CODE-NAME: EDDIE HASKELL

Father's Day is a contrived holiday.  I'm confident that greeting card companies created it as an artificial counterpart to the truly worthy Mother's Day, (who can dispute the love, dedication, sacrifice and enduring pain of giving birth?  Not a dad.  He's usually just some guy mom picked up in a bar).

Comedian Chris Rock recognized the secondary nature of Father's Day and said, "The only upside of being daddy is getting the biggest piece if chicken."  Comedian Jim Gaffigan said, "The father is the vice president of the family.  He has the fancy title but has no decision-making authority."  I don't know about other dads but I grew up in a home where my father lost every vote that ended up in a one-to-one tie; and that culture remains true in my house today.


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The other day, I had an especially pleasant dream.  It took place in a small town park in California, (my son Andrew is flying to Hollywood in a couple of weeks). Across the street that surrounded the park was a magnificent, vintage theater called the Aloha.  I tried to read what they were showing but the marquee, even in daylight was obscured by the glare of an incredible neon brilliance that transformed the 1950's movie house into a futuristic aura of visual excitement. 

Beyond the crowded hubbub in front the theater, far down along its exterior wall, there was a scenic overlook of the ocean.  I saw my dad.  He was anxious to show me the sea view.  I told him about the theater and said I wanted to show it to my wife Sue.  

Sue was on a blanket in the park.  I sat with her and told what I had seen.  A bunch of strangers encouraged me to throw a Frisbee with them...and I did.  I was having a lot of fun but decided to get Sue and join my dad.  I woke up.  I felt happy and energized.

The dream coincided with Father's Day, later this week.  Despite being a cheaply concocted holiday, the day helps me recall the best memories with my dad.  At the same time,  it also reminds me to leave a legacy of good times that my Andrew will appreciate after I'm gone.

JULY 1998, OCEAN CITY MARYLAND.  IF YOU HAVE TO MAKE A BUFFOON OUT OF YOURSELF TO MAKE YOUR KID SMILE, IT'S WORTH IT.  EVEN IF YOUR ASS IS NUMB FOR TWO WEEKS.

In today's blog, I will use the imagines from my dream to celebrate Father's Day while bridging the generation gap that connects my son Andrew with his grandfather.

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When I dealt craps at the Stardust Casino in Las Vegas, (1980-1982), the PBX operator announced, "Telephone call for Mr. Haskell, Mr. Eddie Haskell telephone."  The men on my crew laughed because they were all used to colorful names being paged.  But what was even funnier was...the call was for me.

The Stardust prohibited the staff from getting paged.  These were the pre-cell phone days so if someone needed to contact us while on duty, coded nicknames were used to preserve our anonymity.
One of my coworkers' encrypted names was Arthur Itis.  An effective but less humorous version was used by Noel Martinez who spelled his name backwards, Leon Zenitram.  But "Courtesy" Bob Lee had the most elaborate set of secret signals because each name he used such as; Robert Lapper, Duane Million and Dick Marathon each identified a different girlfriend.

I chose Eddie Haskell for two reasons, one was the universal appeal (for my generation) of the Eddie Haskell character portrayed by Ken Osmond from the, "LEAVE IT TO BEAVER," TV show.  The name Eddie Haskell always brought a reaction from people.  So even if I somehow didn't hear the public address announcement, I was almost guaranteed to hear the response to it.

KEN OSMOND (1943-PRESENT),  PLAYED WISE-ASS EDDIE HASKELL.  AROUND PARENTS, HASKELL WAS THE CRAZY POLITE BEST FRIEND OF BEAVER'S OLDER BROTHER WALLY.  BUT WHEN THE ELDER CLEAVERS WEREN'T AROUND, THIS OBNOXIOUS LITTLE SHIT WAS A SHALLOW, ARROGANT AND CONNIVING BAD INFLUENCE ON BOTH SONS.  ADDITIONALLY, OSMOND BECAME A GLENDALE CALIFORNIA POLICE OFFICER (1970-1988) WHILE STILL DOING OCCASIONAL ACTING JOBS. 

The other reason I selected the Eddie Haskell name, was that it was a tribute to my dad.  The "Eddie" part being a knockoff of our last name...and Haskel being my dad's actual first name.

