Monday, September 24, 2012

"I GOT YOU BABE," BY SONNY AND VICKI

Who was cooler in the hippie-era, (and into the 70's) than, "SONNY AND CHER."  I say, "Nobody." 

The ultimate power couple, Sonny (Salvatore Bono) and Cher (Cherilyn Sarkisian), were an oddball pairing.  While entertaining, they went on to represent love, peace and harmony.  In their professional run from 1964-1977, these pop-rockers sold more than 80 million records and starred in two, musical/comedy variety TV shows. Their meteoric and unlikely bliss epitomized togetherness, free-love and the sexual revolution.  They captured these ideas with two hit songs in 1965, "BABY DON'T GO" and "I GOT YOU BABE." 
YOUNG AND BRIGHT-EYED, SONNY AND CHER, AROUND THE TIME, "I GOT YOU BABE" DEBUTED.  CLICK ON THE LINK BELOW TO SEE A RARE VIDEO OF IT.



In the eyes of my generation, Sonny and Cher were destined to live happily ever after.  But their career hit a rough spot and in 1975, they divorced, (but performed together until 1977).  Cher went on to become a solo superstar and Sonny entered politics.  He died in 1998, in a highly publicized skiing accident.  Some conspiracy theorists still believe that Sonny Bono's political enemies hired a hit-man to assassin him.

Unbeknownst to Cher, CNN broadcast Sonny's funeral which included her tearful eulogy and a chorus singing, "THE BEAT GOES ON."
LATER IN 1998, SONNY AND CHER WERE ETERNALLY REUNITED WHEN THEY WERE ENSHRINED ONTO THE HOLLYWOOD WALK OF FAME.

I know another couple that has surpassed the longevity that we all expected from Sonny and Cher.  Coincidentally, it's a different Sonny, Sonny and Vicki.  Yes my cousin Vicki and her hubby Sonny have been an exclusive couple since 1970.  They visited Atlantic City last week, so my wife Sue and I helped them celebrate their 34th wedding anniversary.

When my big family was still intact, Sonny and Vicki got married on September 16, 1978.  Their reception was held at the Leonard's of Great Neck (New York).  I went to many affairs there but Sonny and Vicki's wedding stands out for two reasons; it was my last, big family get-together before I moved to Las Vegas and during the ceremony, one of Sonny's friends passed out from all the excitement, (well that was their story and 34 years later, they're sticking with it).
(9-16-2912)  LUNCH WITH SONNY (RED SHIRT) AND VICKI (BEHIND HIM), AT "SCALES" IN THE GARDNER'S BASIN SECTION OF ATLANTIC CITY.
Sonny and Vicki stayed the whole weekend at Harrah's, (casino).  Among other things, they gambled, went to shows and got pampered.  They came so very close to REALLY celebrating their anniversary on the "WHEEL OF FORTUNE" slot machine, (below).  Sonny and Vicki also loved the celebrity impersonator show which was highlighted by meeting the actor playing Steven Tyler.  Also, they rented a cabana at the pool and got massages.
MEMORIES TO LAST A LIFE TIME, THEY MISSED HITTING NEARLY TWO-MILLION SCHMACKERS  BY AN EYELASH.  ONE MORE THIRD OF A TURN ON THAT LAST REEL AND THEY WOULD HAVE REALLY,  REALLY,  REALLY BEEN GLAD THEY CAME TO VISIT US.

Sonny and Vicki have other interests too.  Vicki is the ultimate dog lover.  She recently lost her Spanky but he lives on with her loving stories.  As for Sonny (a.k.a. Rustyoldnuts), his second greatest love after Vicki is, being a car enthusiast.
HERE THE LOVEBIRDS ARE SINGING A DUET OF SONNY AND CHER'S, "ALL I EVER WANT IS YOU."

In addition to their uncinditional devotion to each other, Sonny and Vicki were always generous with their time, energy and other resources.  When my mom was ailing, they visited her during the good times and the not so good times.
MY MOM'S 78th BIRTHDAY PARTY AT LENNY'S CLAM BAR IN HOWARD BEACH.  THAT'S VICKI (far left) AND SONNY TOOK THE PICTURE.
At my mom's 79th birthday party at "THE OUTBACK" in Bensonhurst, Sonny played hero when my mom couldn't maneuver herself to get out of my car.  When all else failed, Sonny amazingly used a fireman's grip and lifted her safely out.

This past July, Sonny and Vicki came the furthest distance to attend my son Andrew's high school graduation party.
JULY 1, 2012.  TWO DAYS AFTER THE DEVASTATING WINDSTORM, WE MANAGED TO PUT THE PIECES TOGETHER AND HAVE THE PARTY ON SCHEDULE, (SEE MY "ICEMAN COMETH" BLOG FROM JULY 9th).
The husband and wife team of Sonny and Cher was a million-to-one shot.  Yes it's true, they went their own ways long ago, but the great joy of their vibe, music, comedy and effect on our culture, will live forever.

