Detroit’s Multi-Towering Conundrum–The Renaissance Center’s Dark Ages

What do you do with seven giant glass tubes sticking out of the ground that happen to be the most famous and distinctive feature of your city’s skyline? That’s the question folks around Detroit are asking ever since General Motors CEO Mary Barra announced the company is moving its world headquarters out of the Renaissance Center next year to a new building about a mile north.

Some say tear it all down. Barra promised GM and the developer still putting the finishing touches on the building to which the automaker is moving will work to, um, reimagine the colossal architectural beast.

Yes, I call it a beast that should actually never have been imagined.

Some context. I lived in Atlanta for eight years in the 1980’s when I worked for CNN. It’s where I saw the first iteration of what would grow to become the actual center of the Renaissance Center.

You see, the architect John Portman built his first tubular monstrosity in the city of a hundred streets with Peachtree in their names…and now, one hotel..the Peachtree Plaza. The single glass tube instantly became the key feature of Atlanta’s skyline, showcased in every image of the growing city’s downtown.

The first time I landed in Atlanta for my interview at CNN in 1981, I looked north from the terminal and saw that thing sticking up like a 12-year boy’s first real boner. The city Sherman burnt down was rising again and finally reaching puberty.

Thankfully, over the years, as Atlanta grew, so did its skyline and Portman’s glass pipette is less prominent.

Here in Detroit Henry Ford II, the Deuce, figured he’d more than double what Portman planted in Dixie and, together with Detroit leaders, commissioned the architect to duplicate Atlanta’s Peachtree Plaza, but then surround it with four octagonal office buildings all connected by a network of passageways that would challenge even the most accomplished spelunkers.

The new Renaissance Center, or RenCen, would become the symbol of Detroit…the Renaissance City. Planted on the banks of the Detroit River, facing Windsor, Canada, the RenCen overshadowed and loomed over older landmark downtown buildings such as the Penobscot and Guardian to herald the Motor City’s vitality and prominence, or at least assert it.  

If anything, the RenCen was a photogenic feature that made for effective marketing materials.

Less than 20 years later it all went bad.

In 1989 I was transferred by CNN from Atlanta to Detroit to become its new bureau chief and correspondent. The company had me spend a few days getting to know the staff and the city before moving here. They put me up in what was then the Omni Hotel in the Millender Center…connected to the RenCen by a short pedestrian bridge over Jefferson Avenue.

Of course, I had heard of the RenCen and decided, one evening, to explore this famous landmark. As soon as I entered it from the pedway I felt like a piece of dust might feel as it’s sucked into the collection bag of a Hoover. It was dark and directionless, with scant chance of quick escape.

If I was a mouse seeking a piece of cheese I would starve before finding the morsel since there was no apparent logic to the labyrinth’s layout. I wasn’t dumb enough to attempt to explore the complex because it was just too, well, complex. So I returned, disappointed, to my hotel room.

Not long after I moved up to Detroit and was with my camera crew, I returned with them to the RenCen to shoot an interview with a prominent economist at Comerica Bank which had offices in one of the towers. We weaved in and out between the towers and concourses searching for the right tube to ascend to reach our destination. We were late. We apologized. The economist laughed as he said, “This place sucks. Everyone gets lost…the first dozen times they come here.”

Another time, years later, as I was heading to a meeting a very upset man came up to me. “You look like you know your way around. Please, I heard there’s an ATM here. Can you direct me?”

Deciding this person was an honest Joe who did not deserve to have his hopes and dreams crushed, I looked him in the eye and said, “Sir. Even if I told you, you’d never find it. There’s a bank right across the street. Just head for the daylight of the exit and never stop. I want you to see your family again.”

The man instantly did as he was told. He knew. The RenCen’s tubes would suck you up like bacteria in a test lab.

The place not only didn’t make sense, but it wasn’t making any money as tenants fled to locations where employees, customers and clients could reasonably expect to find their destinations without the utter frustration of being caught in a glass and concrete hamster cage.

Just as it was given up for dead, in 1996 GM bought the place at a bargain rate and moved its world headquarters there from an historic building a couple of miles north. The automaker saved the day. Instantly, thousands of people occupied offices, supported the stores and restaurants. The RenCen had a new life!

Not so fast. Shortly after GM made the move we had an interview booked with then GM CEO Jack Smith. Nice guy. The interview was for our annual auto show special and our producer wanted to use lots of lights.

We plugged ‘em in. Our lights, and all the lights on the floor, went out. Guess the building wasn’t quite ready for prime time…or any time that required extra voltage. It took a few minutes, but the electricians did their magic and we smartly reduced our lighting scheme.

Smith was cool about it. “I guess there’s still some work to be done,” he said with an embarrassed chuckle.

There was plenty of work still to be done.

