Hey You Hoser

Whatever the Question, Chicken Soup is the Answer

2012-01-26T18:24:00.000-08:00

In 1993 an enterprising duo of inspirational speakers published a book called “Chicken Soup for the Soul.” It was a huge hit and spawned an endless parade of subsequent titles. In the 19 intervening years, Chicken Soup has become the kudzu of the literary world, engulfing just about every aspect of human need, condition, classification and emotion possible. Almost 200 titles have been published.

Consider the following Chicken Soup subjects:

From General Souls we now have Specific Souls: Chicken Soup for the Girl’s Soul, the Recovering Soul, the Prisoner’s Soul, the Bride’s Soul, the New Mom’s Soul, PreTeens soul, Teenage Soul, Romantic Soul, Couple’s Souls, even one dedicated to Messages from Heaven. As well as College Souls, Entrepreneur Souls and Military Wife’s Souls. If you want to see the complete list, check out the link at the end of this post.

And here’s the shrewdest part of all. Most of those stories are written by the people who read the books, albeit with some editors’ input. It seems almost everyone on this planet has a story to share.

I almost submitted a story during a recent call for submissions. The subject of an upcoming book was “Chicken Soup for the Soul: I Can’t Believe My Dog Did That.” I thought about my dog Sadie, a golden retriever. She’s very smart. Among other accomplishments, she retrieves two newspapers every morning, the NY Times and the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. She brings them in, holds them in her mouth until I take them from her, then walks over and slams the door shut. That, I thought, might be worth a Chicken Soup contribution. But as with so many of my ideas, I waited too long and the Nov. 30 deadline passed. Sadie knew I missed it and was miffed, because one week later she brought in the papers as usual, and gave me the Post. This time, however, she took the Times over to the dining room table, slipped the blue plastic cover off the paper, took out the sports section, spread it on the table with her paws, then looked at me and said, in a clear, gentle voice reminiscent of Dame Judi Densch, “Looks to me as though Eli and the Giants will end up in the Super Bowl.” Then she gave me a look that said, clearly, “Don’t miss the next deadline, pal.”

At the time I didn’t think the Giants had a chance. In retrospect, I’m sorry she didn’t make her prediction before Nov. 30. I would’ve submitted something for sure.

A couple of days ago my daughter, Holly, informed me she had a sore throat. I suggested tea and honey, gargle with salt water, and lots of chicken soup. The kind in a bowl, not soft-bound. She said she had done the tea and honey, but not the chicken soup. Then my wife reminded me: Holly’s a vegetarian. That took me right into a very exciting concept: A line of books for vegetarians. Call it the Lentil Soup series: Lentil Soup for the Vegetarian’s Soul,” “..for the Salad Lover’s Soul,” “..for the Beans and Rice Soul,” “...for the Tofu Soul.” And even, “Lentil Soup for People Who Don’t Like Chicken Soup.” That would be a limited edition, maybe for some Third World nation that holds the chicken to be sacred.

I’ll keep working on that concept. Maybe a “Tomato Soup” series for Nursing Home Residents. Ideas are welcome.

Here’s one more idea before I end this. A line of books for atheists, or any other group that doesn’t believe in a soul. “Chicken Soup for the Atheist’s Soul” will be 8 blank pages and a coupon good for 3 cans of Progresso Chicken Noodle Soup.

http://www.chickensoup.com/cs.asp?cid=titles

Last Night's Golden Globes

2012-01-16T10:05:00.000-08:00

A few quick responses and comments, in no particular order or importance, after watching the Golden Globes on Sunday night.
- I want to be George Clooney.
- Jane Fonda has no idea what "aging" means.
- Meryl Streep either had too much wine, too little sleep, or lost her reading glasses.
- A little Ricky Gervais goes a long way.
- Tilda Swinton's hairdresser must be in a work/release program.
- I want to be a good looking Harvey Weinstein. He has impeccable judgment when it comes to picking movies to produce.
- I wish I could find time to watch a lot of those nominated TV shows.
- Some terrific writing is going on in Hollywood these days, both in comedy and drama. Too bad more of it doesn't seep over to the feature film side.
- Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert should have won something, anything.
- I wonder what they had for dinner. They never mention the menu.
- Tilda Swinton's hairdresser should be arrested for cruel and unusual hair treatment.
- Tilda Swinton should be arrested for wearing it.
- They should limit each winner to one "thank you." More than that, they get the hook.
- While they're at it, prohibit any mention of agents, managers, producers, and entire casts and crews.
- Peter Dinklage has some kind of guts and inner strength. How else could a 3-foot tall man, who isn't by any stretch of the imagination "cute," decide to become an actor? And succeed.
- Speaking of Dinklage, I can't wait for "Game of Thrones" to return.
- I felt the warm rush of humility when Michelle Williams accepted her reward.
- I feel as though I must be the only person in America who doesn't watch "Modern Family."
- I wonder how they got Robert Downey Jr. to come out, in a tux, at the end of a long show, and say only 14 words: "The nominees for best motion picture, drama, are:...." and "And the winner is The Descendants." Maybe they gave him a lot of money.
- Sidney Poitier still has dignity, but I wish he would've smiled at least once. Even smirked, the way he did at Rod Steiger in "In the Heat of the Night."
- I wish I was George Clooney's friend.