But far better, Sonny and Vicki are a gazillion-to-one couple.  Their lasting, exclusive love and lust for life is a pleasure to be around and is an inspirational beacon for other couples to appreciate. 
IN SOUTH OZONE PARK QUEENS, THE HONEYMOONERS IN 1971.  SHE'S 13 AND HE'S 16...AND THEY WERE ALREADY TOGETHER FOR A YEAR...AND TOGETHER EVER SINCE. TRY THAT, SONNY AND CHER!
I must have been out of my mind!  My original blog idea for today was my history at Gardner's Basin. 
HOW COULD I COMPARE HANGIN' WITH THE KING AND QUEEN OF COMPANIONSHIP WITH THE ACTUAL DOLPHIN WATCHING BOAT THAT ANDREW PUKED IN, SIX YEARS AGO.

Way before I realized that with all my wisdom, wit and wherewithal, there was little chance I could make a Gardner's Basin story anything but dull, I realized how much of a star attraction I had to write about. 

So to my wonderful cousins, Sonny and Vicki,  HAPPY 34th ANNIVERSARY.

I wish you both continued happiness and countless more beautiful sunrises and sunsets together as you sing, "I STILL GOT YOU BABE."
VICKI'S FAVORITE SUNRISE PICTURE, AT JONES BEACH ON "LONG-GUY-LIN."

 And I hope Sonny and Vicki believe that NOBODY is more fun to hang-out with...than us!

Monday, September 17, 2012

THE SHORT FUSE OF OFFICER DEAN-MICHAEL HUGHES

Winston Churchill once said of the Russians, "They are a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma." (see the MGTP Wall of Quotes).

I recently saw a re-run of, "SOUTH PARK's" Asperger Syndrome episode. It reminded me of the first time that my friend's dad said of him, "Dean-Michael either has Aspergers or he's a sociopath."
"SOUTH PARK," IS A CURRENT, CABLE-TV SENSATION THAT HAS LASTED 16 SEASONS (230 EPISODES AND A MOVIE).  IT HAS EARNED A PEABODY AND FOUR EMMYS BY TACKLING TOPICAL CONTROVERSIES AND USING CHILDREN (FOUR 4th GRADERS FROM A SMALL TOWN), TO BE THE VOICE OF REASON WHEN ADULTS ARE IRRATIONAL OR GULLIBLE.  ALTHOUGH MANY SHOWS SEEM TO BE IN BAD TASTE, ITS DISTORTED VIEW OF MORALITY IS USUALLY TIED TOGETHER NEATLY IN THE END. 
The central issue in South Park's Aspergers episode was Kyle, Stan, Cartman and Kenny's misconception that another kid has "ass burgers."
ASPERGER SYNDROME IS IDENTIFIED AS A SIGNIFICANT DIFFICULTY IN SOCIAL INTERACTION COUPLED WITH REPETITIVE BEHAVIOR PATTERNS.  MANY SUFFERERS HAVE LIMITED INTERESTS BUT TEND TO BE EXPERTS IN THOSE AREAS.  IT IS SUPPOSED THAT ALBERT EINSTEIN AND BILL GATES HAD THIS MALADY AS WELL AS FICTIONAL CHARACTERS LIKE, MR. SPOCK, LISA SIMPSON AND JIM PARSONS (above) AS THE EINSTEIN-LIKE DR. SHELDON COOPER FROM TV's, "THE BIG BANG THEORY."

My friendship with Dean-Michael Hughes (I called him Dean) ranged from 1989-1995 and again when he temporarily resurfaced in 2007. When I think back, maybe his father was right and he did have Aspergers. 

Our relationship started in 1989, when a nerdy ex-coworker of my wife Sue, shockingly called.  She wanted Sue and I to double-date with her and new boyfriend, Dean-Michael.

This all-day escapade included us traipsing through the rural farmlands of South Jersey and ended at a seafood restaurant in Vineland.  During that long afternoon,  Dean was so withdrawn that I never would have imagined that a friendship would blossom. He usually responded to my questions with one word answers.  Far worse, he frequently went off-topic, injected James Bond trivia or household repairs into the conversation. The only time he seemed normal was when he said he was a policeman.

During lunch, Dean was interesting (to me) when explaining his greatest piece of police work, the discovery of "Old Lady Campbell's" maggot-ridden, six-month old corpse, in her bathtub, (the visions brought to mind somehow disturbed the girls' meal).  He got the stink-eye from his date and changed the subject to how dull the work was in his municipality.  So on occasional days off, he had gotten into the habit of arranging squad car rides in Baltimore, the Bronx and Atlantic City.  This death-wish hobby seemed crazy but I gave him the benefit of the doubt because he had also been a marine.

For several months, Sue dodged her "friend's" tries to hang out with us.  So in 1990, it was a big surprise that we received a wedding invitation.  Our "no" RSVP included a polite, handwritten apology.  Dean's fiance called Sue.  She begged us to reconsider.  Sue cited an actual scheduling clash and how hard it was for both of us (in casino work), to get a Saturday off.  The poor girl started crying, "I have no family! And only one girl from work and an elderly neighbor agreed to come." 

You guessed it, we caved in.  On their big day, we were selected to serve as witnesses at the Hughes' courthouse wedding.  Later, at the tiny reception, in an unimpressive restaurant, we were introduced as if we were royalty.  At the bar, a drunken cop friend of Dean cornered me.  He pointed out Dean's three-times divorced father.  The elder (sixty-ish) Hughes was a prominent local businessman.  He had a Don Cordeleone-like aura that was enhanced by his girlfriend, an attractive woman, half his age.