 GM poured millions upon millions to finally take some of the mystery of navigating the maze with a simple innovation called the circulation ring. No more weaving in and out. Take the ring like a big traffic roundabout and bail out when you reached the exit closest to your destination. The big berms that walled off the complex from the rest of the city were torn down and the soaring Wintergarden was built, offering a bright gathering venue and passageway to the Detroit River.

Then Covid hit. People started working from home. The RenCen returned to its ghostly, pre-GM silence. After the pandemic abated, Barra said workers needed to return three days a week, but by then many of them had already relocated to other GM facilities and others just never returned.

It became time to find a smaller place for the automaker to park.

So what to do with it when Mary and all her sheep settle in their new pasture?

Some say to knock it down. Others imagine apartments, condos, restaurants, some commercial space.

In another era, it might have served well as a garrison guarding Detroit against hostile canon fire from gunboats on the Detroit River. Ah..Fort Renaissance! Tower 400 forever! We have secured the circulation ring! Remember the Marriott! It’s enough to make one forget the Alamo, which is much, much smaller and has an expensive gift shop.

Only because I’m semi-retired and have the time, I think about the future of the Renaissance Center. To demolish it would just add tons of waste to the environment. To save it would just leave tons of waste above ground where at least squatters could literally lose themselves for awhile.

Maybe get Carvana to turn one of the towers into its most giant vehicle vending machine. Wouldn’t you love to see your late model Buick do a swan dive from the 39th floor? Good way to test its shocks.

Offer bungie and parachute jumping over the river. Just make sure you packed your passport in case the winds make you wind up in Windsor.

Fill one tower with infused water for all those enjoying Detroit’s magnificent River Walk. Lotsa taps all around the tower where walkers, joggers, cyclists could fill their Stanley cups, less than a mile from where the Detroit Red Wings won their Stanley Cups. Joe Louis Arena is long gone but the ground remains hallowed. Hey…it’s all marketing, go with it.

In reality, the RenCen will probably become the banal “mixed-use” property with a variety of residences, hotels, stores, restaurants and maybe once in a while, sponsored races around the circulation ring.

I can’t wait to see how Mary Barra and master developer Dan Gilbert will reimagine the RenCen, because love it or hate it, it would be a colossal shame if our city’s signature bundle of glass towers was allowed to go down the tubes.

Becoming a Disc-Tossing Basket Case

That’s me “putting” at the Founder’s Park disc golf course in Farmington Hills, Michigan

The wind blew light droplets of rain in my face. The ground was muddy and a copse of trees stood defiantly, daring me to find a way inside of it to my target which amounted to a metal tray surrounded by chains mounted on a pole.

It was my first time and it was as ugly as the weather and the basket’s inaccessible disposition. My first toss wobbled insanely before smacking into the ground and landing about 50 feet from the concrete tee pad, putting it about 200 feet from the target.

I was hooked.

Egged on by my daughter and boy friend who discovered it over the summer, this was my first round of a sport that doesn’t piss off neighbors by its noise like pickleball, doesn’t require a reservation or, in most cases, cost a dime to play beyond the purchase of a set of projectiles.

Don’t you dare care call it “Frisbee Golf.” That’s old school. More on that in a bit. Avoid “the look” and use the correct term, disc golf.

Oh, you may have seen the baskets on poles around parks and wondered what they are. I had heard of a game where people tossed Frisbees at targets and thought it was just a backyard game like cornhole or badminton.

I was vaguely curious about it but never followed through. I’ve owned a few Frisbees over the years and actually still have one somewhere in my basement.

Back in October my daughter told me she and her boy friend, who’s really a life partner told me they’d been playing disc golf and loved it so much they started playing almost every day at one of the many courses in the Detroit metro area. Really? Who knew?

My bad knees kinda put a damper in my longtime habit of playing pickup ice hockey and she thought this would be a fun substitute. They invited me to join them on a visit to Ypsilanti where, holy crap, is the biggest store devoted to disc golf in Michigan….The Throw Shop!

We get there and there’s row after row of discs in every color, size and configuration. My eyes hurt from the chromatic blast.

It turns out a disc isn’t just a disc. They are divided by drivers for long tosses, mid-range discs for tosses not so long and putters, for that last fling at the basket. The disc also carry a set of four numbers that indicated speed, fade, glide and turn. I won’t get into what all that means except to say the numbers matter when choosing discs. You can read the details here.

Our putters after successfully hitting the basket.

Just like the other golf you have to put together a set of discs to carry in a bag on the course. Using the numbers as a guide you select the right disc for the shot. New discs cost $15 and $30 or more, but there’s a great selection of used discs at half the cost you can buy just to try the sport.

That’s what I did at one of those Play it Again Sports shops. It wasn’t long, though, before I sprung for a brand new driver. I’m told devoted disc golfers carry more than a dozen discs. My daughter calls them her “friends.” Sometimes they are. Sometimes, at least in my neophyte hands, they’re bastards.

After spinning my head at the Throw Shop we walked across the parking lot to one of the adjacent courses that costs exactly zero to play. That’s where I had my initial encounter with the evil oak trees.