Charlie Chaplin Night

2012-01-07T11:48:00.000-08:00

Tonight is Charlie Chaplin Night on TCM. If you don't have the DVD's of his films, it's a great way to see 5 of his greatest features and 4 of his shorts. It starts at 7:00 pm (CST) with "City Lights," followed by "Modern Times," "A Dog's Life," "Shoulder Arms," "The Kid," "The Idle Class," "Pay Day," "The Circus," and "The Gold Rush" at 3:45 am.

So take a nap this afternoon so you can stay up all night. I believe the program repeats in 3 months, on April 16, his birthday. Here's a link:

http://www.tcm.com/this-month/article/461149|0/Chaplin-As-The-Little-Tramp.html

The Christmas Snail

2011-12-19T10:23:00.000-08:00

There’s an old joke that seems appropriate about now. It goes like this.

A man is in his living room one night when there’s a knock at the door. He opens it and there, at his feet, stands a small snail. The man grabs the snail and flings it as far as he can, across the street into a neighbor’s yard. He closes the door. One year later, the man is again in his living room when he hears a knock at the door. He opens it and the same snail is standing there. The snail looks up at the man and says, “So... what was that all about?”

I thought of that snail the other day when I went to The Mall. Doesn’t matter which mall, does it? It’s like asking, “Which Denny’s did you eat at?”

Long lines of traffic lined the highway and roads leading into the parking lots and garages,an annual pilgrimage. Like a Ridley Scott movie where an endless column of Roman soldiers, stretching to the horizon, march resolutely to lay siege to the castle.

As I walked from the garage through some sliding doors into The Mall, I saw signs on the doors with two words. “Shop More.” It meant stores are open later, I think until midnight or 2 a.m. or dawn. The deeper meaning was obvious.

The mood inside The Mall was energetic, to say the least. People moved in all directions, Christmas music seeped through the very walls and ceiling. People on cell phones or hands-free mobile devices seemed to talk to themselves or passing strangers or to the air. People carried logo-decorated bags large and small. Their attitudes covered the range from fun and relaxed to frantic and stressed.

I saw Macy’s at the end of The Mall. Its logo took on a new meaning. The Red Star. I used to equate the Red Star with the Red Army back in the good old days of World War 2. But now it became a religious beacon, calling out to shoppers, guiding the Three Wise Shoppers looking for 20% off, plus another 10% for using their Macy’s charge.

The swirling shoppers, the patient traffic, the determination and enthusiasm, the sales. Always the sales. It’s the same scene as last year, the year before, and every year before that, stretching back to the horizon.

On Christmas night, after the nation has unwrapped presents, admired choices and colors and considerations, hugged and kissed each other, thrown another log on the fire or poured another cup of coffee or glass of wine ... on that night I will drive by The Mall. I will scan the vacant lot and empty garage, the empty roads, the dark and silent buildings. And I will think about that snail.

And I will wonder, “What was that all about?”

I wish you a happy and peaceful holiday season, that you enjoy and appreciate your family and friends, that the season brings you all closer together and pushes problems further away. That your hugs last more than three seconds. The realization that some presents are transitory and can be returned on Monday. Just keep in mind, the time we have together is precious. Use it wisely.

The Captain, The Witch and The Writer

2011-12-11T08:22:00.000-08:00

The first time I saw her, she had a green face, a long, sharp nose that looked more like a weapon, and she told Dorothy, “I’ll get you, my pretty. And your little dog, too.” She was a witch and she scared me. I almost dropped my box of Jujubees. Fortunately she eventually melted into a puddle with only her pointed hat resting on top.

The next time I saw her she was sitting in a chair, sans green face and hat, talking to Captain 11. That was in the studio of Channel 11, next door to the Chase Hotel. I worked there at some lowly writing and producing job for $40 a week. Minimum wage. Twenty years had passed and I was meeting Margaret Hamilton, the Wicked Witch of the West. This was probably 1961.