My dad was never comfortable with his first name. My grandmother wanted to name him after a long-gone relative from the old country whose name started with a CH, (the CH had a guttural pronunciation so it's near-impossible to type-out the phonetic sound of Chotskul).  Granny's obvious CH choice would've been Charles but she was afraid he'd be called Charley and that seemed overly common to her.

Somewhere along the line she dropped the "C" and named him Haskel which is amazingly close to Chotskul, (apparently our family tradition of the father being the Vice President extended back to the 1920's because my grandfather never figured into the equation of how my father got stuck being named Haskel).

So grandma was left to her own devices.  Where she went wrong was...her pronunciation of my baby daddy's name.  Despite being born in the USA and NOT having an Eastern European accent, granny maintained the Yiddish Chotskul sound when she called his name or referred to him.

I guess that at a time when it was hip to flaunt that you were American born, "yankee" parents liked to distance themselves from the stigma of being confused with incoming refugees, (refs).  In that regard my grandmother failed because she not only gave dad an uncommon name, but it reeked, due to her own pronunciation, (out of respect to her relative), of being foreign.  Even my grandmother's sister, my Aunt Anne, adamantly opposed calling him Haskel or Chotskul...she dubbed him "Sonny." She was still calling him that in his early forties but beyond her, it never stuck.  Too bad because, Sonny is a cool name...just ask my cousin Sonny.

(CIRCA 1920)  MY DAD'S PARENTS, (BESSIE AND WILLIE) . WHAT COULD BE MORE AMERICAN THAN AN OUTING TO THE BEACH, (IN THE BACKGROUND, THEY'RE PROBABLY AT CONEY ISLAND...BUT NOT NECESSARILY).

Dad, as a result of the way his mom voiced his name was teased a lot as a kid. Beyond the slap in the face of being called a "ref," he also took exception to the much milder taunts, like being called Haskel the Rascal, His situation worsened in elementary school when an unsophisticated teacher experienced gender confusion over the name. She called the roll on the first day and misread his name as Hazel. Dad was mortified and didn't respond. The teacher encouraged the "girl" to speak-up and not be bashful.  The painful charade ended when some kid cheerfully clued-in the teacher.  My poor father was razzed forever. In adulthood dad preferred to be called, "Hy."

LIKE FINE WINE, MY FATHER GOT BETTER LOOKING WITH AGE.  ABOVE, IN HIS MID-60's, THE LUCKY STIFF MIGHT HAVE LOST HIS TEETH BUT KEPT A BEAUTIFUL, FULL HEAD OF HAIR.  THE IRONY WAS, DAD WAS A HAT FREAK AND USUALLY COVERED THOSE GORGEOUS TRESSES WITH AN ASSORTMENT OF STRANGE HATS. AS FOR ME,  I MUST BE DREAMING AGAIN... BECAUSE IN RETROSPECT, I WOULD HAVE TRADED SOME TEETH FOR HAIR...

Unlike dad, I am NOT a hat guy. Other than a baseball cap to mow the lawn or to protect my head on scorching summer days, I almost never wear hats.  The few hats I own were all gifts...except one.  I bought it in honor of my dad because in a genuine long shot, it bears his name.

JUNE 22, 2008.  (above), ON OUR FIRST CRUISE TO BERMUDA, I AM WEARING MY HASKELL INVITATIONAL HORSE RACING HAT, (IT'S A GREAT SHOT OF ME AND ANDREW...BUT THE WORDING ON THE HAT...NOT SO MUCH).

The Haskell is well known among horse racing aficionados throughout the world.

THE HASKELL TAKES PLACE AT MONMOUTH RACE TRACK, IN OCEANPORT NEW JERSEY.  THIS HISTORIC TRACK OPENED IN 1870 AND HAS HOSTED THIS  ANNUAL THOROUGHBRED NINE FURLONG FLAT RACE, SINCE 1968. 

Horse racing might be the sport of kings but I'm neither royalty or a fan.  Beyond wearing my Haskell hat on that cruise seven years ago, my awareness of horse racing and that hat has pretty much been retired, (or indirectly "put out to stud.")

(above) THIS YEAR'S VERSION OF THE HASKELL HAT.  THE BIG EVENT IS COMING UP ON AUGUST 2nd.   I HAVE NO INTENTION OF BUYING THE LATEST EDITION.  INSTEAD, I HAVE RESURRECTED MY OLD ONE.