Daughter and BF gave me instructions and encouragment. That’s after I had watched many minutes of disc golf how-to videos on YouTube. It was obvious it takes more than that to master the sport.

I attempted to replicate the good form presented to me in person and online and I did manage to pull off enough good throws to warrant a few “not baaaadddds!” or “there you go’s!” And just like what disc golfers derisively call “ball golf” I found every tree, water trap and bramble bush while slipping through the mud to retrieve my disc and toss again.

Then I’d make a long putt. Nothing like that sound of the disc hitting the chains and dropping into the basket. It’s enough encouragement to keep up your morale and anticipation of moving on to the next hole.

At some point you’re so enamored with the exercise, fresh air, challenge and walk through the courses that can take you on forested trails, hilltops, around small bodies of water or open fields stopping to toss the disc is just a value-added aspect of the entire enterprise.

It’s important at this point to take a step back to provide some context so you don’t think I’m just some crazy old man wandering around tossing round plastic plates indiscriminately in public places.

So yes, the sport did begin as Frisbee Golf, promoted by the man who invented the Frisbee, a guy named “Steady” Ed Headrick, who invented the Frisbee as an employee of the company that made them, Wham-O.

Frisbee inventor and creator of disc golf, “Steady” Ed Headrick. Courtesy Connecting Directors

To make a long story short, Headrick promoted the sport, founded the Professional Disc Golf Association (PDGA) then ran into other folks who began playing with non-Frisbee discs and therefore the name change to the more generic disc gold.

He eventually ceded control of the PDGA in 1984 to Ted Smethers in Rochester, N.Y. by handing him a bottle of Rochester-brewed Genesee Cream Ale.

You can read the full story of disc golf’s history here.

Note: My wife is from Rochester and I’ve quaffed many bottles and cans of “Jenny Cream.” It’s damned good, unlike regular Genesee Beer, about which my late father used to muse, “how do they get that big horse over that little bottle?”

Ahem. Sorry. Anyway, there’s no shortage of places to play. According to UDisc, as of February, 2023, there are 14,048 disc golf courses on this planet, of which there are about 9,000 in the United States, more than any other country.

There’s even a disc golf course in Anarctica. Heh..a basket on a pole at a pole.

Ross Island disc golf course at McMurdo Base, Anarctica. Courtesy UDisc.com

So far the cold weather hasn’t kept me from playing as often as I can, although not often enough. I just layer up, wear really crappy old sneakers for mucking around on the muddy trails, step up to the concrete tee pad and attempt to improve my form and results.

It’s great exercise, inexpensive and challenging enough to keep me motivated without getting discouraged. You know what’s also great about disc golf? It ain’t pickleball.

A Striking Difference

I don’t get out much…to cover stories, that is. Being semi-retired, freelancing for Forbes.com, I knock out most of my stories from the comfort of my home office, conducting interviews over Zoom or Teams or whatever electronic method allows me to wear sweatpants below a more suitable shirt.

But when you’re a news guy, no matter how old, there’s something you never lose—the urge to actually be out where the action is.

I’ve been covering the UAW strike against GM, Ford and Stellantis pretty much the way I described above, but the other day I decided I had to put on actual pants, and shoes, and ran down to Ford’s giant assembly plant in Wayne, Mich. In suburban Detroit, about a 30 minute drive from my house.

I told my editor I was out for “pictures and perspective.” What I really wanted was, yes, pictures, but to speak face-to-face with striking workers, learn their stories, find out why walking off the job was worth any financial sacrifice and yes, to smell the fires in those barrels along the picket lines where picketers could find a little warmth. They all smell the same and I like it.

I spoke with a guy wearing a reflective vest and a huge smile. His name is Roger. Said he’s just three months from retirement and could have easily just ridden out his time, but he told me it was worth spending time on the line to try to win financial security for, as he called them “the young ones.”

Roger told me the aggressive tactics taken by UAW president Shawn Fain were unlike anything his predecessors had attempted and at first “he scared the hell out of me.” But now Roger can’t wait to see if it all pays off.

I spoke with a woman who didn’t want to give me her name. No problem. I told her whatever insight and information she could offer was more important than her name. “OK, cool,” she said, now more relaxed. “I don’t care if we don’t get everything Shawn’s demanding, but just something better than we have now. We gotta get something.”

You don’t get this stuff sitting in your basement in front of a computer and I’d be out there every day except I’m not a full-time reporter anymore, after a certain number of stories I don’t get paid and working for free’s not the kind of charity the IRS will let me deduct.

I do think how things have changed, mainly due to technology, social media and the economy.

In 1998, when I was CNN’s Detroit Bureau Chief and correspondent I covered the entire 54-day strike at two GM parts plants in Flint, Mich. Resulting the automakers shutting down completely, costing it $3 billion after taxes.