I had forgotten all about this event until I came across a couple of old photos in an envelope recently, while attempting to “organize” my stuff. Hercules had an easier time with the stables. (My lone, pathetic reference to Greek mythology). Margaret was a charming, graciouis guest and still making movies, though I don't know what she was doing in St. Louis.

The Captain was Harry Fender, a former St. Louis detective and host of a late night radio show from the Steeplechase Lounge of the Chase Hotel. His claim to fame was that he had turned down an offer from Florenz Ziegfield to appear in the opening of a new musical on Broadway when he was just a boy. The show was “Showboat.”

Now Harry wore a white wig, an ill-fitting sea-captain’s uniform, and did his best to entertain little kids on the daily TV show, which was “live” and showed old Dick and Larry cartoons, and Three Stooges shorts.

The program was “Captain 11 and JoJo,” and his partner was Joe Cuscanelli, a young man with a beautiful operatic voice who had taken the part of Captain 11’s foil just to pay his bills. He disliked children almost as much as Harry did.

Margaret, of course, held the children spellbound. As she did me and everyone else in the studio, including Harry and Joe. After all, this was one of the great villains of the day, maybe even of the century. I didn’t get her autograph; I didn’t have my picture taken with her. I just shook hands, said "hi," and stared at her, surprised at how young she was.

Maybe I was still afraid of her awesome power, that she would turn the flying monkeys loose or strike me with a bolt of lightning. I think I would have preferred meeting the Cowardly Lion. Now he was a funny guy.

A Case for Dooley Downs

2011-12-02T13:21:00.000-08:00

We all know the economy is in grim shape. Revenues are down, expenses are up. What’s a fella to do? Well, in the case of Chuck Dooley, the answer is simple: cut your expenses. I learned that in Accounting 101. Which I got a D in, by the way. The other method is to increase income. I’ll get to that part.

Dooley, in case you don’t live in The City by the Arch, is the County Executive for St. Louis County.

Doctor Dooley intends to remedy the situation by closing several St. Louis County parks. We’ve heard lots of news coverage on that one. Angry letters to publishers and media and websites. Vocal opposition en masse. “Don’t close our parks,” they say. “We need our parks.” Well, maybe “yes,” maybe “no.”

It would be helpful to look at it from the other side. You know, walk a mile in my shoes, or something like that. So here I am walking in Dooley’s Cole Haan slip-ons, and I’m thinking, “Hmmm, close the parks. Maybe close a whole lot of parks. We’ve got too many anyway. Empty land just sitting there. Think of all the money that’ll save. And I seldom have time for a picnic.”

So I’ve come around to Professor Dooley’s point of view. He’s right. Close ‘em up. Lock the gates. But he doesn’t take the idea far enough. He needs a bold vision, a significant and non-retractable stroke to shape the future. Well, here it is - my bold vision to address the lack of monetary balance in the County budget right now. First, we close ALL the parks. Lay off all those people who keep the parks clean, cleared, trimmed, patched, accessible and whatever else they do. But don’t fire the folks at the top. The ones who tend to the parks from their desks. Keep them on your administrative staff. Maybe even add some staff (More about that in a minute).

Let’s face it, who needs parks? They just use up a lot of space. Who needs to walk or sit or run or bike, have a picnic when the weather’s nice? Crazy stuff like meditate and write poems and feel closer to whatever is out there or up there. That’s lazy stuff, isn’t it? No productivity in that. And what we need now, more than ever, is productivity. I’m sorry, but walking your dog on a beautiful spring day, looking at new leaves emerging from winter, hearing the twitter of little birds and the rustle of a slight breeze.... what kind of income do you think that actually produces? “Not a feeble farthing,” as Dickens said.

So, Mr. Dooley, here’s my vision, and you can have it. Free. Close all the parks. Cut down all the trees. Sell the lumber. (estimated income: $3.76 million). Rescind any charter or agreement that holds the parks sacred and protected, and sell the land to real estate developers. But with a codicil in the public interest: Only “green” construction. (estimated income: $568 million). Levy a tax on the construction there: condos, retirement centers, malls, sports arenas, casinos. (estimated annual income: TBD but huge).

There you have it, Mr. Dooley. More money than you ever knew what to do with. And what do you do with it? Why, that grand plan to build Dooley Towers in the heart of Clayton. A 45-story building to house your administrative staff. Even add a few people just to maintain a sense of self-respect and to reward some political allies. A building worthy of Dubai, with your name in neon at the very top. With plenty of money left over.