The hiccuping cop singed my eyebrows with his caustic liquor breath as he identified Dean's six, half siblings. According to him, these conniving rivals tried to out-kiss their dad's ass.  Even though Mr. Hughes was still paying his former wives an incredible lump of alimony, his children hoped to tear-off a bigger hunk of whatever was left of his monetary carcass. 

The drunk slammed another shot of Jameson and sloppily chased it with a Guinness before laughing, "If he marries this bimbo, she already has two kids...and don't let that black, loose-fitting dress fool you, it looks like she already has another bun in the oven.  So if my count is right and daddio marries her, that'll make nine nasty bastards competing with each other for the lion's share of the Hughes family fortune."  I said, "Not exactly the Brady bunch..."  He cut me off, "It gets worse, see that eighty-five year-old fossil, that's GMH."  I said, "Heh?"  "GMH, that's what Dean-Michael calls his granny, (Grand Mother Hughes).  He got the idea from the TV beer commercials for MGD." Later I found out, Dean sometime refers to her as, "GDC," the Great Dame of Camden.
THE MILLER BREWING COMPANY WAS FOUNDED IN 1855.  IN 1985, THEY INTRODUCED MILLER GENUINE DRAFT (MGD) AS THE FIRST COLD FILTERED, PACKAGED DRAFT BEER...WHICH MEANT, TO HAVE IT TASTE LIKE IT CAME FROM A KEG, THE BEER WAS NOT PASTEURIZED.

The sot waved for the bartender's attention as he continued, "When GMH isn't belching or farting, the "Great Dame of Camden," pays Dean to spy on his father. She's got a big chunk of change herself and wants to leave the whole kit and kaboodle to her only child. But...and here's here it get interesting... the old crone is leery of his latest gold-digging trollop.  I bet the shit hits the fan when the old coot finds out that her sonny-boy already knocked her up."

In the months that followed, we got together with the Hughes' for movies or dinners at each others home.  Mostly due to Dean's earthiness and warped sense of humor, I enjoyed his company and grew to value his friendship.  One time after a delicious Thanksgiving dinner, he and I cleared the dishes and set up for dessert.  He was unusually anxious for me to try the beautiful, chocolate glazed cookies imported from Denmark, as he artistically arranged them on a plate.

Dean had photographed the full dinner table before the meal so I didn't suspect foul play when he focused his Nikon on me and said, "Try a cookie."  The multiple camera flashes irritated my eyes as I took my first (only) bite.  The cookie was nauseating and I gagged.  I spit the cardboard-like remnants into an antique lace napkin and cursed like a longshoreman who hammered his thumb. 

Dean laughed in my face, "I got those at the dollar store, they are sugar-free AND taste-free." I thought he was going to piss himself when he added, "Wait till I get these pictures developed, your expression was to die for!"

I invited Dean to one of my Thursday night poker games. His awkwardness with strangers was obvious but once someone else farted, he took it as a cue to give his own command performance.  The volume and regularity of the formerly bashful prodigy's serenade brought delighted encouragement from the masses... until somebody had had enough..  The impresario smiled at his lone detractor, "I shouldn't have had so much pizza, I'm lactose intolerant."  He paused and sighed, "It's the only thing I'll ever inherit from my friggin' grandmother." He perked back up and said, "My farts don't smell. I'll show you, get me pencil and paper."

Dean amazed us with a detailed caricature of an electric fan with its breeze hitting smiling faces.  Then he drew an identical fan with a smelly piece of poop between it and unhappy faces. "The first fan represents my lactose intolerant butt.  The second fan, is everyone else..."  We were all hysterical before he finished with, "Hence...my shit don't stink!"
ONE OF THE GREATEST DISAPPOINTMENTS IN MY LIFE WAS NOT SAVING DEAN'S MASTERFUL SKETCHES.

One Friday night in 1992 at midnight, the shelf my walk-in bedroom closet began to sag under the weight.  When it started to rip away from the wall, I panicked and called Dean.  He averted the catastrophe of a cave-in by bringing a power screw-driver and in one minute, he secured the meager builder's grade brackets.  Afterwards, in a pleasant manner he said, "I realize that I once old you to call me any time.  But things have changed.  Your 'emergency' interrupted his rare opportunity to study.  You see, I hate my work situation.  It started as a hazing, but the veteran cops saw my need for acceptance as a weakness...and took advantage of me. Now they permanently mistreat me.  I get all the dirty jobs within the precinct, all the bad shifts nobody wants and I've been bullied into typing one jerk's reports, for over three years." I was feeling guilty for dragging him to my house for such Mickey Mouse nonsense when he continued, "I can't complain to my lieutenant because of the 'old boy network.' So to get out before I kill one of them, I'm going to take an exam for a much better job that will qualify me to be a county investigator."

A week later, I dropped a glass spaghetti sauce jar on my kitchen floor.  Some of it oozed under the refrigerator.  Sue and I pulled out the Frigidaire to thoroughly clean underneath.  That's when I noticed a small, brown, rubber cylinder attached to the fridge's leg.  When Sue reached for it, my stupid reflex was, "Don't touch it, it's a fuse!  I'll call Dean."