We were out there every single day. On the picket lines, at the union halls, on the phone. Facebook and social media weren’t yet invented. The UAW president couldn’t go live, neither side posted details of their demands, offers and counter-offers. You got what you got from digging, from sources, from gumshoe reporting.

Working at CNN meant also doing about a billion live shots. I stood at a corner in front of Flint Metal Stamping for hours and hours knocking out one live shot after another, for CNN, for Headline News, for CNN International, for CNN affiliates.

Ed Garsten CNN Live shot curing 1998 UAW strike against GM in Flint, Michigan

Makes it hard to get any reporting done. I’d have to tell the sound tech to kill my mic so I couldn’t be heard over the satellite feed. Then I’d quickly make a call or two in between live shots to try to dig up some new nugget of news I could report.

Frequently, other reporters on the scene would stop and listen to what I was saying to see if they were either missing anything or if I was fulla shit.

I remember two of my friendly competitors—one at the AP, the other at USA Today paying especially close attention as I was on the air. You must know print reporters are contemptuous of broadcast journalists, figuring we’re all about hair and make up and not about honest reporting.

When I got off the air, they walked up to me and actually said, “we were listening to you and everything you said was right.” Well, why wouldn’t it be? Since we were friends they took no umbrage when I shot back, “bet you wish you could say that about your stories.” All’s fair on a breaking story.

That strike went on so long it actually jeopardized a promise I had made to my the, 10-year old daughter. Remember, this was 1998. The Spice Girls were huge. I had scored free tickets to their show at the late, great Palace of Auburn Hills, about a 30-minute drive down I-75 from Flint.

CNN, bless ’em, understood the gravity of the situation and actually sent in a reporter to relive me while I dashed down the freeway, took my daughter to see Baby, Sporty, Posh, and Scary—Ginger had just left the group, sad. It was, to that moment, the best day of her short life. Then I ran back up to reclaim my spot staking out the endless contract talks.

When the merciful end of the two-month ordeal was about to come to an end, there were no social media posts, no Tweets, or whatever they’re called now, no Facebook Live webcasts.

The most plugged-in reporters got tips on their phones from their best sources, then, to make it more official, a guy came running out of the Holiday Inn where the talks were going on and yelled, “hey! Press conference in 30 minutes! Get inside and set up!” That’s all we needed. So analog! So fun.

There’s something about being outside, on the scene, building relationships, swapping tips on where to get the best sub sandwiches for lunch. The folks at the plants ALWAYS know the best lunch spots. It’s never a chain place.

The guy at the local deli named for the guy who owned it was freakin’ Picasso of subs. Best bread, best meat, best cheese, best bullshit to share when picking it up. Wasn’t always bullshit. The great sandwich guy was also a great listener and often picked up tips he’d exchange for tips.

You don’t get that stuff sitting at a laptop or scrolling emails and texts on your phone. Sure, it’s convenient and fast, but it’s not as fun, and I bet the chainstore sandwich you ordered from Doordash sucked compared to the Stradivarius of Subs wrapped in wax paper with a fat pickle tucked in by the guy at the deli by the plant.

Well, it was fun getting out for a morning, chatting with folks just hoping to get their share of the bounty and a better life. Made my life better too…before I descended back to the basement.

An Open Letter to the UAW and Detroit 3 Automakers

Dear Contract Combatants:

I’m writing to you to request you move the expiration date of your labor contracts because it conflicts with a date related to my domestic bliss and continued marital comity.

You see, my wife and I were married on September 15th, 1973 about 370 miles east of Detroit in our native state of New York.

We were but 21 at the time and not yet even experienced enough in our careers to call us “green” meaning we had no congizance whatsoever of your quadrennial exercise in contractual Hunger Games.

We led fine and happy lives through our early married life, always approaching celebration our anniversary with happy anticipation and thoughts of expensive gifts and meals.

But in 1989 that all changed. CNN transferred me up to the Motor City from Atlanta to take over as the bureau chief and correspondent at the network’s Detroit Bureau. We covered a wide region and variety of stories from suicide doctor Jack Kevorkian to hurricanes, crime, medicine, government…everything, including, of course, the auto industry. Indeed CNN founder Ted Turner created the Detroit Bureau to cover, as he accurately called it, “the biggest industry in the world.”

That meant covering the contract talks between you guys and of course the contracts always expired on either September 14th or 15th. Since you almost never reached a tentative agreement by the expiration date we beat reporters would get stuck awaiting the white smoke to appear languishing, sleeping, filing, doing thumbsucker live shots, killing time until something happened.

Yes, you automakers fed us well. Any reporter of a certain vintage will not forget GM providing an almost endless supply of Dove Bars.

Good eatin’ but it kept me away from home on our anniversary which caused a combination of disappointment, anger, tears and fat chance reliving honeymoon night.

On our 20th anniversary in 1993, CNN took pity on me and sent former Detroit Bureau chief, the late, great Bob Vito to spell me at Ford headquarters. Nice touch, but Vito didn’t show up until 11:30pm on the 15th from Los Angeles because, as he put it, “I hadn’t had a Lafayette Coney in years and I had a craving.”