That leaves all those people... and, really, just how many are there? .... who want a place to walk or wander or sit around. Just like the song in West Side Story says, “there’s a place for them.” Use all that empty space that was once parking lots for abandoned Wal-Marts and Targets and Shop ‘n Save and Builder’s Square and Circuit City. Paint paths on them, add an occasional PortaPotty, stick a few folding chairs around for those that insist on sitting, and maybe hang some stuffed robins and blue jays from the parking lot lamp posts.

Call them Dooley Downs.

See how simple that was? Dooley Downs. Followed by Dooley Towers. It proves if you just apply that old American ingenuity, no problem is too big to overcome.

A Pasta Thanksgiving

2011-11-28T10:03:00.000-08:00

Some traditions are meant to keep, others to be - if not broken - slightly revised. So it was with our Thanksgiving. We kept the tradition of "family" alive by meeting our daughter and son in New York City over the weekend. Holly lives there, Gregg flew in from Chicago. As one cab driver told us, in his melodious mix of Chinese and English, "Thanksgiving is for families, Christmas is for staying home." Not once did he mention "shopping."

Thanks to a friend of Holly's, we watched the Thanksgiving Day Parade, aka Macy's Parade (speaking of shopping), from the 25th-floor rooftop of a condo building on Central Park West. The Tradition continued. Here's what it looked like.

After all, what's Turkey Day without Kermit, Ronald MacDonald and Spiderman? Talk about tradition: there was no Shrek or Buzz Lightyear or even a Twilight-style Vampire. Some lines you just don't cross. This was the first time I'd seen this event in person. Years past, I watch about 10 minutes on TV until the football game starts or I go back to sleep, usually the latter. I much prefer it in person, with my family, from the top of a building, away from the riff-raff, on a mild, sunny day with a Central Park in color transition across the way, the towers of Manhattan stacked to the south, and 3 days ahead of me in The Big Apple or, today, The Big Drumstick.

Well, not really a drumstick. This is where the tradition ends. We gathered for Thanksgiving dinner at a marvelous little Italian restaurant near The Village, picked out by Holly. Pepolino is one of those small, cozy, family-run restaurants that have no ambition to enlarge, add-on, modify, improve. It's perfect as-is. Our waiter did the Italian thing beautifully, heavy accent but clear enough to make out the important words, like "specialty," "delicious," "vino," and "here's your bill."

We all had pasta. Home-made. I remember my veal lasagna; never had anything like it and want it again. You know what? I did not miss my usual turkey leg, dressing, yams, and pumpkin pie. I can always get that at Denny's.

A final note on Thanksgiving: Small's. A small, downstairs jazz club in The Village, which featured a progressive quartet, led by a young bald guy on bass and a balding, older guy on tenor in an unattractive long-sleeve shirt decorated with bass (fish, not instrument), with a mother of a piano player and hard-swinging, tasty drummer. Small's, as in "small world." The owner went to the same high school I did, U. City. Only he graduated three decades later. Some things just happen, right? How did we end up talking about high school in a jazz bar in the Village? That's a story for a different time.

Yes, it was a Thanksgiving for the books, traditions and all.

A Pause Before the Turkey

2011-11-21T13:43:00.000-08:00

It's been a tough year, right? And it's not over yet. But looking back over the past 11 months, there are a few things I will not give even a small "thanks" for.

Let's start with the weather. In a word, it sucked. Except for a stretch of 3 or 4 weeks in late summer/early fall. But how about those tornadoes? I used to think it'd be cool to see one, for real, not on the weather channel or a high-budget sci-fi flick. No more. Anytime the skies begin turning green, the wind picks up, and distant sirens wail, I'm going to head for the basement and watch a stack of old movies on my hand-powered DVD player.

Autumn was colorless, thanks to lack of rain. Winter hurt. Especially at 10 at night when my dog expects a walk. This winter I'm training her to use the flush toilet. And think of the plastic poop bags I'll save.

The weather has become as unpredictable as the stock market.

Onward to the Economy: Jobs. Demonstrations. Greed. Madoff Fall-out. China. The new four-letter dirty words: Bank. Debt. Rams. And a St. Louis County Executive who thinks the answer to balancing the budget is to close up County Parks, at the same time he's hiring administrative staff. An advanced case of muddled priorities. 'Nuff said.

Politics. The End of Bipartisanship. Ugly undercurrents. Nasty sound bytes and angry faces. Don't get me started.

So here is what I give thanks for. My wife, my kids, my dog, my health. Good friends. My brother. The Cardinals. The Daily Show with Jon Stewart. An occasional good movie and even some good TV, as in Dexter, Homeland, and the new Woody Allen doc. Good jazz available on a limited basis, the St. Louis Symphony, the blues (hear 'em, not have 'em), a right shoulder that still lets me serve and hit an occasional forehand winner. Sumatriptin (if you get migraines, you know what I'm talking about). And the joy of writing, which I don't do nearly enough of but enjoy when I do. Like this one.