Dean was there in fifteen minutes.  When I showed him the "problem" he calmly pulled it off and said, "That's not a fuse."  I said, "Oh?"  He pantomimed taking a bite out of it and said, "It's a petrified Vienna sausage... probably part of a careless construction workers lunch."  When we thanked him he took me aside and sarcastically said, "Got any more search and destroy missions for me?  Some militant spiders? Any trolls coming up through your toilet?"  "I blushed, "No."  Venomously he said, "This wasn't payback for my sugar-free cookie prank, was it?"  He didn't wait for an answer and stormed out.

Two hours later, Dean's wife called us from the emergency room.  She said, "Did Dean-Michael tell you that Petey, (the only sibling he communicated with) died last week from a drug overdose?  I guess Dean-Michael was so frustrated about it that after he got back from your house, he punched through our bedroom door.  Luckily, that old door was hollow and his knuckles are only bruised."

I was afraid to contact Dean but a few days later, he uncharacteristically called me.  He said, "I'm inviting you and Sue to a business meeting on Thursday night." Other than where and when, I was uncomfortable asking many questions.  But when I arrived at his dad's house, I was ready for some sort of childish retaliation...but none came.

Dean's new step-mother greeted us at the door.  She carried her two-year old out of the room and was never seen again that night.  Dean opened the meeting by saying, "We are considering buying the Jonathan Pitney House in Absecon.  The price right now is a ridiculously low, $150,000.00.  Our idea is a three-family partnership that would involve fixing the place up and running it as a Bed and Breakfast."

Dean's wife was an accountant.  In her usual monotone, rigid and regimented way she said, "We can secure a low-interest loan because the property qualifies as a national monument.  To save money, you (me) and Dean can do the simple repairs and grunt work."  She took out a hand-made chart and recited from a prepared index card, "With no other B and B's nearby, there'll be no competition."

Dean said to me, "You know antique dealers, right?  You can be in charge of the furnishings  And you can also use your state gambling credentials to get our entity a New Jersey, casino service vendor's license.  That way, we can deal with Atlantic City hotels, to ecourage them to send us their overflow and freebies."

The senior Mr.  Hughes said, "I have real estate connections and they tell me, there hasn't been an offer made on the place in eight months...we're in a great position to low-ball them.  In a few years, with a lot of hard work by you four, I bet we can sell our successful inn for over a million."

Dean took the floor, "My dad will be a silent partner and front half the start-up capital.  You and I will split the other half.  Once the place is operational, the four of us will keep our jobs and devise a fair rotation of the day-to-day responsibilities."

"Before you decide,"  Mr. Hughes said, "meet us there tomorrow at noon and see for your self."
THE PITNEY HOUSE WAS BUILT IN 1799 AND RENOVATED IN 1848. IN THE TEN YEARS I LIVED IN SOUTH JERSEY, ALL I SAW WAS THIS HISTORICAL CITE DECAYING.

The next day, a realtor showed us in.  During the tour, we were reminded that a lot of the wiring was not up to code.  But surprisingly, the inside looked ready for business.  Even better, the building's exterior and the grounds seemed to only need fresh paint and a top-notch maintenance job.

Sue and I discussed the proposal that night.  I called Dean to tell him that we wanted in.  Dryly he said, "My father is out." I said, "What?"  He said, "The prick told me that he changed his will and to be fair, he's leaving everything to his baby.  The good news is, we're replacing his interest with my friend, Mr. Lui."

Mr. Lui owned the Chinese restaurant that Dean liked.  When we all got together, Lui made it clear that he wanted to put up a third and have an equal share without having anything to do with the daily operations.  I was disgusted.  I was relying on the stability of Mr. Hughes.  I dropped out the next day, (the Pitney House remained dormant until 1997 until someone else made it into a B and B.  They must have done well because a year later, it made the National Register of Historical Places).

Sue gave birth to my son Andrew in 1994.  Shortly there after, Dean and his wife turned their back on us. By 1996, they divorced.  I wouldn't see Dean again until we crossed paths in the supermarket in 2007.  Three times, he and I hung out.  The last time, he drove me out of town to Mr. Lui's new restaurant.  Along the way, his cell phone rang.  It was his roommate, (the drunken cop from his wedding) who was hearing strange noises in their backyard.  Dean said, "It might be my ex-wife, go outside and take your gun."

At dinner, Dean reminded me how much he loved his current job with the county.  Then he contradicted himself and glumly said, "But I was put on probation a year ago."  Dean claimed that he told a harmless joke, at a Christmas party. "Yesterday," he continued, "I was brought back into my commander's office and told that I was being put back on probation for another year because...human resources wasn't satisfied that I exhibited enough improvement in my sensitivity, (Dean made air quotes when he said; exhibit). And in order to go forward, the bureaucratic jackass said he has no choice but to suspend me for two weeks, to help me see the gravity of my shortcomings."

