Hanukah Story: Genesis and Confessions

doggiehanukkahFirst, on behalf of all Jewish kids I want to thank Christianity for being born around the same time as Hanukah is celebrated. See, Hanukah is pretty much a back-bencher in the pecking order of Jewish holidays, down there with Gefilte Fish Grinding Day and Aggravation Oy Vey Days. There were no presents or decorations. BC Jews celebrated by lighting the candles, mainly because there was no electricity and they needed some sort of illumination in order to balance their books.

But since Christmas came around things became immediately much better for little Jewish yingele. Astute marketers figured if the goyim kids could score major gifts for their holiday, Hanukah was close enough that it should become a big tsimis, including not just one present, but eight presents…one for each night of the holiday. The kids would be happy, the merchants would make some shekels and parents could maintain their comfortable level of aggravation trying to come up with the goods.

This brings me to how it went down in my house. Rather than the eight gift gambit, we could choose one, big, ridiculously idiotic gift. I can think of three in particular. Two, I received, one, I didn’t because I asked the wrong person, which I’ll explain later.

My first was a three-foot long monstrosity called Bop Baseball. bopbaseballAs you can see in the photo, Bop Baseball was equivalent to the old game of Nok Hockey in that it entailed whacking a wooden puck. The game proceeded depending on which circle the wooden puck landed. There were circles for singles, doubles, triples, home runs and outs. The problems were two-fold. One, the damn thing was so large my poor mother struggled to schlep it from the car to the house. Forget wrapping it. The second problem was the wooden puck was really like a doughnut with a hole in the middle. A couple of good whacks and the puck split in three. Bye, bye Bop Baseball.

My second regrettable choice was something called Shop King. shopkingThis overpriced mistake was made to look like a combination table saw, drill and lathe. But instead of wood, the plastic parts could cut only styrofoam. The problems lay with the fact that Shop King required about a case of batteries which lasted maybe 7 minutes and that the power they provided was so weak the tools barely made pock marks in the styrofoam. Throughly frustrated, I summarily deposed Shop King and banished it to the dungeon below my bed until one day it mysterious disappeared into the kingdom of Dumpster.

Finally, the gift I never received–the Remco Pom Pom Gun. pompomgunIt looked very cool in the TV commercials and made enough noise to sufficiently annoy everyone in our 400 square foot apartment in Queens, New York. The glitch here was that was the year my mother decided I should visit Santa Claus at Macy’s in the Roosevelt Field Shopping Center in Westbury, Long Island. Now, I was only 6 at the time and didn’t realize there was no cross-promotional deal between Santa and Hanukah so I took my shot. “What would you like for Christmas?” Santa asked. “Oh,” I replied as honestly as I could. “I don’t want anything for Christmas. I celebrate Hanukah and I’d like a Remco Pom Pom Gun!”

Santa was not amused by this little tow-headed Jewish kid crashing his holiday, and grunted, “yeah, whatever. Next!” and sent me off his knee as fast as whatever projectile the Remco Pom Pom Gun shot.

Despite these traumas I always enjoy Hanukah. My Episcopalian wife makes the best latkes and matzo ball soup, my (grown) kids receive gifts that fit in their pockets (money), and I still remember all three blessings for the lighting of the candles.  No matter how close to Christmas Hanukah falls we give it its full due, and always make sure the Christmas tree isn’t too close to the menorah..and burns for eight days.

 

 

 

First Year at edLines

IMG_0147I launched this blog about a year ago as a way to stretch a muscle that’s been too long constricted by my corporate duties, and as way to have a little fun, entertain and sometimes be thought provoking.

It was also the start of a long-range project that I hope will grow over time with more content that might include videos, podcasts and other material.

What I’ve found out in the past year is that it’s very difficult to get folks to read full-length blog posts with a few exceptions. I was extremely gratified by the reaction to my post about the passing of Melissa Kitchens and how it is possible to have true relationship with someone you only knew through Facebook and to feel a real loss when you’ve lost them forever.

The post summing up the CNN 35th reunion did pretty well too.

There were a few others that managed to capture the attention of a few readers but most won a pretty paltry audience.  That’s pretty humbling and tells me I need to work a lot harder to convince folks they wouldn’t be wasting their time by reading a piece longer than a Facebook post or Tweet.

