How to Piss Off a Canadian

canadianelectionsThe Canadian elections remind of when CNN sent us to Ottawa to cover the elections up there. We were given a workspace in the CBC building, which we shared with some very intense guys from the BBC. Our minder was a thin, middle-aged man with scraggly white hair and a beard to match, a cigarette firmly planted in his puss and nicotine stains on his rumpled white shirt. “Come this way,” he urged us. “I’ll take you to a secret room!” So we followed him to what looked like the door to just another office. It wasn’t. It was a crowded, smoke-filled, space with a very full bar, very full of fairly looped CBC personnel. “What are you drinking?” he asked. We put in our orders, drank and ordered some more..all of which were on the house.
This was a terribly bad idea since I had to do some live shots with the esteemed CNN anchor Bernard Shaw. We were warned that Canadian law forbade us from giving any results until all the polls closed across the vast country. With a few shots of CBC’s potent hospitality in me, my judgment became quite clouded. So now I’m on the air with Mr. Shaw and in his booming baritone he asks, “ED! ARE ANY RESULTS IN YET?” “YES, BERNIE, SO AND SO IS OFF TO A HUGE LEAD IN THE EARLY RETURNS!” Uh oh. Our once friendly Canadian minder comes bursting into the room and his attitude has changed markedly and his face is now a deep shade of scarlet as he screams at me, “You have just broken Canadian federal law and will probably go to jail…you idiot!”
This made my next live shot a bit more difficult when I had to inform Mr. Shaw’s producer I was no longer permitted to give results until the last person in the Northwest Territories had tossed his/her parchment into the ballot box.
Of course those boys from the Beeb watched all this happening and could only remark, “Bit of a temper, eh?”

Ladies Who Lunge

ladies-who-lunch_0003I always enjoy eating lunch at a well-known coffee/bagel/sandwich/soup place that starts with a P. Why? The one I tend to go to is in a high-class area and is often populated by “ladies who lunch.” I’m amazed to see a group of them schlepping trays that would indicate they intended, at one time, to eat healthy, but after checking their biological clocks, said ‘screw it. I’m gonna eat as if I was about to walk the Green Mile.” For instance, on this day the very well dressed dowager was decked out in a faultless red ensemble including hat, jacket, skirt and rouge. On her tray, in escalating order of death wish were: cup of water, coffee, garden salad, roast beef sandwich, potato chips, and caramel-nut danish roughly the size of a mastodon’s head.
One of her companions chose a plaid outfit and covered her eczema breeding grounds with a magnificent pair of what looked like boots made of either ostrich or the upholstery from the back seat of a late-model Bentley, which she resembled in proportion and stance. On her tray was the largest cup of soda available and a straw too tall to fit comfortably in her mouth, which cause her first sip to be accomplished by her right nostril. The reservoir-sized soft drink served to swill down the tank of tuna stuffed into a baguette that resembled a torpedo that might have been fired from the Bismark. While she eschewed the chips, she could not resist the cinnamon raisin bagel that could have very well been used as a target for a blind archer.
Indeed, we felt totally inadequate slurping our relatively modest soups in bread bowls accompanied by cups of water, which incidentally, are free. Alas, we finished our lunch before we could see if the dining dowagers survived ingesting the loads on their individual feed lots, although I may have heard the faint call for a clean-up crew as we exited.

Goodbye Columbus

Columbus-DayAnother Columbus Day is upon us and damned, if we didn’t forget to decorate the house again. The big day just creeps up on us just as the scummy Italian explorer skulked onto the island of Hispaniola and promptly pillaged all the Dominican infielders in the name of King Ferdinand, who, up until that moment had a laughably losing fantasy baseball team.

When we were kids in New York City we had the day off school. They told us it was because Christopher Columbus discovered America, but we later found out it was because teachers received twofer coupons at the Olive Garden, even though the food isn’t remotely Italian.

Still, we learned about Columbus’s three ships, the Nina, the Pinta and the Santa Maria, which ostensibly brought him and his crew to North America on their voyage of discovery. Much later, historians made a startling discovery of their own, revealing many of the crew members took ill, some fatally, since those three vessels were actually early Carnival cruises.

Personally, I don’t see why Columbus got a holiday or cities in Ohio and Georgia since does anyone in their right minds truly believe a land mass as large as America wouldn’t have been found in short order? Truthfully, it was never lost since the native peoples living here were perfectly satisfied they had discovered the land on which they already lived. The fact that some white guy from Italy stumbled on it merely meant he discovered new foods on which to sprinkle garlic.