If he was being truthful, the joke was indeed harmless. So, I figured he wasn't telling me the whole story.  Dean sighed, "The whole department hates me.  Every day I feel so much pressure, they stare, whisper and point fingers at me. I can't bear it any more, I'm going to quit and move to Iowa."  "Quit?  How long until you qualify for full pension?"  "Fourteen months."  "Screw them, you were a marine, you should be able to handle this level of bullshit for a year."  He said, "Fourteen months!"

Dean-Michael Hughes quit the next day and I never saw him again.

I recently bumped into the senior Mr. Hughes at Lowe's.  He shook his head, "Dean-Michael loved this place and fixing things.  But he's a sick boy.  I'm sure you figured it out that he's a dangerous liar but far worse, he either has Asperger Syndrome or is a sociopath.  I tried to get him professional help but he always refused.  I thought the Pitney House project would help him channel his anger while doing something he loved..."  He groaned, "Now, he's in goddamned Idaho."  I said, "He told me Iowa."  "Yeah, he's living in a fantasy world, he told my wife Indiana and his ex, Illinois.  He's so out there, I guess he's working his way through the alphabet, the "J" states must be next."  I said, "Wow."  Mr. Hughes said, "Don't look so puzzled.  It wouldn't surprise me if Dean-Michael was using his survival skills, living in the woods and never left his neighborhood."  In a low-tone he added, "I'm not sure what his twisted mind is capable of..."

Now, five more years later, Dean is completely off the grid.  I haven't given him much thought until I saw a History Channel documentary on the "Unabomber," Ted Kaczynski.
TED "THE UNABOMBER" KACZYNSKI DROPPED OUT OF SOCIETY AND MOVED TO A REMOTE CABIN IN MONTANA.  FROM THERE, OUT OF REVENGE, OVER A TWENTY-YEAR PERIOD, HE SENT LETTER BOMBS THAT CAUSED MANY INJURIES AND RESULTED IN THREE FATALITIES.

But I won't worry about Dean-Michael Hughes...unless his photos of me eating the sugar-free cookie suddenly surface.

Monday, September 10, 2012

REAL LIFE APPLICATIONS OF SPANISH - 101

A few days before entering junior high school, a lightning bolt of panic exploded inside me when my friend's older brother said, "If you're taking Spanish...watch out for Mrs. Bialyschtock...she's the worst!" 

Mrs. Bialyschtock's real name was Bialowicz, (BEE-ALO-WITCH).  But because of the end of her name and heavy Eastern-European accent, most of the female students called her "The Witch." Nobody said the girls were wrong because Bialowicz was also hunched over, limped and was the strictest teacher in the school.  If that wasn't enough, her raggedy "bag-lady" appearance included small, wart-like splotches on her face.

The boys were less critical.  They saw her resemblance to the Zero Mostel character from the 1963 movie, "THE PRODUCERS," and simply exaggerated the Max Bialystock name.
ZERO MOSTEL (1915-1977).  WAS A COMIC STAGE AND FILM ACTOR.  HE EARNED HIS NICKNAME BECAUSE HIS PARENTS THOUGHT HE'D NEVER AMOUNT TO ANYTHING AND CALLED HIM "GORNISHT," (YIDDISH FOR NOTHING). HIS METEORIC CAREER AS A CLASSIC ACTOR  WAS HAMPERED THROUGHOUT THE 1950's BY BEING BLACKLISTED DURING THE McCARTHY-ERA.  HE'S BEST KNOWN ON STAGE AS TEVYE FROM, "FIDDLER ON THE ROOF" AND AS PSEUDOLUS IN, "A FUNNY THING HAPPENED ON THE WAY TO THE FORUM."  MY FAVORITE MOVIE ROLE  (above) WAS AS BIALYSTOCK.
The bolt of panic then vanished when the other two seventh-grade Spanish teachers, Mrs. J and Miss B, (both in their early twenties) were described.  I would later see for myself that Mrs. J was exotic looking.  In addition to a slinky, model-like body, she was warm, encouraging and patient.  In the mind of a twelve-year old in the throes puberty, this was the embodiment of everything you could want from a woman teacher.

Of course sexuality even for pre-teens, is a matter of personal taste and it seemed that Miss B was clearly every little boy's choice. Miss B was less professional, easy-going and a high grader.  She was plainly pretty but her overly buxom figure highlighted by buttoned blouses displaying a hint of cleavage or tight sweaters were enough to keep the male students attentive to every move she made.

I was thrilled to be put in Mrs. J's class. She must have thought I was her most knowledge-thirsty student because she was so beautiful that I would just stare at her.  Once she sat on her desk cross-legged and read a passage.  My mind was clouded by erotic fantasies...that I understood even less than the Spanish lesson. Then while envisioning her and I in the eraser-cleaning closet, I snapped out of the trance when Mrs. J said in English, "Abraham Lincoln" and "Kentucky," in the same sentence. 

Some of the other kids saw the humor and politely smirked.  But when the balloon of my confused flight-of-fancy popped, my notebook fell on the floor.  Everyone laughed.  They really laughed when Mrs. J asked me to stand, to answer a question.  I refused to get up because I didn't want anyone to see the dent in my pants.  Maybe she sensed my predicament and allowed me to remain seated.  Still, I had no idea of what she was asking. Thus began my Spanish career that remained on the grade 70%...forever.

