the next reunion (may it be in less than 36 years)!
Also, just as I’ve shared a couple of my memories, I’m remised that we all didn’t share them during coffee and dessert (I suggested it to Janice. How come you didn’t remind us to do this? You’ve got three men in your house that if they stood on each other’s shoulders would be taller than the Freedom Tower if they built it, you could have gotten us to do this!). So, if any memories of moments, teachers, or classic scenarios come to mind, like Chris Poulios at lunch growling “Take a seat Flugie”, or me (I was not alone) repeatedly filling Barry Levine’s black cons with fruit salad and quintuple knotting them to the cafeteria table (where in the world is Barry Levine? probably teaching nuclear fusion at MIT), perhaps we can share those on the Facebook site, or click on the pencil below and I will post them there…
* hell of an artist, he used to read The Boston Strangler during class and draw amazing pictures of naked ½ bodies - either top or bottom - reconnected in erotic combinations that I still can’t fathom.
I/we did.
Seeing everyone on Saturday night, May 2nd, 2009 felt more than special, it felt unique. Once, twice, maybe three times in a lifetimeish, made possible for two reasons.
First, the environment that motivated us to get together when so many others don’t after 36 years. An environment fostered by the administration and teachers that managed it, and we were fortunate enough to have two of our most beloved representatives with us in Mr. Reginald Landau, Assistant Principal and Mr. Allen Stier, Music Teacher.
When I picture Mr. Landau, the snapshot’s in Ms. Marzulli/Mrs. Farmulare’s 7th grade Math/Homeroom class, wearing a grey 3-piece suit (think “Clyde” Frazier sounding like the “Cos” talking about education - on steroids - then read paragraph 6 of this Daily News editorial www.nydailynews.com/archives/opinions/1995/06/20/1995-06-20_______and_make_this_chancell.html ). Putting his thumbs under his vest by the armpits, striking a masterly pose, he asks, “How are my cherubs doing today?” .
A wise man, very precise in his vocabulary, he always seemed to be thinking three steps ahead of us (which probably meant at least one step ahead of the teachers). Even the night of the reunion, when he’d ask anyone of us open ended questions, we’d be afraid to answer. Indirectly, through his presence and sublime delegation (more on that in a moment) he made us (me anyway) smart (it’s a relative term). Period. End of sentence.
I recall the day in 9th grade when he came to me and said “Fertig, I need you for two periods before lunch” (the good news), and then walked me to the cafeteria where he handed me a pencil, paper, and tape measure? Turns out I had to measure the entire 9th grade class for their caps and gowns, which really turned out to be a lesson in hair maintenance (the not so good news). With the wonderful diversity in our school, by the time I was done, my hands could wax a limo. And of course who did I get near the end? Barnett Crawford (the bad news). All I needed was to pull the tape measure too tight around his fro. I had a vision of Mr. Flug presiding over my funeral and calling, “Barnett Crawford 7-12 up to the mike” just like he did most days at lunch.
When I think of Mr. Stier, I get multiple images. The name Charles Ives, with each letter written separately on yellow construction paper over the instrument room door. Ives was a modern American composer by night and an insurance salesman by day. He brought home the bacon but kept his passion, and so did Allen Stier. I think of a certain smile, right after he tapped the baton and right before we started to play, like a little kid who might get what he wanted for the holidays, but then again might not.
Somewhere during the 8th grade Mr. Stier either had a renewed interest in guitar, or thought it would add to our sound, and he started playing with us in the jazz band during performances, becoming even closer to some of us – a player/coach. I can’t quantify it, but bottom line, he was everybody’s favorite teacher, and the bands didn’t sound ½ bad (yes I’m trying not to sound biased). We wanted to play for him. He cared.
And he pushed us. The hell with “Plink, Plank, Plunk”, we were playing “Night on Bald Mountain” by Mussorgsky from the movie “Fantasia”. And when the trumpets couldn’t play quiet enough (near the end of the piece, after the storm), he came to the back of the room with me, Bill Robinson, Mike Desimone, and Byron Williams*, and said, “You know how after you get done kissing a girl? After the excitement? When you feel really calm? That’s what this should sound like.”, only thing was, because we weren’t David Hanson or Michael Sada (the only two guys who knew what that was like, hell, they had probably had their drivers licenses by then), we had no idea what he was talking about.