Not only was he very late, but had terrible chile dog breath. I got home with about 3 minutes left on our “special” day.

Every contract since, whether I was working in TV, the Detroit News or flipped over to PR at Chrysler, we’d have to time-shift celebration of our anniversary to avoid being screwed by you guys not shaking hands on a deal on time.

This year is our 50th anniversary. I’m now semi-retired but working freelance. I have informed my clients that I’m out of the mix this time around on the 15th. No matter what happens…deal, no deal, strike, no strike, I’m a ghost.

Even though technology..and common sense, has elminated the need for reporters to sleep at the various automakers’ headquarters awaiting word that you’ve either reached a deal or are playing the game into overtime, I’ll be spending the 15th blissfully someplace else, celebrating the fact my wife and I haven’t drawn pistols at dawn after half a century together.

But then, dammit, the clock will tick, the calendar will turn and the 15th will turn into the 16th and if you guys don’t figure it out by then I’m out of excuses.

So help a reporter out. Move the date your contracts expire to, say, the spring. How ’bout April 15th, tax day? No one celebrates that. How hard would that be? Maybe I’ll even buy you all Dove Bars.

Thanks very much,

Ed Garsten

Jimmy and Rosalynn: An Up Close Encounter

 Seems like a good time to post this as former President Jimmy Carter and former First Lady Rosalynn are in what their grandson described as their “final chapter.

I was 24 when he was elected president. He came out of nowhere a one term governor of Georgia, former naval officer and deeply religious man. His improbable win for the White House over incumbent Gerald Ford was looked at as a move by the American people to clean house after the Watergate scandal. Carter was seen as an honest guy with a big smile and 180 degrees difference from the Nixon era. They lost his reelection bid to Ronald Reagan after failing to bring home the Americans being held hostage in Iran. Plus, I mean honestly Reagan could talk the antlers off an elk.

Well, after that, I never gave Carter another thought until 1986 when I was working as a correspondent for CNN based in Atlanta.

Georgia native Carter built his Presidential Library and Museum a mile or so from CNN headquarters, and I was assigned to cover its opening well ahead of the opening ceremony.

I was among the handful of reporters invited to tour the place our guides, none other than the former President and First Lady Rosalynn. They were fascinating to watch from a distance of really only about two feet. Very quiet, very humble, very, very sharp.

Just before kicking off the tour, the couple made eye contact with every reporter, silently judging us I guess, certainly snapping indelible mental photos of us so they would never forget who we were, should we come into contact again. Or if they didn’t like our stories. Then we were treated to Jimmy and Rosalynn’s interaction with each other.

Here’s a man who had been the most powerful person in the world is quietly and respectfully asking his wife, but next Roselyn right here should instruct him as she pointed to one of the many gifts bestowed upon them from various heads of state and don’t forget this one. Yes, dear, the former president replied with a mild look and chagrin for not thinking of it himself.

But when we came to what was called a campaign room with memorabilia from his successful first campaign, you can see his bright blue eyes shine. Rosalynn backed away and let Jimmy do the honors.

As he described all the cool stuff on the walls and shelves and showcases from a moment that must have seemed like the highlight of his life. Kind of reminded me of a guy in his mancave showing off his big TV, sports autographs and a chip and dip bowl on the shape of his favorite football team’s helmet.

At one point, the former President looked over to his trusted partner who gave the equivalent of the “wrap it up Jimmy sign, time to move on.” And he did.

Now, regardless of what anyone thought of his politics, it was fascinating to see these two very public and once powerful figures in a more intimate setting, joking with each other, trusting each other bantering with us reporters, as if we bumped into each other at the local coffee shop down in their hometown of Plains, Ga. and then they invited us over. Hey, why dontcha come over, take a little tour of our new house just moved into? Yeah, for sure.

An indelible memory of a wonderful day in my long career of a former president and first lady who served the world long after they left office. It was cool, all right. Even if they scared the crap out of you when they locked out to your eyes like those kids in the Village of the Damned, but it was just a way of saying, I see you, treat us well in your story–and if you touch anything, I remember who you are.

Well, I don’t know how many days Jimmy and Rosalynn Carter have left in his life, but I’ll always be thankful to the former First Couple for that one.

Graduating Seniors

I like discounts but I don’t like being discounted. That’s why I’m letting it be known here and now I’ve not only graduated, I’ve gravitated towards a new classification. Enough word play? Ha! Ask ChatGPT for that kind of linguistic gymnastics.

So yes, I’m at a certain age where I’m offered, and happily accept, so-called “senior discounts.” Might be a buck or two, but I’ll take it, because who wouldn’t accept even a minimal deal?

But here’s my deal, and I offer it to all of you who spent enough time on Mother Earth to be called a “senior.” It’s time to graduate to another, higher, more meaningful and inclusive grade level.