The next year it was obvious that I had no grasp for the Hispanic language.  This unfortunate fact was typified during an oral recognition test.  My new teacher, Miss M had replaced the retired Mrs. Bialowicz.  She asked questions in Spanish and the class had to write the proper response, in Spanish.  As usual, I was buried.  So, on a couple of occasions, I copied off the girl (JS) sitting next to me. 

A few days later, I was proud to have gotten a 79% on that test.  After class, Miss M asked to see me privately.  She accused me of cheating. I went into denial-mode and lied through my teeth.  She said in Spanish, "What did you wear to school yesterday?"  I had no idea what she said.  When I didn't answer Miss M said in English, "How come you answered the question so well on the test and now you can't?"  I shrugged, "Lucky guess?"  She said, "You know what else is funny, you got the exact same answer as JS...wanna know what the question was?"  After she told me she added, "You know what you and JS answered..."  I gulped as she continued, "Yesterday, I wore a blue dress to school."

Somehow, Miss M gave me a 70% that year.

In high school I failed sophomore Spanish.  I had to re-take it.  The repeater class I was put in was all seniors.  They were a collection of juvies (juvenile delinquents), druggies and morons, so little teaching went on.  I had no competition.  So based solely on putting in a decent effort, in a sea of chaos, I was able to assume the role of the star pupil and score a rare 80.

To my chagrin, in college, I was required to take another year of Spanish.  I took a Spanish Literature course and did "C" work.  One assignment was to read the short story, "EL HOTEL DEL CISNE," (The Swan Hotel).  During the professor's lecture, he asked us (in Spanish) to name other birds.  Someone said, "Aguila is an eagle." The next few students answered, " Pollo is a chicken," "Cuervos are crows," "Una paloma esta un pigeon "and "buitre is a vulture."  I was thinking that buitre sounded like a cool word when Professor S added in Spanish, "Does anyone know what kind of bird a *pato is?"   When I broke out into laughter, S shocked the class by saying in English, "Ah, I see Senor Edelblum has a deeper knowledge of Spanish than he lets on."

*Pato - Is a Spanish slang term for a homosexual.

Professor S and I developed a friendly bond.  At the end of the semester, I was rewarded with a C+.  The problem was, Brooklyn College did not use plus or minus grades.  I even begged him to give me a B--- but my plea didn't sway him...maybe the bond he sought was more than friendly?

During the next semester, my last bit of formal Spanish training was highlighted by a test on the subjunctive tense.  An hour before that certain failure, I bumped into FLOWGLO. She was a Spanish major.  She said, "They should only teach conversational Spanish.  Even if you were addressing parliament in Madrid, the subjunctive wouldn't be necessary."  She sat down and drilled the normal grammar for these tests into me...complete with the typical exceptions to the rule.

The 83% I earned on that exam should have been the high water mark of my Spanish career, (the next highest grade was a 71 and nobody else broke 50).  That professor (G) threw out the test results and blamed himself.  At the end of the year, I got a C.

Today, I can not speak Spanish.  But I have probably gotten more practical use out of the language than most of the students who breezed to high grades and immediately forgot it. Down through the years, I have used the little I know to help and/or entertain Latino friends and customers...even at the risk of being laughed at.  In Las Vegas, my Hispanic friends at the Golden Nugget nicknamed me El Gato (The Cat)...because  even though I bastardized their language, they thought I was, as cool as a cat, for trying. 

In Atlantic City, in the early 1990's,  I used to say that I only got hired because the administrators were impressed that on my application, I included that I was "mono-lingual."  A lot of people thought that joke was funny especially my new Latino friends.   Soon I mentioned my El Gato nickname and I'm happy to say that moniker has survived (with a select few friends) down through all the years. One of those friends (J) had been a fly-weight boxer in his homeland, Paraguay.  Despite being short, his heavily scarred face and muscular physique made him a chick magnet.

One night (1992?) our "cougar" supervisor (way before the term cougar was in vogue) asked J if he ever played the Vulture Game?  I chimed in, "Buitre is the Spanish word for vulture."  My supervisor didn't like that I interrupted her while she was conducting the business of hitting on him.  But my vocabulary and pronunciation impressed J.  The cougar repeated herself and J said, "I never heard of the Vulture Game.  How does it go?"  She said, "I play dead, you drag me home and eat me."  J laughed it off, (these days, he could have made a case for sexual harassment).
WHAT A COINCIDENCE, ALL THE INTERNET PHOTOS I SAW OF VULTURES WERE FROM SPANISH SPEAKING COUNTRIES.
To the best of my knowledge the Vulture Game was never played but J's new nickname, "Buitre" survived even though there was a groundswell of support to call him "Killer," (shortened from, "My Little Killer)."
THE TERM, "MY LITTLE KILLER,"  ORIGINATED FROM THE 1942 CARTOON, "BUGS BUNNY GETS THE BOID."  ALTHOUGH THE CHARACTER (above) IS ACTUALLY NAMED "BEAKY BUZZARD," HE IS DRAWN TO LOOK MORE LIKE A VULTURE.  THE NAME, "MY LITTLE KILLER" IS USED BECAUSE BEAKY IS INEXPERIENCED AND BASHFUL.  SO WHEN HIS DOMINEERING MOTHER (IN A GREEK ACCENT) DEMANDS HE HUNT DOWN A RABBIT AND HE REFUSES. SHE ENCOURAGES HIM BY CALLING HIM, "MY LITTLE KILLER."   AND LIKE BUITRE, BEAKY'S FINAL WORDS WERE, "NOPE, NOPE...I AIN'T GONNA DO IT."
Once when Buitre and I were on the same craps crew, he was in a deep conversation, in Spanish, with a man with thousands of dollars in chips in front of him, (who wasn't playing).  When I came to relieve him, Buitre exchanged some parting words with the high-roller before saying to me, "He doesn't know how to play, I told him you speak Spanish..."  Buitre left before I could remind him of my severe limitations.  Then in his native tongue, the player started speaking ...fast.  I understood...NOTHING!

