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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.

Figuring It Out At Niagara Falls

We stopped by Niagara Falls the other day on our way to visit relatives in Rochester, N.Y. We’d seen them before, the Falls, that is, because they’re not far off the route across Canada from Michigan we’ve taken for over 30 years. Yeah, we’ve seen the in-laws plenty but they don’t have a gift shop.

In the past, we’d stop on the Canadian side because the long-held opinion is the view from there is better.

But this time I wanted to see for myself, so we pulled into Niagara Falls State Park on the U.S. side and walked and drove around for some close-up views.

No, we didn’t do the tourist stuff by taking a cruise on the Maid of the Mist or take an elevator to the top of the observation tower. Just walked around along the fence then where you’re close enough to get kissed by the falls’ mist . See the photos and video.

Here’s the bottom line. No matter what side you’re on, it’s a lot of water plunging over the rocks with a crash, stirring up clouds of mist and your face gets wet.

But since I’m getting to that point if life where wonders seem more matter of fact and my biggest wonder is wondering about the symbolism of millions of gallons of water spilling over a cliff.

So my gaze turned upriver from the falls as we worked our way around, then off, Goat Island toward the bridge to Grand Island. Within a few miles you see the dramatic change. The Niagara River appears placid and innocent, apparantly without a clue it’s headed for a fall.

Suddenly the current quickens and accelerates into what’s known as the American Rapids. The water turns turbulent and confusing. White caps and waves, danger and demise just ahead.

Indeed, the river then splits over three towering precipices forming the triumverate of famous Falls—The Bridal Veil, Horseshoe and American. The once lazy Niagara River unwittingly violently dumped overboard about 170 feet into the Niagara Gorge then just as abruptly shakes its head, clears its mind and wanders willingly into Lake Ontario wondering what the hell just happened.

So now in my seventh decade with so many years of alternating personal turbulence, acceleration, stagnation, surprise, disappointment, agony, elation, success and failure behind me, I can’t help but both look back to the upriver portion of my life and then ahead to where I will meet my precipice.

How much longer will the relative peace and yes, occasional boredom, of retirement continue flowing like the lazy Niagara River that oozes from Lake Erie then heads north and west and north again where it empties into Lake Ontario.

At what point will I be rudely rousted into the American Rapids of my life—that final, irrevocable sprint to a point you only see once it’s too late and your personal river has run its course.

But just like the wondrous Niagara Falls—not before providing for yourself and others you pass along the way some thrills, love, memories, kindness…and a refreshing mist to remind them you were there.

Let Sleeping Limbs Lie

The other night I got up around 3am because my left arm fell asleep. The more I thought about it, the more I wondered why, in the middle of the night, the rest of me wasn’t asleep. When all of me is asleep does it actually feel as numb as my sleepy arm, only I don’t know about because, well, I’m asleep?

Taking this further, if I start shaking my arm that’s asleep and wake it up, then go back to sleep, have I just wasted my time? Seems like I’m pissing off my arm which was sound asleep, until I rudely rousted it then expected it to immediately return to slumber.

When I finally awakened to start my day and grab some breakfast, it was difficult to lift a spoon to eat my Cheerios. You see my spoon-lifting left arm was lethargic from having its sleep interrupted and was grouchy the rest of the day, at one point, refusing to participate in nut cracking—a two-armed task, and threatened a stirring strike, leaving undissolved sugar at the bottom of my coffee cup.

Oh, I could use my right arm but as a southpaw it would only result in a dreadful mess and give my left arm another reason to elbow the milk carton in a mocking manner.

Consider this a valuable lesson learned. If you wake up in the middle of the night with a snoozing extremity, turn over and let it go. It’s nothing to lose sleep over.

A Breakup, Unmasked

We first met in the spring of 2020, albeit reluctantly. It was more of an arranged coupling. I was quite happy in my current situation but fate mandated our star-crossed relationship. Oh, I suppose we all experience initial errors and false starts when considering what would turn out to be almost constant contact, but I chalk this up to aiming way too low, ratcheting up my vulnerability to levels dangerously high.

Here I was, perfectly healthy with a firm intention to stay that way. Then the “relationship” came into my life at the command of the government. First it was quarantine to stave off an incidious virus, then, in order to take baby steps in public my first face partner was forced on me. It was paper, temporary, barely functional but what can I say, it wasn’t as if there were many choices at first.