The second factor that made the evening memorable was us. Whether we see each other regularly like Aff (Tom), The Captain (Pete Marchelos), Hesh (aka Howard Alan Hoffman, hell, Hesh and The Captain are like me and Mrs. Jones), and me, once every decade or so like me and Mitch Seiler, or once every thirty six years (which is how long it’s been since we’ve graduated), which means if we do this in another 36 years we’ll be 86 (that‘s older than Mr. Landau and Mr. Stier now! - kidding sirs), there’s a bond I felt when I looked into everyones eyes, a shared history that in the grand scheme of things few of us on the planet are fortune enough to experience, that we’ll always have.
So here’s to us!
Here’s to 109!
And here’s to the next reunion (may it be in less than 36 years)!
Also, just as I’ve shared a couple of my memories, I’m remised that we all didn’t share them during coffee and dessert (I suggested it to Janice. How come you didn’t remind us to do this? You’ve got three men in your house that if they stood on each other’s shoulders would be taller than the Freedom Tower if they built it, you could have gotten us to do this!). So, if any memories of moments, teachers, or classic scenarios come to mind, like Chris Poulios at lunch growling “Take a seat Flugie”, or me (I was not alone) repeatedly filling Barry Levine’s black cons with fruit salad and quintuple knotting them to the cafeteria table (where in the world is Barry Levine? probably teaching nuclear fusion at MIT), perhaps we can share those on the Facebook site, or click on the pencil below and I will post them there…
* hell of an artist, he used to read The Boston Strangler during class and draw amazing pictures of naked ½ bodies - either top or bottom - reconnected in erotic combinations that I still can’t fathom.
Sunday, April 05, 2009
Better Than Iowa
As those of you who read this Blog know, I’ve been smartin’ about the way the Mets handled the dismantling of Shea Stadium.
Imagine your extended family was giving an old ugly uncle of yours euthanasia. He probably could have held on for a few more years, but his immediate (adopted) family wanted to put him out of their misery. They had a party celebrating all the great things the rest of his family did that he was a part of, but they didn’t mention the tomatoes he planted for many years, the bright blue and orange squared accessories he used to like to wear in his youth before the family decided to dress him in their favorite shade of blue, or the way he used to rearrange his seats when yo came to visit, depending upon whether you wanted to watch baseball or football. The family didn’t focus on him, they didn’t want you to spend much time on him, and they certainly weren’t going to give you a real opportunity to put a period at the end of that sentence.
Sure we said good bye to the Mets at Shea with Tom Terrific and Piazza closing the centerfield gates, but we didn’t say goodbye to Shea itself, and that stuck in my craw… until Friday night.
Thanks to Rich “Chubs” Schaffer, I got to ride shotgun on the opening night of CitiField. We came in at leftfield (formerly Gate A), went up the escalator to the field level (Section 128 - gotta get used to the new naming conventions) and walked in the open air promenade to look at the place. I'll always remember the minute I spent looking out at centerfield, with those 2 big scoreboards, and all that wrought iron and brick. It kinda felt like the first night Spence was born, watching him in the nursery from behind the glass, settling in for his first night’s sleep, and falling in love with him. That’s how it felt looking at CitiField for the first time. I’m over Shea. I’m home.
I felt like I was looking at all those pictures of Ebbets Field (minus Symphony Sid). Take that bandbox, put it on steroids, and open the decks up. It’s like the Wilpons went to Baltimore, San Franciso, Philly, Cleveland, Petco and DC and said, I'll take one of these, and that, and a couple of those, and…
they've successfully “retro”ed Ebbets Field.
All night, as Rich and I explored the park – along with everyone else (no one stayed in their seats), it was like we were all giddy kids on unguided tours bumping into other. A buncha 50+ year old guys with the same shit eating grins. All over the place you heard derivations of, “the hell with Iowa, THIS is heaven”!
I can’t sit in the ballpark I went to with my dad, cause neither of them are here anymore, but I can sit in a newer version of the ballpark my father grew up in, living a newer version of what he saw. It’s probably as close to time travel as I’m going to get to (aside from watching an episode of LOST).
So the lesson (I've relearned again) is, whenever one thing ends, something else begins, and that's not necessarily a bad thing.
Now, to apply that to the rest of my life, but how bout you? What are your memories of Shea? What lemons have you/are you turning to lemonade?