This past May, my son Andrew toured Israel for ten days. He was provided with a checklist of items to bring. One was a hat.  I was happily surprised when he found my Haskell hat in the furthest abyss of the hall closet and asked to borrow it.  I was thrilled that he was taking a piece of his grampa's memory with him.

I KNOW I DWELL ON IT BUT THE BOND BETWEEN THESE TWO WAS IMMEDIATE.  IT'S STILL HARD FOR ME TO ACCEPT DAD'S SUDDEN AND EARLY PASSING.  BUT THE BIGGER PICTURE IS THAT HE AND ANDREW MISSED OUT ON KNOWING SOMEONE EXTREMELY SPECIAL...EACH OTHER

Below are pictorial highlights of Andrew's trip to the other side of the world.

MAY 28, 2015, ARRIVAL AT TEL AVIV INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT.

Talk about adrenaline kicking in, on top of the jet lag associated with a twelve-hour flight, the group got off the airplane and were sightseeing immediately.

IN THE OLD CITY OF JERUSALEM, ANDREW POSES WITH HIS HASKELL HAT AT A WALL MURAL.

For the next ten days, Andrew's diet will be overrun by falafals, schwarma and hummus.

YOU'D THINK McDONALD'S WOULD BE CALLED "MOISHE D's" OVER THERE...BUT NO!  HOWEVER THE MENU ITEM NAMES ARE COMPLETELY DIFFERENT.  THAT'S A "BIG MIAMI" ANDREW'S CHOMPING ON...AND NATURALLY, YOU CAN'T ADD CHEESE OR BACON...AND DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT WASHING IT DOWN WITH A THICK SHAKE!

Regardless of what you choose to believe in, historically, the entire Mid-East is the cradle of modern civilization.  I can't imagine being there and not getting inspired or at least a little misty over the idea that almost all of recorded history to can traced back to that area.  And no area epitomizes that notion more than Jerusalem.

OUTSIDE A TEMPLE, ANDREW ON A PEDESTAL WITH HASKELL HAT. 

Antiquity is everywhere.

THERE WERE THIRTY PEOPLE IN ANDREW'S PARTY.  MOST WERE FROM TEXAS WITH A SPRINKLING OF OTHER STATES BEING REPRESENTED AS WELL AS FRANCE AND BRAZIL.

Jerusalem may be the holiest city on earth.

THE "DOME OF THE ROCK" IS THE HOLIEST PLACE, IN THE HOLIEST CITY.

Outside the Dome of the Rock, at the Temple Mount, is the Wailing Wall.

BUILT BY "HEROD THE GREAT" BETWEEN 19 BCE AND THE MID-FIRST CENTURY, WORSHIPERS AND TOURISTS STILL GATHER AT THE HOLIEST PLACE IN JUDAISM.

It looks like Andrew is clowning around...but there is a method to this madness.

ANDREW'S GROUP IS OVERRUN BY UNIVERSITY OF TEXAS STUDENTS.  HE QUICKLY GOT TIRED OF THEIR "HOOK 'EM HORNS" SYMBOLS AND SLOGANS.  (Above) HE FIGHTS BACK WITH SOME LOVE FOR HIS SCHOOL, THE COLLEGE OF NEW JERSEY (TCNJ) AS HE MOUNTS LION STATUES, (AS IN TCNJ LIONS).

One last shot of the ancient city.

TIME TO SAY FAREWELL TO THE OLD AND EXPERIENCE THE REST OF ISRAEL. 

A part of the indoctrination, throughout the trip, male and female Israeli soldiers act as chaperons, tour guides and security officers while accompanying the group.

ANDREW OUT IN THE WILDERNESS WITH FOUR OF THE SOLDIERS .

One of the main tourist sights is Masada.  Way above the desert floor, this holy mountain fortress was the famous last stronghold of the ancient Hebrews as they defended them self from the marauding Romans.

AT DAWN, A NICE SILHOUETTE OF THE HASKELL HAT. AFTER THE GROUP WALKED FORTY MINUTES...UP, TO REACH MASADA'S SUMMIT, ANDREW INCLUDED FOR HIS MOM AND ME, A HUFFING AND PUFFING VIDEO OF HIM STRAINING TO DESCRIBE WHAT HE JUST FINISHED DOING.