This would have made a great, "CANDID CAMERA," moment because when he paused I stupidly said in fluent Spanish, "Si."  The man set a fifteen-hundred dollar bet on the table as another man threw the dice.  The stickman called out, "Three craps, line away."  When I scooped up the man's losing bet, he went berserk.  He was so loud and angry that the game came to a standstill until a real translator could be found.

I soon learned that the question the man was asking was, "Am I the next shooter?"  And the man only wanted to bet if he was going to throw the dice..to which I confidenly said, "Si." Management took a hard stance and refused to give his money back.  They explained through the interpreter that if the bet had won, the man would have been paid.  I could still hear the man screaming when he sat at a blackjack table on the other side of the casino.

I have had enough real life, funny and embarrassing applications of Spanish, to fill another blog.  Maybe I'll call that one, "SPANISH - 102."  My son Andrew took French in seventh grade or should I say French took him.  He saw the more practical use for Spanish and requested it.  But through a clerical error, he was given French.  We found out it was quick fix, but once Andrew saw how many of his friends were in his classes, he decided not to switch.

Andrew did well in French but there were few, if any, real life applications for it.  Therefore, he missed out on the potential for funny or embarrassing moments while using it.  Now in college, he decided to fulfill his foreign language requirement by taking Spanish from scratch, (Spanish - 101). 

Come to think of it, Andrew's was exposed (slightly) to Spanish in first grade.  That's when his teacher found out I "knew" Spanish and asked me to make a game for an end of year activity.

I came up with a simple, sound recognition matching game, "Spanish Bingo."  The "B" column were colors, "I" was simple vocabulary, "N" was pronouns, "G" was numbers and "O" was animals.  So if I called out "O, Gato," the kids would search their "O" column for Gato (which would include in small letters...the English translation).
I XEROXED TWENTY-TWO BLANK BINGO BOARDS.  THEN BY HAND, FILLED IN SPANISH WORDS AND THEIR TRANSLATION.  THIS IDEA SERVED ITS PURPOSE WELL ENOUGH THAT IT SPAWNED THE YEARLY TRADITION OF ME CREATING AND EMCEEING YEAR-END GAME SHOWS, (IN ANDREW'S SECOND TO FOURTH GRADE CLASSES).  THOSE GAMES WERE: "THE GREAT AMERICAN CLAM RACE," "SHANTEAU'S FEUD" AND "THE STATE CHASE RACE." THEN IN FIFTH GRADE, I SET-UP ANDREW AS THE EMCEE FOR, "CLUELESS...THE SEARCH FOR BUBBA'S GOLDEN COLLAR."
Now I pass the Spanish torch onto Andrew.  I expect his college Spanish courses and its real life practicality will result in him having many more adventures with the language than me.  The rationale behind my confidence is, Andrew never got a 70% in anything!  I just hope he doesn't get a descendant of Mrs. Bialyschtock as his professor.  Buenas suertes, mi hijo! 

Monday, September 3, 2012

COPING WITH SEPARATION ANXIETY

Yes, I am the self-proclaimed, "master of glibness."  But no matter how smooth my written pitch might seem, the true, inner emotional roller coaster of getting my son Andrew off to The College of New Jersey (TCNJ)...and actually leaving him there...was nothing but profound.

In last week's blog, "EDELBLUM MYSTERY THEATER: THE ELEVATORS DON'T GO DOWN?"  I concentrated on the buffoonery of college move-in day.  This approach served a dual-purpose.  I entertained and educated my followers but also distracted myself from the kaleidoscope of ever-changing separation issues I was experiencing.

Those sentiments and anxieties took a stronger foothold during his first week away.  You see, it's easy for a parent to project the shape of their child's college life but in reality, they don't have and shouldn't have tyrannical control over it.  So a typical mom and dad might go straight into panic-mode if there is an immediate break-down in communication.  To avoid the potential for a parental avalanche of concern, the situation must be corrected.  After warnings are given and the student is deemed too far off track too soon, these waves of worries may evolve into a tsunami of hostilities.  So a quick and equitable solution has be put in place before a serious wedge develops between the parties.

To soothe the warring factions, more realistic texting, E-Mail and phoning policies must be drawn up and agreed upon, (plus in Andrew's case, we'll get weekly updates from *THE ABSvlog, every Monday).  Hence when my wife Sue and I came up a week after dropping him off (yesterday)...not to visit, but to take our little freshman home for the Labor Day weekend, we witnessed what we craved to hear about on a twice daily basis...the early stages of the actual college experience.