Truth is, what Columbus really discovered, was that he was terribly lost. Indeed, he was such a blithering idiot he probably couldn’t find his way around his namesake circle in Manhattan. After three fruitless circuits, I could hear him exclaim to his crew, “I’ve discovered Central Park and claim it for Italy!”

Yes, Columbus Day is certainly a worthwhile celebration if only because it’s an easier name to say than Vespucci.

Binging on The Bings…and Their Friends

friendsMy wife and I just lived 10 years in 3 months. That’s because we plowed through all 235 episodes of “Friends.” We boycotted the show during its run because we were loyal to “Seinfeld” and thought “Friends” was a sanitized, read that, “less New Yorky/Jewish” version even though it was set in New York and the siblings Ross and Monica Geller were Jewish. We were also loyal to Seinfeld because he dated a friend of mine for several years and attended my under grad college, SUNY Oswego, for a short time. To be sure, we never uttered a word to each other.

Oh yeah, we heard about the Ross and Rachel angst that lasted the entire run of the show and I think I saw somewhere, probably TV Guide, that Chandler and Monica got married, but that was it.

Here are my conclusions about what likely happened to the six characters after the finale:

1-The marriage between wisecracking Chandler and uptight control freak Monica would end when he replaces their twin babies’ diapers with fart cushions.

2-Dimwit actor-Lothario Joey is killed when he suffocates attempting to have sex with a box of styrofoam.

3-Free-spirit masseuse Phoebe goes on to a career massaging Bernie Sanders’s poll numbers

4-The beautiful fashion plate Rachel realizes wimpy, whiny Ross is not only a horrible, annoying mate, but his greasy, wet hair is actually a growing medium for morel mushrooms. She leaves him for a handsome mannequin she saw in the window of Saks. Ross says, “Oh darned!”

I’ll likely miss work for a few days while I use a mental enema to flush hearing peppy theme song, “I’ll Be There for You” 235 times.  As Chandler might say, “could that song BE any more cloying!”

I kinda preferred Phoebe’s “Smelly Cat.” After all, as the lyric goes, “it’s not your fault.”

My Northern Limits

leaf1Are you a leaf lemming? You know who you are. Around this time of year your internal nav system directs you to travel north to look at the turning leaves. It doesn’t seem to matter how far north you live..you need to go even north-er.

When I lived in Tucson, Arizona it made sense to travel north to the White Mountains or to Flagstaff since Tucson is in the desert and there are no leaves. Although the fools from whom we bought our little adobe home idiotically planted a mulberry tree in the front yard. The poor thing had a few limp leaves, but they never turned anything except crispy in the hot desert sun.

But when we moved to Atlanta, one of most lush cities in America, did I start to scratch my head over the annual migration north to look at leaves turning colors when you could sit on your back porch or patio with a cold beverage and see all you want. Hell, you could watch ‘em turn, fall and then go ahead and rake the suckers without leaving your leaf lair. But no, you were compelled to get in the car and travel to north Georgia or up to the Smokies to witness the natural pigment purging. Yes, those areas are quite scenic and I wouldn’t begrudge anyone their right to travel there. I’m just saying if you want to see orange or yellow leaves there are plenty nearby, or next to a tanning plant, except those leaves turn colors in the summer and spring too.

Now..let’s take the premise to the nth degree. In 1989 we moved more than 700 north to the Detroit area. That’s north, baby! But obviously not north enough. First of all, we quickly learned that Michiganders are obsessed with traveling Up North, which seems to be anywhere north of Bay City, or the nearest Gander Mountain store. They travel Up North year ‘round because evidently the doors on their real homes automatically lock each Friday at 4 p.m. rendering their keys useless. No place to go, but Up North.upnorth

So it was no surprise that come fall we were told you had to go Up North to marvel at the turning leaves. “But we used to go north to north Georgia and the Smokies to look at the leaves. We’re more than 700 miles north of that and you’re telling me we have to travel still further north to see the damn things cough up their chlorophyll?”

That had me wondering where year ‘round residents of Up North go to see the leaves turn. Then it occurred to me. Of course. That’s why we have the Upper Peninsula.up

Hi Times and Misdemeanors

hiI consider myself a pretty friendly person, always armed and ready with a “hi” for anyone I pass. But while taking a short walk with my son at a nearby park, it became evident that the simple salutation comes in many forms, and not always in the spirit of the greeting.