I slapped it over my nose and mouth and gamely ventured to the grocery store for a few vital necessities: bread, milk, Oreos, and craft beer. We didn’t get along from the get go. Scratchy, stiff, utterly inflexible—the quick breakup was a relief, but I needed to quickly find a new partner or be sentenced to house arrest.

And then, ah…as if created out of thin air I was presented with a vision of soft, black-lined cloth with a forgiving elastic strap. As I placed it upon my face we were in instant simpatico. I hadn’t felt such comfort and ease since overdosing on Dulcolax during a lost weekend in Inkster, Michigan.

Oh, we had our little spats from time to time. There was the instance where I foolishly decided to enter an overcrowded Cabela’s a week before deer hunting season. My facial protector scowled at my indiscretion scolding me saying, “you KNOW I’m no N95. Why put me in a position of almost certain failure?”

In my guilt I turned tail, made my way around the displays of dead, stuffed wildlife and emerged into an almost deadlier environment—the massive parking lot populated almost exclusively by diesel-powered heavy duty pickup trucks spewing black clouds of lethal dreck. There would be hell to pay when we got home, including a thorough laundering.

Still, we hung together for almost exactly three years through super spreader environments that included malls, air travel, occasional visits to the office and the in-laws. My protector was impervious to it all and I suffered not even a slight runny nose all that time.

But then, just in the past few weeks, I felt a distance—between my mouth, nose and my material significant other. Gaps had formed. It wasn’t the same. I felt vulnerable. It felt loose. Then one night I awoke with a scratchy throat, runny nose and an unexplainable anticipation of the next episode of “Call Me Kat.” Something was wrong.

My family urged me to take a test. I did. I failed. I instantly moved into a spare room isolating me from those I loved and others who were willing to let me win Uno. I called my doctor. A strong prescription was ordered followed by a question only an experienced, training healthcare professional could conjure: did your mask fail you?”

I caught my breath, thought of the good times we had over the past three years, our initial adjustment period but ultimate comfort level between us and then admitted, “yes doc, I believe it to be so.”

The callous bastard ordered me to immediately toss it in a can and replace it with another that would offer sufficient protection for the long haul.

Tough love, he called it. I slowly removed it from my face, said my goodbyes, thanked it for its service. We parted as friends, but not before it landed one last shot.

“You just had to lower me in that crowded Costco to taste that free guac sample…and I get the blame. You’re all the same. No self-control…it’s a damn pandemic.”

Spendid Isolation

I’ve got pretty much everything I need right now. Laptop, tablet, smartphone, big bottle of cold water, three vials of assorted medications, a closed door and an effective mask. No, I’m not on an urban bivouac, I’m in Covid isolation.

As I’m writing this I’m in the middle of day 4 and not feeling sick at all but my latest test was still positive, although the T line (the bad one) is barely there. Is that progress? Maybe, but all I know, and I hate, really hate to admit this, is that I’m really enjoying, in the words of the late, wonderful Warren Zevon, “splendid isolation.”

There are a few ways to look at being closed off in a spare room in my lovely home away from family and salty snacks. For one, I have almost no responsibilities. For the past six-plus years I’ve been semi-retired. For the past four days I’ve been completely retired. No, I can’t travel to a warm client but since I’m technically a victim of a global pandemic nothing is expected of me. I can stand that, at least temporarily.

I do feel bad I can’t enter the kitchen or eat with the rest of my family. My wife has been kind enough to leave food and beverage at my door. In turn I don’t ask for a lot because it bothers me to have her serve me and she knows I’m a shitty tipper.

Early in my isolation I didn’t really feel up to doing anything creative. So I blew a lot of hours gaping at my laptop screen. Watched some old rock concerts..any Tom Petty/Heartbreakers show is the best show. As a guitar player, Tom Petty songs are the easiest to play. He only used a few different chords, none of them very complicated. Thanks Tom, wish you hadn’t gone to the great wide open

Swung over to a long Hall and Oates show they did in Sydney, Australia. Why does Oates only get to sing two solos and barely say anything to the audience? Seems unfair. I wonder if they ever considerd changing their name to “Mostly Hall and A Small Bag of Oates.” Things you think about when you’re on Paxlovid.