Happy Thanksgiving.

The Talk We Need - A Veterans Day Thought

2011-11-11T06:34:00.000-08:00

There's a lot of talk these days everywhere you turn. Sometime taking a position, giving an opinion, analyzing a situation, criticizing someone. On TV and radio, on cell phones. Even cartoons, if you believe that. An article in the NY Times says cartoons these days are loaded with dialogue while lacking movement. They're right. Road Runner doesn't talk, neither did Tom and Jerry. They moved, we laughed. Then of course there's Charlie Chaplin who made the world laugh and cry without saying a word.

So what's the point of this diatribe? Veterans Day. Today. Look back more than six decades ago, to World War 2. A lot of our troops never came home. Sadly, tens of thousands died in Europe and the Pacific. Most of our men came home though. But there's a sadness in that as well. Because so many of them never talked about what happened there, what they saw, how it affected them. And what they carry with them now, more than 60 years later. It’s not easy for them to talk about their experiences, especially to their families. But isn’t it a shame that these men who earned the right to talk have chosen to keep it all in? Tim Russert of “Meet the Press” said they possess a “quiet eloquence.” I like that. Quiet eloquence.

I used to play senior softball with a guy named Charlie. He’s 85 years old now. I told him about a book I had read, called “Flags of Our Fathers.” It’s the story of a young man who learns that his dad was one of the six guys who raised the flag on Iwo Jima in 1945. He found out about it after his dad had passed away. Charlie said, “Gerry, I was on Iwo too.” He surprised me. I knew he was a Marine, but not much else. I asked him if he’d ever told his wife or his kids about what he went through. He said, “They never asked, they didn’t seem interested. Anyway we were just doing a job.” Quiet eloquence. Still, I could feel there were undercurrents in his life he didn’t want to acknowledge.

I wonder how many stories and memories are locked up. How many sons and daughters, and grand children, will never know what Pop or Grandpa went through. Time keeps on moving. The older we get, the faster it moves. I hope there’s time for these men to bring their families into their past. I hope they talk about it. It’s the kind of talk we need.

Whole Lotta Chewin' Goin' On

2011-10-17T12:57:00.000-07:00

Watching the Cardinals beat the Brewers last night, I was struck by three things. First, how far the Birds have come since August, when they had been counted out. (I was among the counters). Second, how exciting it was to have a World Series again in St. Louis. Forget the fact that Standing Room tickets on StubHub are going for $400, so if you want an actual seat, you'll need to check on your home equity line of credit. And third - and the reason for this post - is how many guys were chewing bubble gum. Did you see them? Grown men, getting millions of dollars a year, dressed in spiffy uniforms, blowing the big pink orbs, popping them on camera. I can't say bubble gum was in the majority. An awful lot of guys were spitting sunflower seeds on cue. (An aside: Who's the guy that comes in after the game and sweeps up all those shells. And does he sell them on eBay?)

Here's my big wonderment: Why are there no bubble gum commercials in the games? Talk about product placement, you couldn't ask for better. It's almost as prevalent as bottles of Bud in a bar scene. So I spent a little Google time on bubble gum. I thought, there should be an official bubble gum of Major League Baseball. Well, surprise. There is. No, not Dubble Bubble or Topps. It's Big League Chew. Made by Wrigley. Invented, in 1980 by two teammates on the Portland Mavericks. Rob Nelson and Jim Bouton. According to Bouton, he saw Rob chewing bubble gum, and Rob said to Jim, "Too bad they don't sell this kinda stuff." And Jim, a go-for-it kinda guy, said "Great idea, Rob. I'll put up the money if you make it." The rest is chewing gum history. They made their bubble gum, took it to Wrigley, and now, 30 years later, one-half BILLION bags have been sold.

I just wonder how many more bags they'd sell if they advertise. Unusual business move here: Wrigley sold the distribution rights to Ford Gum and Machine Company, of Akron, NY, in 2010. And now for the change-of-pace. It's made in Mexico.

Here's what it looks like, just in case you want to try a "chaw." Big League even has a theme line. "You're in the big leagues when you're into Big League Chew."

In case you're wondering if only baseball players chew Big League, take a look at this. I'm going to run over to Walgreen's and big me a bag.

AUGUST 18

2011-08-17T20:15:00.000-07:00

Several years ago I found myself in a second-hand bookstore in Independence, Missouri. A small, storefront kind of place on the town square, within shouting distance of Harry Truman's home. I wasn't looking for anything in particular. A used bookstore just seemed the right place to be in a town with as much history as this.