More Masada.

WITH A SOLDIER ATOP MASADA.

Near Masada, is the Dead Sea.  The move is to cover your body in mud and take a sulfur bath which apparently acts as an invigorating skin treatment.

ANDREW PARTICIPATED BUT DIDN'T GET ANY COOL PHOTOS.  (Above) FROM SUMMER 2013, MY FRIEND JEREMY TOOK THE PLUNGE IN STYLE.  ALSO, ON ANOTHER DAY,  ANDREW SWAM IN THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA BUT HAS NO PHOTOS OF THAT DAY EITHER.

At an irrigation station in the desert, the group spent an overnight in a Bedouin tent.

THEY SLEPT AND SPENT A LOT OF TIME, INSIDE THE CADILLAC OF TENTS.

In the God forsaken outpost, the sun was intense.

ANDREW SET ASIDE HIS HASKELL HAT TO BORROW A HEAD SCARF FROM A LOCAL.

The big allure to that part of the journey was chumming with the "ships of the desert"...camels.

AN ANCIENT PARABLE SAYS, "CHOOSE YOUR CAMEL CAREFULLY AND WHILE DOING SO, STAY OUT OF SPITTING RANGE."

While shopping for the perfect ride, Andrew sought a second opinion.

TWO LOCALS RECOMMEND THAT ANDREW RIDE "ED THE CAMEL" WHO, UNBEKNOWNST TO HIM, IS AFFECTIONATELY ALSO KNOWN AS "UNLUCKY-13."

In the end, Andrew made an informed decision on his own...duh!.

ANDREW PICKED "SNOWFLAKE THE CAMEL."  THE PHOTOGRAPHER MUST HAVE BEEN JEALOUS OF HIM AND SPITEFULLY CUT OFF SNOWFLAKE'S HEAD.

The long motor coach ride to their next destination provided a chance to relax.

GREAT CANDID SHOT OF THE HASKELL HAT PROVING ITS WORTH BY PREVENTING THE AIR CONDITIONING FROM HITTING HIS SWEATY HEAD.

Next stop, a lesson on how to live off the desert.

A KIBBUTZ, (COMMUNAL FARM).

A great way to experience how the desert can be cultivated.

ANDREW GETS INTO THE SWING OF THINGS POSING AS A KIBBUTZ-NIK.

A chill-out day, at a nearby oasis.

GOD'S GIFT, A WATERFALL IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE.

The trip also served to expose young minds to how other folks live.

HE AND HIS TEXAS BUDDY ATE FRESH GROWN CARROTS, STRAWBERRIES AND OTHER PRODUCE.

Touching all the bases, a somber visit to Mount Herzl, Israel's version of Arlington National Cemetery.

NEAR THE TOMB OF ISRAEL'S UNKNOWN SOLDIER.

This scenic area was near the border of both Lebanon and Syria.

ATOP AN ISRAELI HILL WITH LEBANON, (left) and SYRIA (right), IN BACKGROUND.

The big trip winds down.  Back to the city.

ANDREW WILL NO LONGER TAKE LIFE'S SIMPLER JOYS FOR GRANTED.

One last crack at Tel Aviv.

NEAR AN UP-SCALE MALL, POSING WITH JUDAH AND THE MACCA-BEATS.

The last memory in Israel is of course, psyching one's self up for the anti-climatic long, long flight home.

THE UNIQUE FOUNTAIN RAINING DOWN FROM TEL AVIV AIRPORT'S CEILING.

Andrew's Israeli adventure was wonderful.  He shared his experiences so well that I almost feel that I was with him. And seeing him wear the Haskell hat makes me happy to imagine that the spirit of his grandfather was really with him.  Plus the joy didn't end in Israel, Andrew has adopted the hat as his own which helps preserve his link, through me to his grandfather.

I haven't worked at the Stardust Casino for 33 years.  Yet my appreciation for the code-name Eddie Haskell remains strong.  Sometimes, I use it as my password or user name on the computer.  I hope it doesn't make me an Eddie Haskell-like wise-ass if I don't share which specific accountants they are. Please understand that due to the ridiculous reality of identity theft, I won't be divulging which accounts I used my confidential cleverness on. That means if I gave up such secrets to you, I'd have to kill you.