Suggestions are always welcome because everyone needs an editor and I consider every reader an editor.

I do have to say that just because I may toss a joke or a pun on Facebook I’m not a laugh-a-minute in my real life, so I’m sure I disappointed those who thought I would be “that guy.”

I also find that overtly political posts are a dangerous gambit since too many people have thin skins and can’t accept even mild jibing.

So I write what’s on my mind without trying to guess what’s on yours. I fully accept the fact that some posts will be more successful than others and some are duds. Hell..the best hitters in baseball are only successful about one-third of the time.

I’ll keep pecking away because that’s what writers do. Videos and podcasts may come but I promise you, if I ever start singing, I expect WordPress to void my account. I’d never do that to you.

Thanks a lot for reading and let me know if you find something you like. I find it great fun to shake my head in amazement.

 

 

The Pursuit of D.B. Cooper Cattle Call

The story of D.B. Cooper has always fascinated me and Saturday’s Detroit Free Press, had the best recap yet of the crazy story of a guy wearing a jacket and skinny tie who parachuted out the back of a 737 with a quarter-million stolen dollars strapped to himself and was never seen again. Maybe he’s dead. Maybe he’s living in luxury in Bora Bora. Maybe he’s keeping house in a cleaned-up shipping container in Tacoma.

But where the story  really hits home for me is the fact that I once auditioned for a part in the movie recounting the caper–“The Pursuit of D.B. Cooper.” It was quicker than a boy’s first nookie.

I was living in Tucson, Arizona at the time as a graduate student and reporter at the local ABC affiliate, KGUN. They make a lot of movies and TV shows in Tucson because it’s a beautiful place surrounded by mountains and cactus and the Old Tucson old west town and soundstage was just a short drive through Gates Pass, across the Tucson Mountains. Everything was shot there from John Wayne films to Little House on the Prairie episodes.

Word got around the newsroom they were auditioning for two “on the scene news reporters” with one line apiece to appear in the movie. Now I’m no actor and because I can’t remember lines I had to change my undergrad major from Speech and Theater to Radio/TV.

So what the hell. A female colleague and I decided to go for it and we showed up at the Tucson Holiday Inn, with about 300 other people to audition for various bit parts.

Such things bring out all sorts of characters.

Among the impossibly good looking Hollywood wannabees and freaky neverwillbees, a handsome dude with blonde hair, perfectly coiffed hair and a full set of teeth walks up to me, smiles, and says, “Ed! Remember me?” I hadn’t the foggiest notion who this guy was. My blank look gave it away, so he bailed me out.

“Ha! I knew you wouldn’t recognize me. I look a lot different from the last time we met. I’m Ron White, the mule skinner. You don’t make shit skinning mules, so I get a good haircut, some nice clothes and pop in my teeth to audition,” he explained while laughing his mule skinning butt off.

Indeed, I had shot a profile of him, which included one of the most regrettable standups I had ever done…on a mule. Hey..it was early in my career. Mistakes were made! Here it is…seen for the first time publicly since 1979.

 

After getting over that shock a big bald guy walked up to us while we were waiting and boomed, “know who I am?” Um. No.  “You will when you hear this!” he boomed even louder. “Hubba Bubba Bubble Gum. Big Bubbles. No Troubles!!!” Ah. So THAT was the guy. We acted duly impressed enough so he gave us a satisfied look then moved on to the next unsuspecting clump of hopeful souls awaiting their turn to be rejected.

Finally, after a couple of hours, we were ushered into a tiny motel room where the assistant to the assistant to the associate-assistant apologized the casting director was late because “he’s been auditioning nudes all day and he’s very tired.”

After resting his eyes from epidermal overdose I was finally granted an audience with an older guy with over-tanned reptilian skin, bad perm in his thinning grey hair, gold chains and open shirt sprouting a field of scraggly grey chest hair.

“Who’re you gonna be?” he yawned .

“Uh, Ron Gardner, reporter,” I stammered.

“OK…Give him to me,” he yawned again.