In between the shelves and stacks of books, shoved against a faded brown wall, I saw a couple of bins of old photographs. I'm fascinated by those old black and white shots. They carry an innate power that transcends the decades, as though the people and places still exist in some other realm. I flipped through one bin, stopping occasionally to examine a face or a building. Then I noticed that the other bin held some panoramic photos. The long kind, taken with a special camera. I took more time to look at these.

That's when the line of doughboys stopped me, held my attention. Here was a picture of a company of American soldiers about to embark for Europe and the bloodletting of World War One. The date on the photo was August 18, 1917. America was entering the war, about a year before it ended. I bought it.

When I got home, I framed the picture. It hangs on the wall in my office, where it's been for the past 15 or 20 years. I remember the date. It's today. A special day for me. Today the picture carries more meaning than ever, because I have just finished reading a new history of WWI. "To End All Wars" by Adam Hochschild. Powerful stuff, beautifully written, important.

One of the poets to write of the War was Siegfried Sassoon, who served valiantly in the British army. Here is the final stanza of his poem "The Troops":

"...And through some mooned Valhalla there will pass
Battalions and battalions, scarred from hell;
The unreturning army that was youth;
The legions who have suffered and are dust."

And I wonder how many of those beautiful young men from Company A, 1st NY Infantry, at Utica, NY, all smartly uniformed and fit and ready to fight, I wonder just how many came home, sound of body and mind. That company of men all in a row on that special day. August 18. My birthday.

The Day She Came Back

2011-07-31T15:36:00.000-07:00

Two weeks ago, on a hot Saturday morning, Shawn called from KC. "I'm on my way," he said. True to his word, he was bringing the Olds to St. Louis. I wasn't sure what to do for the next 4 or 5 hours. Usually it's like straighten up the living room, vacuum, stuff like that. But this was the first time I'd ever prepared to welcome a car. And an old one, at that. Given the hot day - climbing into the mid-90's - I was worried about the car making it the 250 miles. So I straightened up the driveway, picked up some dead branches. I probably would've vacuumed it if the cord would've reached.

At 2:30 he called. "I'm at the Loew's parking lot in Kirkwood," he said. "I'll be there in a few minutes." Loews? What did he do, come to St. Louis to go shopping? Turns out, he trailered the car in. Smart move. He wanted to drive up to my house in the car.

A half hour later I was standing at the top of my driveway, waiting, listening, remembering. How would she look? How would she sound? How would I feel about someone else driving her? I waited and sweated, held the camera at the ready. Before long I heard the deep purr of a not-new car. A deep rumble. And there, around the bend in our street, came the '65 Olds Jetstar.

If you've ever gone back to the house where you grew up, the grade school you attended, met an old girl friend you'd lost contact with, even pulled out a high school year book or an old baseball glove.... if you've ever done any of those, then you know how I felt. Joy. Sadness. Excitement. Longing. A feeling that all is right with the world, that some of the good things of life will always be there for you. And one other compelling feeling that I come to experience more often these days. The feeling of time gone by, all too quickly.

A poem came to mind, days later.

"Across the fields of yesterday,
he sometimes comes to me.
A little lad just back from play,
the boy I used to be."

Not to belabor this nostalgic event, I'll just say the car was all I had hoped it to be. And Shawn was the right person to own it. For he deeply cared about it, wanted it to be perfect, had worked hard to recreate its beauty, knew more about cars than I did. I had forgotten how well designed the car was, a low, streamlined, powerful presence. How magnificent the dark and light blues were. I drove it around the neighborhood, feeling strangely comfortable in it. Shawn and Mary Lee and I visited for a long time. He told of his endless search for parts, his efforts to restore it as close to the day that I bought it, the same year Mary Lee and I were married.

That evening we drove to Blueberry Hill for dinner. Top down. Shawn was behind the wheel; I didn't want to risk hitting something. The 3 of us sat in front. You could do that in those old convertibles. Drove up and down Delmar afterwards, ala "American Graffiti." Then hamburgers for dinner.

The evening ended too quickly, and Shawn decided he was going back to KC that same night. After taking Mary Lee home, I followed him to Loew's and helped him put the Olds back on the trailer. We shook hands, promised to stay in touch, and he said he'd bring her back when he had finished all he wanted to do. Then, for the second time in my life, I watched her roll away, into the night at the edge of the parking lot.

One reassuring thought stays with me. After 46 years, both my marriage and my Olds are still running. It doesn't get much better than that.

Is You Is or Is You Ain't?