The usual M.O. is this: as you realize you are about to cross paths with another human, or group of them, you quickly size them up as to whether or not you will greet them and, if so, the degree of enthusiasm your “hi” will be. If it looks like the person or persons just decided rainbows are synonymous with chain restaurant salad bars, perhaps only an imperceptible grunt is in order. If it appears as if the couple just reenacted their honeymoon, then a bright smile accompanying a big, rousing, “HI!” is appropriate.

Today my son and I encountered a young couple who appeared to have just emerged from a manhole. Ostensibly in their late 20’s or early 30’s they were as unkempt as a third tier presidential candidate after a debate and just as surly. Nevertheless, we followed established hiking trail protocol and attempted a courteous, if not overly energetic “Hi!” The woman completely ignored us as the guy growled something that was unintelligible but more than the one syllable “hi” would require. My best guess was his rejoinder to our greeting was “yeahwuhuhhuhbrabwahfoo.”

On the other hand, my wife and I have been utterly delighted on several consecutive weekends to encounter a flotilla of Japanese canoeists passing us as we paddled along the Huron River. The occupants in the three boats never fail to wear big smiles and return our sincere “Hi’s” with even bigger “HIs!!!!”

howudoinWe’ve been tempted to act out our hidden Joey Tribbiani from the old show “Friends” by changing it up and asking “how YOU doin’?” Luckily we’re strict “Hi”constructionists, which should be fair warning for anyone considering hitting us with a brazen “good morning,” or “nice day.” Our motto: “Just pass by. Just say hi.” Bye.

A Yogi Memory

yogicardThe first time I saw Yogi in person was my first ballgame. It was 1961. The Yanks vs. Tigers. We were perched in the mezzanine of Yankee Stadium in left field and Yogi was taking a rare day away from the plate and playing the outfield. The old stadium, before its renovation in the ’70’s, was a tight place where you sat right over the field and we could almost hear Yogi breathe. Over and over again, as he awaited the next pitch, he took his hat off, then replaced it, then got stock still anticipating the crack of the bat and the chance he’d need to make a play. He did make a few and his skills as an occasional outfield seem to be lost in time. Roger Maris hit two of his historic 61 homers that day, the Yanks won, but so did my dad, my brother and I as we watched Yogi Berra, just below us..now he’s looking down on us..probably wondering, “I like this place..it’s like heaven.”yogiyoohoo If I can find one here in Michigan, a Yoo-hoo will be tipped in his honor. As Yogi used to say in the commercials, “Me for Yoo-hoo…fudge bars too-hoo.” Boo hoo. RIP Yogi.

Ducats to Davnen

holidayticketsSmack in the middle of the Jewish High Holidays, my thoughts run to the concept of

buying tickets to attend Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur services. These are the two most important holidays in the Jewish calendar signifying the New Year, and, in effect a new start, as we seek forgiveness for sins we committed the previous year and a shot at making it into the Book of Life, which is like being friended by Him, so we can live to do it all over again next year.

In general, one cannot sashay up to the synagogue, pop on a yarmulke and take a seat in the sanctuary without coughing up some serious shekels. I should mention, however, many congregations offer free tickets to newcomers to the area or those who just afford them.

Unlike Christian houses of worship, Jewish law forbids handling money on the Sabbath or on High Holidays, so there’s no plate passing to help fund the place.

So we charge admission. As a kid in Hebrew school, we paid 50 cents to score a seat in the small children’s services, which were held in a basement lined with unsold cases of soda and styrofoam stuff. But that escalated to 3 bucks as we hit our teens and then, oy, it could get as high as about $200 for the privilege of schtupping yourself in a seat in the main sanctuary where the actual rabbi and cantor ran the show. In today’s world, one might find the coveted “main sanctuary tickets” available on Schlub Hub at a premium, of course, including fees, or on Chaim’s List. But some of those schmucks can be sketchy mama’s boys. 

If you didn’t mind a rent-a-rabbi, you could pay about 50 bucks and pray in the ballroom,  where the Sh’ma might be interrupted by the sound of crashing dishes in the kitchen or wafts of smoke from the janitor’s Cigarillos sneaking out from the spot where he slept instead of mopping the floor where the old men dropped their after-service balls of gefilte fish because they drank too much of the free Canadian Club or J&B scotch available on the Kiddush table. Note. No Kiddush on Yom Kippur when we’re all supposed to be fasting, before retreating to Don’s Chinese Restaurant across Union Turnpike from our synagogue, the Bellerose Jewish Center in Queens.  So, the old men would get drunk before fasting, which only served to make them more unstable and utterly unable to pronounce any of the Hebrew prayers. But they meant well and always enjoyed the nap during the rabbi’s sermon.