We used to call dumb guys who got left back in 12th grade as “super seniors.” Well, I believe if you’ve made it past the years of toiling for a paycheck, shelling out for child care, college, weddings, Bar Mitzvahs and are onto enjoying whatever years you’ve got left in the tank, you’re pretty freakin’ super, but not stagnated as a “senior.”

Oh no. Considering all our experiences, insights, challenges faced and met, wisdom and matchbook collections we’re beyond “senior moments.”

Despite whatever wounds we’ve suffered, setbacks faced, enemies battled, in-laws tolerated, we survive and thrive through the ongoing wars of life.

That’s why I will now be known not as a senior citizen but as a “LIFE VETERAN.” Battle-hardened but not hard-bitten, still fighting the good fight from the comfort of my laptop and patio.

Oh, we life veterans have plenty left to give. Always ready with an anecdote we’ve told a million times, advice based on our decades of having gone through the same shit as “lower classmen and women”–those are people who, until this writing, may have aspired to graduate as senior citizens.

I will also suggest a special branch of the VFW where that acronym stands for Veterans For Wisdom. A place we can gather, bullshit to each other over cold longnecks and trade, yes, bits of wisdom based on experiences from our earlier lives. Never too late to learn.

AARP, take notice. I know you’ll accept anyone 50 and over for membership. 50? Those are still kids. Life veterans still wear Dockers that are older than 50. Yes, we’re in our own graduate-level class and quite satisfied.

What’s the age level to be classified as a life veteran? There is none. You’ll know it when you qualify. You look down. You’re wearing slip-on Skechers. It’s the uniform. Life veterans—wear it proudly—you’ve earned the right not to bend…and a senior discount.

A Percussive Tribute To Tony Bennett

And that’s that. I had the good fortune of being brought up by parents who appreciated good music. Show tunes (we lived in NYC), big band, symphonic music, jazz and yes, the great vocalists. They didn’t do rock or country.

The records would just appear in a little metal rack next to the old Westinghouse hi-fi in the room in our 400 square foot apartment in Queens I shared with my older brother.

My father was an virtuoso whistler, but my mother was the singer. She actually cut a 78 rpm demo record that, sadly, disintegrated many years ago. We played the grooves out it. At one time she aspired to a musical theater career. Instead she sang around the house all the time, almost never with the correct lyrics. Didn’t matter.

Music was always part of our lives. Our apartment was too small for a piano, so my mother got us accordion lessons because at least the right hand was the same as the piano and we learned to read music.

She later brought home a nylon string guitar she got for 10 books of green stamps. It came with a little pamphlet with the diagrams for the G, C, D7 and G7 chords. Enough to play about a million songs.

All this time we’d play those records. I learned all the tunes for Broadway shows I’d never see because cast albums for Camelot, Fiddler on the Roof, My Fair Lady, Funny Girl and Carousel were always spinning on the hi-fi. I did eventually get to see Fiddler but only the movie versions of the others. Same tunes, but not the same.

Then one day Tony Bennett’s “I Left My Heart in San Francisco” showed up. Of course, we knew Tony’s music from his TV appearances and on the radio, but this album was a revelation.

Oh, the title tune was, of course, the big hit, but the deeper cuts were what cut more deeply to me. “Once Upon a Time,” “Love For Sale,” “Tender is the Night,” “The Best is Yet to Come.” The whole damn thing.

It wasn’t only the warm tones of his wonderful tenor, but the intricate phrasing, the syncopated timing on some, his ability to sustain a note or clip one in an irrestible stacatto. As kids might have said way back when, “it sent me!”

Well, I certainly couldn’t play the accordion or even the guitar, really to Tony. No, it had to be the drums. It was right around the time that album came out when those plastic tops started appearing on coffee cans.

I had my mother save me an empty on. I filled it with coins and paper clips, put a little slit in the plastic top and, ha! I had my first snare drum.

I’d take my desk chair, pull it up to the hi-fi, place my coffee can snare between my legs and using number 2 pencils as my drumsticks.

But I needed a cymbal. Ha! Used some flat metal pieces from my Erector set and covered them with tin foil. Not bad.

Then I placed the needle on Tony’s masterpiece and banged away at every gorgeous cut. I quickly picked up the beats when Tony got jazzy, attempted soft brush strokes for the ballads, gave it my best shot when Tony got creative with his phrasing but never, ever quit.

The album would end and I’d just place the needle back to the beginning and start again. I didn’t do that with any other album or artist. It was just Tony.

Oh, we had stuff from Frank and Barbra, but not Bing or Dean. I remember playing a bit to Sinatra and maybe even a little Streisand’s first couple of albums, but no one as often as Tony Bennett.

Over the years we’d see entertainers from that era pass away: Sinatra, Crosby, Martin, Milton Berle. I always thought when Tony Bennett left this Earth, that pretty much closed it out.