2011-07-17T15:42:00.000-07:00

I admit, I like non-alcohol beers occasionally. I like the taste, and I like not falling asleep shortly thereafter while watching TV. However, I noticed something rather unusual recently on an O'Doul's label. Not only unusual but contradictory. I think. O'Doul's label says "non-alcoholic." (see photo above)

It also says, in smaller type, "contains less than 0.5% alcohol by volume." (see second photo above) Now that says to me it contains alcohol, it's just less than .5%. Does that mean if I drink 10 O'Doul's (or any of the other "non-alcohol" brews), I'll have drunk the equivalent of a "real" beer? There is probably a legal description or escape clause somewhere that helps legitimize this. Granted, I don't fall asleep after having one or two. Another non-alcohol beer is high on my list of favorite brews: Buckler. It's made by Heineken. Talk about full, rich beer taste. I think it's what Joe Biden drank in that strange presidential beer blast last year. Buckler, too, "contains less than 0.5 etc". Not a big deal, really. Just wondering if anyone has any insight into that category.

Immortality on the Can

2011-07-07T13:53:00.000-07:00

The bright blue can sits in front of me, next to my plate of BBQ ribs, slaw and 3-bean salad. The occasion is a group of friends who have gathered at our house for a last-minute pre-July 4th celebration. Which means eat and drink, with only verbal fireworks.

I’m a black belt master of BBQ, which is evidenced by my rub, my sauce, and my backhanded basting technique. All I will tell you about the rub is that I use garlic powder, paprika, ground black pepper, chili powder, and a couple of secret ingredients from the lower shelves at Schnucks. My sauce is classified, right next to the government file on time-travel experiments.

But I digress.

I pick up the blue can with the red and blue letters and a picture of a glass of beer. Large beads of sweat trickle down the can. St. Louis humidity makes for an appetizing product shot. I read the label while someone at the table tells a story about being questioned by the FBI in some sort of real estate scam. The financial concepts are beyond me. So I stare at the can and four words capture my attention. Four simple words. Two separate thoughts. One immortal marketing campaign.

And my imagination takes off.

Return with me now to those thrilling days of yesteryear. But don’t cue the thundering hoofbeats of the great horse Silver. This is a different yesteryear.

Once upon a time, in an office far away, a young copywriter - at least I picture him as young - and as a “him” - sat at his desk and pondered his assignment. Ideas were due the following day. Lines, themes, concepts. Anything that might sell the product.

In front of him, next to his note book and index cards and layout pad and felt tip pen, sat a can and a bottle of Miller Lite Beer.

The year was 1972. The agency was McCann-Erickson. And the category of “light beer” was an invisible blip on brewery radars. Guys drank real beer, like Bud and Schlitz and Pabst and Miller High Life. Light beer was for wusses and women.

The copywriter stared out the window at the fading day. The question nagged at him: How do you get real guys to drink light beer? Specifically, Lite Beer from Miller? Well, he thought, what if you had real guys with the beer? Like athletes. But pro athletes couldn’t appear in beer ads. So... maybe retired athletes. Famous guys connected with sports or some facet of masculinity.

Add some conflict. The guys argue. About the product. About two differing points of view of what’s so good about Lite beer. Put ‘em in a bar. Maybe some chicks hanging around.

Yeah, that’s it. He feels the surge of breakthrough. He stands on the precipice of beer history. The view is glorious. He writes down four words on the layout pad. Four words in bold, black felt tip.

“Great taste. Less Filling.”

And a category is born.

At least that’s how I picture the birth of this great campaign.

I have but one wish for that copywriter. That he’s alive today, in good health, and surrounds himself with the comforts and joys the world has to offer, including a winter home on St. Bart’s, a summer home in Boulder, and a vintage 1972 Corvette in cherry condition. I hope he was paid well, had a sizable stake in profit sharing, and made a killing when the agency merged. And that he got out with his nerves and digestive system intact.

Before I return to the ribs and slaw and get ready for the watermelon and peach cobbler, I have one more really deep thought. It’s this: Copywriters are the Shakespeares of our culture. They create the words that can live forever. Maybe not as lofty as the Bard’s, but certainly more pervasive. “Just do it.” “This Bud’s for you.” “Think small.” “Finger lickin’ good.”

And “Great Taste. Less Filling.” Maybe those words will still be on the can a hundred years from now. And someone else will ponder the state of our culture.

Travel Down This Road With Me

2011-06-27T15:21:00.000-07:00

The lives of men can be measured by the cars they once owned. Every guy I know can tell you what kind of car they had in what year and where they lived and who they were dating. They even know the horsepower, the mileage, the cost of gasoline then, and what songs they listened to while cruising down the road. Cars don’t only take you somewhere in space. They travel in time.