“OK! Here we go,” I stammer again as I hold a pen as a lame substitute for a microphone and say my line: “I’m Ron Gardner on the scene. Where D.B. Cooper is, no one yet knows. Will the mystery be solved?”

“Thanks,” he yawned one more time, and that was it.  So much for my Hollywood career.

My female colleague got one step further. He snapped a Polaroid of her before she was dismissed.

We must have made quite an impression though, or the casting director was duly traumatized by our anemic performances.  Both roles were cut from the movie…maybe that’s why the movie tanked..and D.B. Cooper was never found.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Thanksgiving Dis-Grace

doglickingOh Lordy…we give thanks today for our good fortune…good fortune that has manifested itself in many different ways.

We give thanks that Bobby Jindal has dropped out of the presidential race causing a precipitous and fortuitous drop in the Looney Lousiana rhetoric index.

We give thanks that despite Hostess going bankrupt a guardian angel company swept in and saved the Twinkie.

We give thanks that we can get away, most of the time, with nudging annoying bicyclists who drift out of bike lanes into the paths of our giant SUVs. This just makes me SO happy…and thankful.

We give thanks for the never-ending array of free food samples offered at Costco, making it possible to ingest nutrition without ever divesting ourselves of hard-earned cash.

We give thanks to Caitlyn Jenner who instantly gave credibility to men wearing kilts

We give thanks to Hillary Clinton for showing us it’s OK to plead poverty even while pulling down 7-figure speaking fees.

We give thanks for Daylight Saving Time which provides us an extra hour one day a year to post self-centered esoteric dribblings on social media.morewhitemeat

We give thanks for gefilte fish which gives the lowly carp purpose

We give thanks to the makers of Bluetooth devices who make it possible for us to look like we’re insane singing along to devices to which we’re not physically attached.

We give thanks to Nicki Manaj for proving once and for all it is possible to create an inflatable person.

Finally…we give thanks to Kentucky Fried Chicken for using Colonel Sanders’ cadaver to advertise its product thus giving us all hope that even after the chicken kills us we have careers as pitchmen.

For all that we thank YOU from the bottom of our backpacks.

 

November 22, 1963

dailynewsSixth grade was boring as hell, and our teacher at P.S. 186 in Queens, NY had a terrible nervous nose twitch which earned her the nickname “Twitch.” She also had the personality of plywood.  Her idea of interpersonal communication was to announce which page in the math workbook we should complete, QUIETLY! That way she wouldn’t have to talk to us.

Another way of avoiding an actual conversation with the class  that masqueraded as learning experience was having the class listen to a radio program broadcast by WNYE, the New York City educational radio station.

We were listening/dozing through one such program when it was interrupted by static, then an announcer shouting seemingly incoherent things like “we don’t know what’s going on yet!”

Since one of my jobs in the class was “radio monitor,” or the guy who pulled a 15-minute shift pumping WNYE programs to the various classrooms, Twitch sent me down to the principal’s office to investigate.

As I walked into the office I saw our principal, Henry H.C. Poliakoff, at the radio panel adjusting switches and knobs with a sense of urgency. He turned to me and in his South Carolina accent directed me to return to my classroom immediately.

My classroom, 319, was on the third floor and as I emerged from the staircase I could hear the horror booming from every loudspeaker in every room, echoing off the walls with the announcer who previously seemed incoherent, now speaking quite clearly as he intoned, “The President is dead! I repeat, the President is dead!”

As I made my way to my room, doors flew open as teachers reflexively left their classes for a moment to catch their breath and some began sobbing, shaking their heads, a few murmuring “No, no, no, no, no….”

When I returned to 319 Twitch directed me to my seat. The class was raptly listening to the continuing news coverage being piped into each room’s loudspeaker.  For the first time Twitch spoke to us as if she was each of our moms. “Do you all understand what is happening?” she quietly asked us. We did. “Are any of you feeling ill? Can I help you?” There were two girls quietly crying and asked to be held for a moment. Our teacher complied. Otherwise we simply sat there. Numb from the news.

Presidents were only assassinated in history books. Lincoln murdered by John Wilkes Booth in Fords Theater. William McKinley shot in Buffalo by an anarchist. But JFK. My God. JFK! As kids we connected with his youth, his children, Caroline and John Jr. Little girls wanted to be grown women as glamorous as First Lady Jacqueline. President Kennedy espoused “vigor,” youth, hope, a peaceful future without the threat of Communism.  But now he was gone. We heard it on the radio.