Imagine your extended family was giving an old ugly uncle of yours euthanasia. He probably could have held on for a few more years, but his immediate (adopted) family wanted to put him out of their misery. They had a party celebrating all the great things the rest of his family did that he was a part of, but they didn’t mention the tomatoes he planted for many years, the bright blue and orange squared accessories he used to like to wear in his youth before the family decided to dress him in their favorite shade of blue, or the way he used to rearrange his seats when yo came to visit, depending upon whether you wanted to watch baseball or football. The family didn’t focus on him, they didn’t want you to spend much time on him, and they certainly weren’t going to give you a real opportunity to put a period at the end of that sentence.
Sure we said good bye to the Mets at Shea with Tom Terrific and Piazza closing the centerfield gates, but we didn’t say goodbye to Shea itself, and that stuck in my craw… until Friday night.
Thanks to Rich “Chubs” Schaffer, I got to ride shotgun on the opening night of CitiField. We came in at leftfield (formerly Gate A), went up the escalator to the field level (Section 128 - gotta get used to the new naming conventions) and walked in the open air promenade to look at the place. I'll always remember the minute I spent looking out at centerfield, with those 2 big scoreboards, and all that wrought iron and brick. It kinda felt like the first night Spence was born, watching him in the nursery from behind the glass, settling in for his first night’s sleep, and falling in love with him. That’s how it felt looking at CitiField for the first time. I’m over Shea. I’m home.
I felt like I was looking at all those pictures of Ebbets Field (minus Symphony Sid). Take that bandbox, put it on steroids, and open the decks up. It’s like the Wilpons went to Baltimore, San Franciso, Philly, Cleveland, Petco and DC and said, I'll take one of these, and that, and a couple of those, and…
they've successfully “retro”ed Ebbets Field.
All night, as Rich and I explored the park – along with everyone else (no one stayed in their seats), it was like we were all giddy kids on unguided tours bumping into other. A buncha 50+ year old guys with the same shit eating grins. All over the place you heard derivations of, “the hell with Iowa, THIS is heaven”!
I can’t sit in the ballpark I went to with my dad, cause neither of them are here anymore, but I can sit in a newer version of the ballpark my father grew up in, living a newer version of what he saw. It’s probably as close to time travel as I’m going to get to (aside from watching an episode of LOST).
So the lesson (I've relearned again) is, whenever one thing ends, something else begins, and that's not necessarily a bad thing.
Now, to apply that to the rest of my life, but how bout you? What are your memories of Shea? What lemons have you/are you turning to lemonade?
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Invention: The Retractable Steering Column
The last steering wheel innovation that comes to mind is the tilt, which was great for my 36” inseam. Now after 33 years of driving, it’s dawned on me that while I have a 36” sleeve as well (what a well proportioned guy I am!), when my legs are at a comfortable distance from the pedal, my arms feel too far from the wheel, and when my arms are at a comfortable distance from the wheel, my legs are cramped, hence the need for said retractable steering column.
Thoughts?
Thoughts?
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
New Years 2009
This year New Years felt a little anticlimactic. I don’t know if it was because of the state the economy, the fact that there’s no short term fix in sight, or because New Years came early this year.
When I think of New Years, I picture TV shots of throngs of people celebrating in the center of large cities, capped by a climactic moment with great displays of emotion. I think the reason December 31st didn’t feel like New Years is because it actually took place about two months prior, on November 4th, 2008. Instead of “rockin” in another New Years with Dick Clark (can you believe that guy?), we ushered in a New Era with Barack Obama.
I didn’t hear a lot of friends or family members talk about resolutions this year. It feels like everyone is deferring their personal goals to the President–Elect’s hopes for us as a country.
Maybe it’s just me, but when I think of New Years, I think of Times Square, which is next to Broadway in New York. Since Obama’s been elected, I feel like we’re listening to/watching a long overture at a Broadway show who’s curtain won’t go up until January 20th.
Here’s hoping we get a musical.
When I think of New Years, I picture TV shots of throngs of people celebrating in the center of large cities, capped by a climactic moment with great displays of emotion. I think the reason December 31st didn’t feel like New Years is because it actually took place about two months prior, on November 4th, 2008. Instead of “rockin” in another New Years with Dick Clark (can you believe that guy?), we ushered in a New Era with Barack Obama.
I didn’t hear a lot of friends or family members talk about resolutions this year. It feels like everyone is deferring their personal goals to the President–Elect’s hopes for us as a country.
Maybe it’s just me, but when I think of New Years, I think of Times Square, which is next to Broadway in New York. Since Obama’s been elected, I feel like we’re listening to/watching a long overture at a Broadway show who’s curtain won’t go up until January 20th.
Here’s hoping we get a musical.
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