Yearning for something completely new I discovered the wonders of the new show Poker Face starring the revelation known as Natasha Lyonne.

Her character is like a modern day Columbo. OK, don’t give me that shit you’re too young to remember Columbo. Look it up. Anyway, she can always tell when someone’s lying and that’s how she solves crimes….and she’s not even a cop. When someone lies she quickly responds, “bullshit!” No one says “bullshit” better than Natasha Lyonne. I actually think she should star in every single show and movie.

Couldn’t get to sleep right away last night so I dove into the memoirs of Mel Brooks. Figured it would be funny and make it easy to gently go into that good night. It was a good strategy. Still only at his early career in the Catskill Mountain Borscht Belt. We went their often in my childhood having been brought up in the NYC borough of Queens—a two-hour drive. The food and the jokes were equally stale but you always came away full, happy and constipated. Loved the Catskills.

I’m told to remain in my subdivision cell one more day after this and I’m sure my family will be happy because I’m hogging the combination guest room and room where my son has a lot of his precious stuff stored that he can’t get to.

But I’m not so sure I’m ready to return to the “outside” and lose my excuse for not doing stuff people expect of me. That’s why I’m hanging onto a couple of those positive Covid tests. Might need them as my ticket to extend my splendid isolation.

I’m Just Mild About Harry

Did you read Prince Harry’s book, “Spare” ? Yeah, I did because it was in my house and my library books were all overdue. I also wanted to “get” all of Stephen Colbert’s jokes and craved anecdotes regarding what happens when you freeze your “todger.” It is winter, you know, and one can never be too prepared for the wonts of nature while pushing the snow blower in the driveway.

I’ve always looked at Great Britain’s monarchy as a human zoo. With no power and an unfathomable love for bagpipe music, really, what purpose does it serve other than a lucrative tourist attraction in a nation that sorely needs the quid.

Perhaps the nation would be better served hiring the functionless bluebloods as knowledgable tour guides to educate the public as they schlep through Buckingham Palace and other assorted castles and musty old places.

This way they’d earn their keep without sucking up scarce public funds to maintain an unjustifiably lavish lifestyle.

It would also be effective in addressing Harry’s main beef in the book regarding the scummy British tabloid press and paparazzi. If the former royals were just working stiffs they’d cease to be of interest. Who’s gonna buy a paper with a headline screaming, “Palace Tour Guides Break For Lunch!” Problem solved.

Now I’ll admit, I did learn some things in the Spare’s book. The boy doesn’t like beer? Doesn’t relish downing a pint of piss warm brew at the corner pub, opting for tequila or gin and tonic instead? Sorry, I can’t hang with a bloke like that.

I learned that freckles on the face of Harry’s wife Meghan were airbrushed out of official photos. He lamented he thinks the freckles are cute. I’d maintain you don’t just eliminate part of someone’s face, unless you’re going to eliminate all of Camilla’s.

I never got the function of curtseying. When I was in grade school they tried to teach us how to pull off a curtsey for some reason. The girls had no problem. They were graceful. The guys just fell down. I always thought if I was in a position where someone thought they had to curtsey to me I would start laughing as I told them, “if you’re gonna go down that far, may as well kill the cockroach by your left leg.”

Frankly, I don’t think the dear, late Queen enjoyed the curtsey. I always imagined Her Highness thinking, “oh for crissakes. I can hear your joints cracking and this purse isn’t getting any lighter.”

Harry does come off as a troubled guy having endured the trauma of his mother’s death fleeing the “paps”, a brother who is portrayed as a bit of a turd and a father more concerned with his image than his offspring.

In the end it’s a little hard to feel sorry for someone who’s living in ultra-rich Montecito, Calif.–.same hood as Oprah, Rob Lowe and Arianna Grande and lots of other lesser-known one percenters. But I appreciate Haz and his family can’t live in just any suburban subdivision given serious security concerns, so no gripe there. But man, the HOA fees must be a killer.

Well, after slogging through 407 pages of Harry’s mostly depressing travails, I’m good. I get it. I’ve had enough. That’s why when Harry revealed he actually cut about 400 pages of content to protect his family but could conceivably publish a sequel, my only reaction is, Spare me.