What do you do next? We were simply told to go home. Along the one-mile walk from P.S. 186 to our apartment there was none of the usual school gossip, or stupid dirty jokes or bragging about a new bike or recent raise in allowance. We walked silently and uncertainly.  Presidential assassinations were no longer just pages in history books. There was now one that would become permanently inscribed in our own life stories and affected every future chapter.

 

 

 

 

Questions After Paris

question

What are the questions? Why it happened? What happens next? How do you recover? Where is the world headed? Is this proof evolution is selective and skipped an entire sub-human species? How do we defend ourselves? How to we prevent a re-occurrance? Are there really any plausible answers? Is the world simply screwed and this is the new normal? The opposite of the big bang…the desperate implosion.

Library of Conflict

seniorsinlibraryI don’t often get a chance to go to the public library in the middle of the week but I did today. You know what I learned? I learned you don’t try to compete with senior citizens at the “new releases” rack. I haven’t been elbowed that hard or boxed out that aggressively since my last hockey game or ride on the A-train. Those codgers…including the codg-ettes..don’t screw around when searching for stuff to read..for free. Get in their way, and you might find yourself black and blue from a whack with an oxygen tank or sullied by a squashed Depends after you’ve been hip checked into the “New Biographies.”

First, there was the gent guarding the new John Grisham novel he was caressing. He looked like he had a Derringer hidden between the pages in case someone tried to roll him for the tome. I’ve had it on “hold” for weeks so I couldn’t help jealously noticing his copy and while flipping the pages of the freebie weekly paper I took furtive glances at the guy hoping he’d have to run to the can before checking it out and I could scoop it up before he returned. Mea culpa. Yeah, I know it’s junk but it’s perfect for reading on the, um, poop deck…which is why I’m sure he took it with him.

Then there was a lady who must have been, in her earlier life, a moving shooting gallery target or a pendulum, because she never stopped her back and forth striding in front of me, blocking any chance of grabbing a book off the shelf. Every time I reached in, I was stymied by her giant handbag and severely thrashed by her razor sharp poodle brooch.

The man who answered to “Bash” decided he would defend all “Current Mysteries” and held up and spread his arms and legs in front of the stacks in a posture that gave the unmistakable message, “I’m the only one solving any mysteries today, so beat it!”

Finally, there were the nice little old ladies working as a team to make sure they had an exclusive on “Crafts and Hobbies.” Their winsome smiles were only tactical camouflage for the monsters behind them as they closed ranks on a young mom who just wanted some ideas for knitting a chastity belt for her precocious pre-teen daughter. She ran away making sounds that really belonged in the “Horror” section.

So I’m sticking to the weekends for now on when all I have to worry about are little children throwing up and students sleeping on the floor, and the senior citizens are safely away scarfing up free cookies in the hospital lobby.

The Barber of Civil

cheaphaircutWent for a haircut today. What do you call it? A “styling?” During my TV years I called it that because the places I frequented for my tonsorial trims charged inflated prices for the privilege even though they performed the same service as the much lower priced haircut places. Basically, you come out of both with less hair and less money, with the only difference being how much less money.

I’ve been going to the same chain place for 15 years. It’s in a strip mall that lost its anchor store long ago leaving a few lonely active storefronts scattered along the walkway. There’s a coney restaurant, Eurasian restaurant, dentist, and my haircutting place. In between, an empty hulk where the supermarket once was.

Most of the haircutters at my place are Russian women. There’s one American guy but he talks too much. That’s what “stylists” do. They want to act like they’re your friend. A friend wouldn’t use a sharp instrument to remove part of my body…at any price.

The Russian women don’t screw around. They cut your hair and then it’s out-ski. Typical conversation:

Russian haircutter (RC): “It nice outside.”

Me: “It IS! Beautiful!”

RC: “Dat’s rrrrright!”

They don’t ask what you do, if you’ve had a nice day or how your family is. It’s just snip-snip-snip, cash out, tip and scram.