* Find Andrew's THE ABSvlog entries on youtube.

Mom and I's communication compromise with our boy netted us a lot less messaging than we bargained for but more than we were getting.  So on the way up to get him, we could only hope he was balancing his responsibilities and dealing with all the personal adjustments.  Then through the negotiated, greater communication agreement, (Sue called him and had a half hour conversation while we were in transit), we were satisfied with the progress report he provided, (originally, we were holding-out for ten such calls).

In terms of "good parenting," we have learned to pick our battles.  By doing so, we were rewarded with the best gift, being welcome to see it for our self.
IT IS A WONDERFUL THING TO SEE THAT YOUR CHILD HAS A DEEPER GRASP FOR WHAT IS IMPORTANT.

Most parents make the mistake of getting bogged down by stressing the practical.  Such instincts force less aware folks to dwell on their starlings ability to eat well and fly high.  But if you have a good kid (and have faith in the ingrained upbringing you provided for eighteen years) you don't need to hammer them with the mundane bits of everyday life like; enough sleep, doing laundry, flossing and locking the computer.

I say let your kid figure the practical out for them self.  If they need help, their dormitory's floor leader should be their go-to guy.  If that doesn't work, through networking. they have an abundant resource of troubleshooters at their disposal...their freshman cohorts.  Even reaching out to friends from home is a positive outlet for advice. Then as a last resort, because you have built this great wall of trust, your kid can feel free to consult with you.

The bigger picture is, you want your kid to simultaneously learn problem solving skills, have fun at school and mature while pursuing their future dreams...or at least work towards establishing those dreams.

For my son, the depth of his networking capacities and fun started when he joined several organizations, (TV station, radio station, DJ seminars, creative writing club, a diversity club and more).  On the practical side, I am also confident that he is into a scholastic routine and gung ho about his studies 

Andrew had said that he made many meaningful friendships in week one.  From the outside looking in that optimistic description sounded exaggerated or at least abstract.  But in the ninety minutes Sue and I spent in his dorm, there was a constant flow of drop-in guests taking advantage of the second floor's, "open door policy."  Each one of Andrew's neighbors were enthusiastic to be at school and to be around my boy.  These kids came in every size and shape and represented a cross-section of the entire globe (but mostly North Jersey).

From his new friends, Sue and I learned of Andrew's exploits and how he quickly cut-out his own niche.  The story they repeated happened at a required freshman seminar, (clean and healthy alternatives to getting high on campus).  In the packed Kendall Hall theater, full of 500+ Wolfe Hall residents, Andrew volunteered to go on stage when the emcee asked if there were any music lovers.  Like a game show, he was asked to identify two tunes  When he succeeded, they gave him a third.  He answered, "That's Eminem's, 'LOSE YOURSELF." 
THE SONGWRITER, RAPPER, RECORD PRODUCER AND ACTOR "EMINEM" WAS BORN IN 1972 AS MARSHALL BRUCE MATHERS III.  BEFORE HE LOST HIS CUTENESS, A LOT OF PEOPLE SAID THAT HE LOOKED LIKE ME, (OF COURSE IF HE EVER HOPES TO RESEMBLE ME AGAIN, HE'LL NEED A LOT MORE TATS).
Before the emcee could say he was right, the crowd applauded.  Andrew added, "I once wrote a Hamlet parity to that rap.  If you start the music again, I'll share it with you."  The audience started a spontaneous chant of, "DO IT, DO IT!"  Andrew  was handed the microphone and within the first stanza and chorus, he brought down the house and received a standing ovation.  Thus earning himself instant credibility and notoriety.

Andrew's Hamlet rap was originally a high school English assignment. Click on the link below to view it:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mPbBJOtwtTo

Since then he has also shared his, "THOSE NIGHTS," poem at creative writing and regularly conducts guitar serenades for passersby to his room.

The lengthy, hard road to his solid college education is off to a great start.  With all that he has on his plate, Andrew still found time to go to the TCNJ gym and counsel a nerd from his floor that has been nicknamed, "People Repellent." 
ANDREW HAS MADE HIS TRANSITION TO COLLEGE LIFE SEEM...SEAMLESS.  LOOK (above) HOW CONFIDENT HE ALREADY IS.  I GUESS WITH MY INCREASED SPARE TIME, I CAN CATCH-UP ON COUNTING MY SOCKS, BUILDING UP MY TOE-NAIL CLIPPING COLLECTION AND START SCRAP-BOOKING.

I know Sue and I did a lot of things right so far because one of Andrew's floor-mates gave us the best endorsement when she called another girl into the room and said, "Come meet Andrew's parents, they are so cool."

To further prove my point, while home this weekend, Andrew brought home assignments...and DID them.  For the next 99% of Andrew's stay at TCNJ, I want to respect his intelligence and give him as much autonomy as possible. But I also want keep our relationship healthy so he'll never forget the wisdom of my worldliness and accept my smacks when he veers too far off course.

So please pardon my profundity as I say to everyone going through a similar situation, here's to happiness and good luck to all of us.