HAPPY FATHER'S DAY !

BILLY CRYSTAL'S 700 SUNDAYS AND A LOT OF MY FRIDAYS

To keep in the warm afterglow of last week's Father’s Day celebration, I recall a 1992 chance meeting with comedian/actor Billy Crystal. I didn’t ask for his autograph or make him pose for a picture (wish I did now), instead, I kept the conversation short (about baseball and how his movie, “CITY SLICKERS” moved me).

1991's "CITY SLICKERS," WAS COMEDY THAT I RELATED TO BECAUSE IT CONCERNED A MID-LIFE CRISIS AND CROSSROAD REGARDING NEW CAREER PATHS, (I'M HAPPY TO SAY, IN MY CASE...ALBEIT IN HIND-SIGHT, I CHOSE THE RIGHT DIRECTION).

Unlike most celebrities I have met, Crystal impressed me with his patience as he allowed me, to say my complimentary peace. So it pleased me the other day, (after Father’s Day), when I heard him on the radio talking about his dad.

Specifically, Crystal was advertising the limited 54-performance, return engagement to Broadway, of his one-man stage show, “700 SUNDAYS.” I'm ashamed to admit, before last week, I had never heard of this smash hit.

IN 2005, "700 SUNDAYS" BECAME THE FIRST NON-MUSICAL TO GROSS OVER A MILLION DOLLARS IN ITS FIRST WEEK.  THIS ARTFUL BLEND OF HUMOR AND EMOTIONAL HEFT ALSO WON THE TONY AWARD FOR "SPECIAL THEATRICAL EVENT," THE DRAMA DESK AWARD AND THE OUTER CRITICS CIRCLE AWARD.

In a humorous way, Crystal's memoir spoke of family, fate, loving and loss. After its success on the Great White Way, Crystal’s touring company hit many US cities before going international. Additionally, in April of this year, a made for HBO movie premiered, (now availble “On Demand).”

The movie is on my “to do” list but before I see it, I was so touched by the "700 Sundays" concept that I was inspired to honor my dad (below) with a wonderful rememberance of him that I never shared.

My father owned a high mantainence small business. I estimate that before I was in kindergarten and extending into the early stages of elementary school, he labored through a fifty-eight-hour week, (four, eight-hour days plus Mondays and Thursdays at thirteen hours each).

On his long days, mom took advantage of the situation to feed us things dad didn’t like (primarily chicken). Also on those days, mom got creative and did experimental cuisine, (with my sister and I as guinea pigs).

MOM WAS FAMOUS (INFAMOUS) BECAUSE OF THE LAMB STEW DEBACLE OF 1960 AND THE EVERY-THURSDAY NIGHT TREAT, TWICE BOILED CHICKEN. BESIDES, WHY WOULD ANYONE WANT TO EAT SOMETHING AS CUTE AS A LAMB?

Although the actual "twice boiled chicken" recipe was never written down, I believe the first step was to boil all the flavor out of the chicken! Then spill the flavorful liquid down the drain. Next, refill the pot with fresh water and repeat step one. If that tasteless delight wasn’t bad enough, mom’s culinary reputation was forever tarnished when her lamb stew experiment went awry.

I was five when mom's first (and only) attempt at this lamb-packed bounty didn't include one crucial preparation point...cutting away the fat before cooking. The result was, through the process of osmosis, the fat got absorbed into the meat. It tasted and smelled awful. Even worse, fifty-five years later, I still recall its disgusting slimy texture in my mouth. If it wasn’t for the cleverness of my seven-year old sister who suggested that mom try it, we might STILL be screaming and crying at the kitchen table. But today’s, “MORE GLIB ThAN PROFOUND,” entry is not about my mom, it is about dad…actually, all dads...and family in general.

In the mid-1950’s, many parts of my hometown, (Canarsie, Brooklyn, New York) burgeoned with new home construction. Landfill operations produced solid ground in outlying swampy areas which became the foundation for a modern/model community, (such as my part of town, Seaview Village).

The clean, new image that contrasted most of the city, attracted young families, (including former servicemen who took advantage of low-interest G.I. Bill loans to buy homes). Therefore nearly every house on my street had children. But because many of these family’s were living beyond their means, a lot of dads (like mine) were work-a-holics, (overwhelmingly, the moms were housewives and didn’t work).