I found some old photos of when I was on TV and had my hair cut by expensive stylists and compared it with how I look today after being shorn by a chain chopper. No difference. Still have a face for radio.

I think if I ever went back to television I’d still go to the same place to get my hair cut, coughing up 12 bucks each time plus tip. If forced, I’ll just hyperbolize, if asked where I get my hair done, and say FABULOUS Sams. That would just be fantastic.haircut

Set Me Up, Pharm Girl

'Like to sample an antidepressant, sir?...'

‘Like to sample an antidepressant, sir?…’

Like many others of a “certain age” it takes a certain combination of pharmaceuticals to keep me both alive and kvetching. But over the past year or so visits to the pharmacy have morphed into something not unlike popping into the neighborhood watering hole.

I swing through the door and before I can claim a spot in line the friendly pharmacist offers a big wave and a smile with the hearty and familiar greeting, “Hi Mr. Garsten! Have your prescriptions coming right up!”

It’s as if I sidled up to the bar like a regular and having my favorite cocktail served up without the need to order. What’s next? Tipping the pharmacist so she’ll set me up every once in awhile with a free round of painkillers and some fruit flavored Tums to chew on while swapping stories of recent indigestion or infections?

“Oh yeah, Mr. G. I know what cha mean. That stabbing pain in the gut’s a bitch. Another Rolaids? It’s on the house. Here..take the whole roll.”

I’m not complaining, although having her announce my name for all to hear must be at odds with those HIPA privacy laws. That’s all I need is one of the “pharm-flies” hanging around the drug store, following me home, begging for any spare painkillers or a suppository for, you know, later.

Being hard of hearing made Ursula every pharmacy customer's worst nightmare.

Being hard of hearing made Ursula every pharmacy customer’s worst nightmare.

So while I appreciate the instant recognition and not having to announce my name, I’d just as soon my personal drug dispenser either quietly place my stuff in a bag without letting the entire world know exactly what my maladies happen to be, or at least allow me to whisper my name out of earshot of “Hemorrhoid Harry” waiting behind me in line for his weekly tube of relief.

I think on my next trip I’ll bust into the drug store, and before the pharm girl can holler her familiar greeting that includes my name I’m gonna exclaim, “I’m cured!” If she replies, “that’s great, Mr. Garsten,” I’m going mail order…with a stern warning to the postman.

Campaign Candy….If Trick or Treating Told the Story

Updated October 31, 2015

Instead of debates, I think we’d see the true measure of the Presidential candidates through their trick or treating techniques, since an important aspect of being an effective politician is begging for handouts.

halloweenpoliticsHere’s how I imagine it going down.

Hillary Clinton: “Trick or Treat! I’m counting on a fair appropriation of your sugary assets to sweeten my bulging campaign treasure chest and add to the goodies my party and I already promise to re-distribute once I’m elected.”

Donald Trump: “Are you a moron? This is no comic book trick or treat! You hand me minuscule Hershey Kisses when someone of my immense business acumen and ego is worthy of no less than a king sized Kit Kat bar. When I’m President losers like you and anyone with a foreign accent will be choking on M&Ms while true Americans will be dining on Snickers and Toblerones! In fact, I intend to build a wall around your lousy subdivision!”

Jeb Bush: “Trick or treat….please. My costume? Oh…I’m supposed to be masquerading as a viable candidate for President. At this point any donation will be appreciated. By the way, unlike my opponent Marco Rubio, I show up EVERY Halloween to beg for candy.”

Marco Rubio: “Hey, Bush Boy, you didn’t complain when John McCain missed a few Halloweens.  Besides..t’s getting late. My mom says I have to get home, but could you toss in a Milky Way?”

Dr. Ben Carson: Person at door: “What? What? Speak up man!” Carson: “Hey! That’s a ‘gotcha question!’ But if you insist, I’m here in hopes you might toss a bon bon or two in my bag. I firmly believe any variety of violent war crimes and the attempt to exterminate a race could have been avoided if the victims came supplied with Tootsie Rolls rather than Mary Janes. I’m sure you see the logic in that.”

Bernie Sanders: Doesn’t solicit sweets. Knocks on doors and gives out free candy to anyone who wants it.