Back in the 1990’s when I had the dough and room, I finally bought myself a real drum kit and a better record player.

Then I found an old copy of “I Left My Heart in San Francisco” in an antique mall. My parents’ record was long ago lost.

What a thrill to be able to finally do Mr. Bennett’s music justice. Well, if you’ve heard me play, you might think his survivors would have a case for musical malpractice. But it’s just nice to be able to pay tribute in some little way…even if it does disturb the neighbors.

In fact, I’m thinking of placing the needle in the grooves right now, and playing along, to “Once Upon a Time,” because now that Tony’s gone, that time has now passed.

The Seven-Year Itching

I wrote two stories today. Not 300-word quickies, not 1,500 word deep-dives. Somewhere in between. It wouldn’t be a big deal but in a few weeks I’ll be celebrating seven years since I swiped my badge to releasing me from then-Fiat Chrysler into the free air of retirement.

Just the other day, when I mentioned to someone I had a fairly full schedule of interviews and meetings related to my two freelance gigs, the person asked, “why, why still work so hard if you’re retired?”

The answer is so easy. First of all, it’s never work to me. Writing is recreation to me. Has been since I was a kid. Second, and this is the big one, because every time I interview someone I learn something. There’s little more satisfying, besides indulging in a giant anything from Cold Stone Creamery, than speaking with a young entrepreneur, or technology whiz who came up with a brilliant idea, had the guts to take it further, build a business, create something that will improve a process or our lives.

I’ve always said journalism is the ticket to a free education, and, someone will also pay you while you learn!

I manage my time so I’m never putting in the hours of an actual working stiff—just enough to keep my brain filled with new stuff and fodder for the handful of Forbes.com stories I file each month. I do a little consulting for Franco PR—an absolutely joyous opportunity to work with a bright, creative, fun and adventurous staff that also yearns to learn and puts up with an old war horse’s war stories.

Yup, I have plenty of time to kayak, play a little ice hockey, bang on my drums and make lots of noise with my collection of electric guitars on that big, new Fender amp I just bought.

So if there’s such a thing as the seven-year itch during retirement, it’s the itch to keep my gray matter, mattering, even as my graying hair thins and falls. Who cares? As long as there’s something under my noggin’ that’s working, I don’t care what used to be on top of it.

The Coronation Rumination

I had no intention of watching Charlie’s coronation but one of the mixed blessings of aging is the inability to sleep past 5 a.m. I mean, you’re either hungry, gotta pee, or both. Usually both. So I was up.

Satisfied the latter first, then settled in with a bowl of Raisin Bran, a cuppa coffee, the digital N.Y. Times then whispered “blimey!” to myself, so as not to awaken the other inmates of my house.

I trundled over to the computer, found the NYT’s live feed of the ceremony and gawked at the screen watching an ancient rite that reminded me of an attempt back in the 1970’s to initiate me into the Elks Club. At least they served wine and cheese and they didn’t hide me while pouring old oil on me.

I’ll admit, it was fascinating for awhile, then disturbing. On what was supposed to be the best day of Charlie’s life, next to that blissful night with his polo pony, his literal crowing glory, he looked like someone about to undergo a colonoscopy with a fire hose.

When the Archbishop of Canterbury performed the actual crowning, he seemed to screw the thing on Charlie’s noggin’ and I’m imagining Charlie thinking, “balls, it fit in the store!”

Regardless of your opinion of the monarchy, the coronation was a rare opportunity to witness a version of a process a thousand years old and hadn’t occurred in over 70 years, or roughly as long as “The Simpsons” has been on TV.

So I was watching Charlie’s face and demeanor throughout. Some body language experts later said it showed he was taking his ascension to the throne very seriously as well as feeling the weight of his new responsibilities, which include, mainly, not dying.

I’m thinking the guy is 74 and has very mixed feelings about the whole turn of events. On the upside, he’s finally King of England, but on the downside he only got the job because his beloved mother passed away.

The other downside is he and the new Queen had to wave to his subjects from the balcony of Buckingham Palace wearing those crowns and looking like they just left a bad Halloween costume party.

But when you think of someone at last landing the job for which he’d been preparing most of his life, it makes you think of your own career. You work hard, you put in the hours, you build relationships, you get the promotions you sought, maybe hired away for a prestigious, big bucks position then get to the point where it dawns on you how much you gave up for all that.

It happened to me a couple of times and then it hit me how much time I lost with my family traveling around, chasing stories, going on business trips. I made some good dough, but missed the priceless part of life.

So I retired early. I have a couple of very part-time freelance gigs I enjoy that allow me to use my skills but after almost seven years I’m reducing my load even further.

Which brings me back to King Charles III. He got the job at last. Performed all the duties required of royals. He had no competition since as long as he was alive when his mother died, he was next in line.

But you have to wonder if the old chap feels any satisfaction, any sense of accomplishment, retains any goals, or, instead, wonders if the whole thing was worth the wait.