IN 1960, CANARSIE WAS NEW, CLEAN AND BEAUTIFUL, (MY STREET WAS THREE STREETS UP AND TWO AVENUES TO THE RIGHT).  EVEN THOUGH THE NEIGHBORHOOD SOON WAS SPIRALED DOWNWARD, MY CHILDHOOD WAS NEVER DIMINISHED, (YOU WOULDN'T BELIEVE HOW BAD THIS PLAYGROUND LOOKED LIKE EIGHT YEARS LATER).

From a kid’s (my) standpoint, everyone I knew grew-up in a mother dominated household. I never gave it much thought but now I understand why the dads weren’t around much. Plus I also realize that because other fathers weren’t around, I had no personal relationship with any of them. The more I think about it, it’s rare (even today) that I know the specific occupation of my best friends’ fathers, (HJ’s dad’s profession is the only one I’m absolutely sure of. I’m still close with my next door neighbor MPW but all I know is that her father worked in some kind of office).

In this period (which would continue into my early teens), my dad’s only day off was Friday. This situation put a serious crimp into seeing him because I was in school most of those days. We did occasionally go to movies on school nights  (there was almost no kid-friendly films back then, so we saw mostly romantic comedies for mom or the dramas for dad...which all went over my head). But between the candy in the theater and pizza or stopping at a Chock-Full-O'Nuts restaurant on the way home, these were cherished occasions.

CHOCK FULL O'NUTS WAS A FAST-FOOD CHAIN THAT BEGAN (1926) IN MANHATTAN.  AT ITS PEAK, THERE WERE EIGHTY LOCATIONS FEATURING A LUNCH COUNTER (similar to the one on the right).  THEY SPECIALIZED IN COFFEE AND UNIQUE SANDWICHES, (MY FAVORITE WAS CREAM CHEESE ON DATE-NUT BREAD). THE LAST RESTAURANT CLOSED IN 1980 BUT IN 2010, A NEW ONE OPENED IN MID-TOWN.

I was eight-years old when dad took the whole family to a New York Mets baseball game at the Polo Grounds. It was so exciting to be there…not so much for the game but to wander around the ballpark on my own, (times were different, I was given a ticket stub and told if I got lost, to show it to an usher).

In the next few years, this twice a year tradition continued after the Mets moved to Shea Stadium. I’m certain my sister was bored. But my mom was thrilled just to get out of the house. As for me, by this time, I was totally engrossed by every pitch. It was so cool when dad would fill me in on the inside information…so when he said a base runner would try to steal a base, I thought he was a genius when it came true. So with that Svengali hold on me, I never wanted to leave his side. But mom unintentionally blocked my fascination.

I’m positive she wasn’t competing with me for dad’s attention. Instead, she probably was pandering to my independent nature and need to explore by sending me (like an errand boy) on Magellan-like missions to find oddball treats that weren’t available at all concession stands, (like coffee or knishes).

A KNISH (K'NISH) IS AN EASTERN EUROPEAN SNACK CONSISTING OF A FILLER (USUALLY POTATO) THAT'S BAKED, GRILLED OR FRIED INSIDE A DOUGHY SHELL.  IT'S ASSOCIATED WITH URBAN STREET VENDORS IN AREAS WITH A LARGE JEWISH POPULATION.  TODAY MOST SUPERMARKETS HERE IN SOUTH JERSEY CARRY THEM.

My exhaustive and sometimes futile attempts to cater to mom's non-beer and hot dog needs were incredibly annoying. For an eleven-year old, it was like being buried alive with the sounds of normal activity beyond my reach, as I lay hidden (wandering) within the purgatory-like bowels of the never-ending (multi-leveled) ballpark promenade.

While searching for the one refreshment stand in the whole stadium that sold what she wanted, I was devastated by awful self-doubt as I envisioned being ridiculed and/or sent back if I returned empty handed. My dire situation only got worse when my ears perked up and my heart fluttered as each crack of the bat and roar of the crowd made me feel like I was missing something important.

I was fourteen when I crossed an imaginary line that put dad on the spot and really pissed-off my mom. That’s when I suggested that dad and I go to the ballpark sans females. It made sense to me but my timing could NOT have possibly been worse because later that season (1969), I alienated my parents by eliminating them both and going to games with SLW, SKIP and other friends.