When I tell my Christian friends you have to buy tickets to pray during the High Holidays they invariably express their dismay and secret admiration for our very efficient fund-raising method since everyone pays the same price and no one can just slap the plate and stiff the congregation.

Really, one of my Hebrew School teachers put it quite succinctly when he described why we sell tickets. Mr. Rosenberg, a stout man with slicked back grey hair, a jowly red face and a blunt attitude explained there are those Members of the Tribe who only showed up to synagogue once a year on the High Holidays, taking their prayer shawls out of storage and never paying membership dues.  “You can smell them,” he barked and smiled at the same time. “Those camphor-ball Jews.”  Yup….seen carrying their talithim...and tickets.

Behind the Walls of 9-11

IMG_1695Everyone has their recollections of September 11, 2001. I do too. I was working at the Associated Press Detroit Bureau and watched the terror on the little 19-inch TV before I was dispatched to Detroit-Metro Airport to cover a news conference. But that’s not what I want to recall today. I want to recall how, as a college student working at the New York City Comptroller’s office during the summer of 1970, I walked by the World Trade Center construction site every day during my lunch hour. Sometimes it was fascinating as I watched the construction crew fit together like Legos the distinctive superstructure panels. Other times it was hilarious. It was the summer of hot pants and it seemed as if every Wall Street secretary was wearing them to work. As they strolled down Church Street they stirred the juices of the lunching construction boys who wore big grins, offered to accompany them to the nether sections of the site for an I-beam nooner, or lustily shouted, “hey, Rocky Mountains!” The ladies invariably took no offense and generally laughed it off as they continued on their way.

Why do I tell you this story? Because it reminds me of the lives connected with the structures that remain the photographic symbols of that day of terror. It reminds me of the smiling, lascivious  construction boys who spent their sweat and strength to build the World Trade Center to enable thousands of other people to pursue the careers that would provide them their livelihoods and abilities to finance their life’s dreams and goals, or simply a great bicycle for their son or daughter, or vacation for their family, or a meal at the best restaurant in town.  It reminds me that workplaces like the World Trade Center, the Pentagon, corporate headquarters or the mom and pop corner store, are where we blithely drag our butts every day to do some sort of work we think will make the world a better place through a product or service or expert counsel or maybe make a kid happy by selling him or her a Snickers bar and a Coke. We perform our tasks believing we’re in a safe haven, except for maybe an unyielding boss or a co-worker heating up halibut in the microwave–not airborne bombs aimed at ending our peaceful lives.IMG_1688

I suppose one day, not soon, we’ll feel differently on the day now known as 911. But as long as I’m around I’ll always remember those guys I passed every day that summer of ’70 who built the Twin Towers and the people who lost their lives working there and those who lost their lives trying to save others.  And most importantly, that our symbols…those buildings…were only inanimate containers of the living, breathing contributors to our society, taken from us by those aimed at destroying it.

My Labor Day Wish List

relaxinglabordayIn honor of Labor Day, I’d like to offer 10 ideas for making the workplace much more fun and rewarding:

1-Immediately fire anyone who attempts to cook fish in the office microwave oven

2-Start every meeting by announcing, “anyone who expects concrete actions to result from the next hour should step forward and tell the group where your misguided optimism comes from.” This not only exposes those in the group who are abusing drugs, but lets the leader know how truly ineffective he/she is.

3-Allow anyone sentenced to a cubicle to convert it into a Tupperware container, thereby keeping out human bacteria and mold. Plus, it’s always a morale booster to hear the cute little burp when you seal the top.

4-Rig the office copier so it can read and understand what documents are being duplicated. Not only would this expose who is using the copier for personal reasons, but it would be a hoot if it could announce the contents of the document to the rest of the office, such as, “Morty is renewing his prescription for Viagra! Sophia just registered for a vacation on a nude beach!”

laborday5-At least once a year the boss should be told what’s really going on in the office and offered early retirement.

6-Every time someone asks about ROI or KPI they are immediately rendered DOA.

7-Install an actual watercooler. Too much gossip is exchanged by email and text, thereby making overhearing some delicious scandalous nugget virtually impossible.

8-Just as a joke, on payday announce the entire office will be tithed 20 percent of their pay to support the cleaning staff’s ammonia habit.

9- Once a week it would be cool if the CEO walked around headquarters with a big smile asking workers, “do you believe this shit?”

10-Instead of annual raises, employees are invited to raid the supply cabinet for all the pens and Scotch tape they can fit in their backpacks. Oh, crap..they already do that.