Well, now, at age 74, he’s stuck with a big, new job for the rest of his days. Kings don’t tend to retire and join pickleball leagues.

Yeah, that’d make me take on a dour demeanor if someone plunked heavy headgear on me and hollering for an unknown guy in the sky to save me.

Personally, I wouldn’t be surprised if the newly crowned King Charles III snuck a peek at his youngest son, relegated to the third row, thinking, “lucky bastard, he escaped while he was still alive.”

Bed Bath and Be Gone

I’ve got drawer full of those damned giant blue 20% off coupons from Bed Bath and Beyond. They’re a little ostentatious as bookmarks, too ugly to be coasters and, I tried, they make lousy paper airplanes. Of course that may due to my total lack of origami aviation skills.

I guess keeping those coupons in my drawer and not actually using them is part of the reason Bed Bath and Beyond is going Bye-Bye—oh yeah, their chain Bye Bye Baby is going night-night too.

Here’s the thing with B, B, and B, the place went from vital to NG. It’s sad because in its earlier days we enjoyed walking all around the place, feasting on the choices of a dozen different coffee makers, a billion sheets and pillowcases, kitchen gadgets galore, Hanukah candles and menorahs in which to burn them and even a rack to store the golf clubs I never use which included a little space for a basketball and other sporting goods that look good but haven’t been used since the internet seemed novel.

It’s in my basement.

Oh, you could buy some of that stuff in discount or department stores, but they never carried the sheer volume and variety.

It always felt like Toys R Us for domestic adults…but you saw what happened to that emporium of kid fun. Poor Geoffrey the Giraffe is probably working at a call center trying to sell diaper rash insurance.

Much of Bed Bath and Beyond’s troubles have been attributed to the hiring of a tone deaf CEO who replaced national brands with store brands, which no one wanted. The company also booted the move to online commerce. He got fired fairly quickly, but not soon enough.

What did it for me was the day I stopped in to buy a small drip coffeemaker. The website said the store near me had the one I wanted in stock. So we popped down there to pick one up.

We get to the coffeemaker department and sure enough there’s my machine on display. The usual procedure is grab one from the supply right below the shelf. Hmm. Big empty space where I expected coffeemakers to be lurking.

So I attempt to find a store staffer for assistance, but maybe they were all hiding where the allegedly in-stock coffeemakers were hiding, perhaps in the “beyond” section of the store.

I finally flag down a person who saw the look of urgency on my face and, fearing a customer in need, attempted to avoid me by quickly pivoting behind the loofah display. Being a reporter used to people trying to give me the slip I stalked the worker till she finally surrendered asking, “can I help you?” Probably hoping the chase took enough of my breath so I couldn’t express my needs.

I explained my dilemma emphasizing their website said my coffeemaker is in stock. Her demeanor immediately changed.

“Oh!,” she said in a most mocking tone. “The website is never right, but I’ll take a look in the back.”

Don’t you love it when they say they’re going to the back. During high school I had a part-time job at a department store. I used that “back” thing all the time. You feigned a search for the desired item, but really detoured to the break room to grab a Hershey Bar, then returned to the customer with a look of regret.

“Oh, so sorry. We must have sold the last one a short time ago. Very sorry. Would you like to order one?” No one wants to order one, unless they’re at a computer where they don’t have to speak to a human.

We cooled our heels for about 20 minutes when the staffer returned with a smile and my coffeemaker in her hand. She was out of breath…I’m guessing because the break room was on the other side of the store from “the back.” Thought I saw a little chocolate on her fingers.

“This is kinda weird,” she explained. “For some reason they didn’t put the stock under the display shelf as usual, but just piled them on a table on another side of the store near the beard trimmers.”

Makes sense, right?

Wonder where the corkscrews were stocked…over by the toe nail clippers?

I’m guessing the poor worker’s dilemma was based on the combination of under-staffing and under-stocking since suppliers balked at sending the store with three B’s in its name new merchandise because its poor business decisions earned it all F’s in paying its bills.

Still, as someone who was once laid off due to an idiotic merger that, 21 years later, is still ruining CNN, I have a special sympathy for innocent workers who end up losing their jobs because of poor decisions made by much higher-paid executives.

Not your fault! I hope all those folks who trudged on the sales floors of all those BBB’s and Bye Bye Babys aren’t out of work long. I always felt very bad for that person who ran hither and yon in search of my poorly placed coffeemaker.

I still have that coffeemaker. It makes a delicious pot of my morning eye-opener. I owe that person gratitude..and a Hershey Bar.

I’m with ya. Been there. Believe me, for those caught up in this retail debacle, sooner than you think before going to bed, you’ll be taking that refreshing bath and in the morning, heading to a job that’s rewarding way beyond that shuttered big box.

Epilogue: I hear a couple of stores will accept those 20% off coupons for a few weeks. I guess I can use them at Big Lots to score a deal on a bag of Poppycock.