In my teenage years to come, I worked a lot of weekends, (against my will, for/with my dad…and mom). This dynamic was rarely fun. Sometimes in the morning, I’d pretend to be asleep and hope dad wouldn’t stir me. When he didn’t, mom’s scornful earful easily resonated up to my bedroom and was loud enough to have wakened astronauts orbiting planet Xenon. The truth was, if dad really needed me, he wouldn’t have hesitated to wake me up. So, in taking on mom’s wrath, I knew he was hooking me up.

I would be in college before I realized how stupid I was to give up hanging out with my father. He was still working crazy hours and was dedicating a lot of his personal time to rehearsing or playing gigs with his big band, "MURRAY LUBOVICH AND THE TONE-DEAFS." (Not the actual name but something like it)?

MY FATHER WAS HEAVLY INTO THE ARTS.  HE WAS AN ACCOMPLISHED MUSICIAN AND AN ARTIST. THAT TRAIT WAS ENDOWED ON MY SON ANDREW...I GUESS IT SKIPPED A GENERATION ON ME.

I was about eighteen when I came up with the idea of spontaneous outings with dad. Whether it was going to the golf driving range or taking him to play racquetball at Brooklyn College, his enthusiasm to be with me and his ability at things I never saw him do were amazing.

DAD KEPT HIS ATHLETIC PROWESS A SECRET.  I HAD NEVER SEEN HIM PLAY GOLF (OTHER THAN MINIATURE) OR ANY WALL SPORT.  YET HE WAS BETTER THAN ME.

My success in spontaneity then gave birth to buying my own tickets for us, (to New York Islander hockey games). I understood dad’s basic schedule so I’d give him a month notice before taking him out. On the way home, we’d stop for bite. Those times were so simple yet so great.

Dad, throughout my life sacrificed a lot to keep our family afloat. Together with my mother, they did well, within narrow limitations that we went on yearly vacations and managed the occasional taste of the finer things in life. To prove how well they did, I appreciated what I had back while it was happening, (like our 1968 Europe vacation). Others kids might have had more or as much (material things) but so many more had less. More importantly, nobody received more love than me… I had a fantastic childhood. So the burning hunk of well-adjusted behavior you come to expect from me, can be traced to top-notch genetics and well-nurtured guidance.

DAD ALWAYS LOOKED GREAT BUT EVEN A TUXEDO COULDN'T HELP ME.  AT ELEVEN MY AWKWARD ADOLESCENT STAGE WAS IN FULL GEAR..HARD TO BELIEVE BUT TRUE, FORTY-EIGHT YEARS LATER, I'M STILL A BULL IN A CHINA SHOP.

Like the relationship I had with my mother, my dad and I really connected when it was just us.  He was sweet-natured, uncomplicated and probably never knew how fun it was to around him. So my stolen one-on-one moments with him were never enough. That means, that the one’s I engineered were the best I ideas I ever had! When dad shockingly died at sixty-seven, my family and I were devastated. It’s a small consolation to say that at least he and I had no unresolved issues.

TOWARDS THE END, DAD WAS STILL A GOOD-LOOKER, (TOO BAD HIS HAIR GENES ALSO SKIPPED A GENERATION...BECAUSE THAT AIN'T NO TOUPEE).  IT'S ESPECIALLY DISAPPOINTING THAT HE NEVER HAD A CHANCE TO REALLY DEVELOP A RELATION WITH HIS ONLY GRANDSON, (ANDREW)...THEY BOTH MISSED OUT ON SOMETHING SPECIAL.

Billy Crystal’s story is interesting too. Similar to my Fridays with my father, Crystal’s direct exposure to his work-a-holic dad were limited to Sundays. Billy Crystal was fifteen when his dad tragically died. The poignant title of his show refers to fifteen years of once a week time to his dad, (700 Sundays).

In addition to the terrible loss itself, Crystal had deep regrets due to ongoing negativity and guilt at the possibily that their differences had something to do with his dad's premature death. Through it all, Crystal makes his message of life’s fleeting and unpredictable nature, funny. We can (or should) relate to him because you never know how long you have with someone…so savor those precious times while they last.