A phone call I received a couple of days ago turned out to be a bridge to the past. Here's a bit of back-story to set the scene.

My first car was a brand-new 1956 Chevy Bel-Aire convertible. My dad bought it for me at Barford Chevrolet two years before I graduated college. This beauty was white with a black top, white sidewalls, automatic transmission, and an AM radio with buttons. It was - and still is - one of the sharpest looking cars to ever grace the road. At least in my eyes.

Since that first car, I had never been without a convertible. Until now. The Chevy was followed by a ‘60 Corvette, then a ‘65 Olds Jetstar, an ‘84 Dodge Dart - an embarrassment - and finally an ‘88 Mazda RX-7. All convertibles. I sold the RX-7 two years ago, which ended my mobile time in the sun.

Those old cars have the same power over me as old girlfriends and beloved dogs. A fleeting image, a scent, a setting, a song - wham, I am back in the past. Which is where I ended up when I got that call. A young man’s voice inquired, “Gerald Mandel?”

“Gerald?”, I thought. He must be making cold calls, reading my name from some purchased list of potential suckers. He’s going to try to sell me a weekend on Arkansas lakefront property, or season tickets to the Rep. “Yes,” I said, just seconds away from adding, “I don’t buy anything over the phone” and hanging up.

The voice continued. “Did you used to own a 1965 Olds Jetstar convertible?”

Whatever he was selling, I was ready to buy. “Yes, I did.” He couldn’t see the smile of wonder on my face. “Why?”

“I own it now, Gerald.”

“Gerry. Please.”

“Gerry. And I just wanted to talk about it.”

Which we did. For the next half hour. His name is Shawn. He lives outside Kansas City. He found the car through Craigslist, covered in dust in some guy’s barn. It didn’t run. Shawn bought it, towed it to his house, replaced the engine with a Delta-88 425 hp rebuilt job. The car now runs. Pretty well. He’s still working on it.

I, in turn, told him some of my Olds’ stories. How my daughter drove it in high school, called it her Bat Car. (It was dark blue). How I put our two Golden Retrievers, Chelsea and Abbey, in the back seat and went to Ted Drews almost weekly (“cholesterol” wasn’t in my vocabulary yet). How I had to add a can of some STP chemical to the gas tank when they stopped making leaded gas. How I got married in 1965, so the car and my marriage are both 46 years old. And still running. How I still feel the pain of separation when I think about the day I sold it to some guy from Illinois and watched him drive away. It was the last time I ever saw my Olds.

Until the day Shawn called. He emailed me some photos of the way it looks now. It’s gorgeous. I wish I still owned it. Great body, smooth lines, exquisite detail, no dents, bruises, rips or rust. Here’s the clincher. Shawn gets into St. Louis occasionally.

“I’d love to see it,” I said quickly.

“I’d love for you to see it,” he said, “and have you drive it. And get a picture. You and me. The first owner and the last. And the Olds.”

I’m ready to roll. I’ll even buy Shawn a large concrete at Ted Drews.

Now if only someone would call about that white '56 Chevy.

My son Gregg with the '65 Olds, circa 1983.

Same Olds, today, from new owner.

A Sign From Above

2011-04-04T09:02:00.000-07:00

High marks for a beautiful sunset on Sunday evening. Or maybe it's the latter day Scarlet Letter.

Better Than Good. And Even Best.

2011-03-30T16:47:00.000-07:00

Mark Twain urged caution about choosing the right adjective. He said "A man's character may be learned from the adjectives which he habitually uses in conversation." If you listen to how people talk, you know what he means. The same can be said of how a writer writes: check out his adjectives. For me, that's one of the most difficult parts of writing (hardest? stressful? laborious?) And too many times I find myself drifting back toward the old stand-by's "good" and "great" and "fast" and "tall." All those vague and tired words. (Are "vague" and "tired" vague and tired? I don't know.)

So it was with relief that I came across, while enjoying a bowl of Shredded Wheat, some marvelous adjectives in a recent New Yorker magazine. "They sure have a way with adjectives," I thought. "I should share these." So, here they are. They were used in the magazine's capsule reviews of "Recitals." I don't know why I was looking in Recitals. I'm not interested in going to one. Most of them are painfully long. And I don't even have plans to go to New York. Shows you how Shredded Wheat can dull the mind.

First there was an "admired violinist" from Japan at Zankel Hall. I wonder who admired him.
Then there was "The superb Baroque ensemble" at Columbia University. I firmly believe that a Baroque ensemble must be "superb" at the minimum to hold an audience for more than six minutes.
Next was the "magisterial pianist"who has thrilled audiences for more than four decades. He's at Carnegie. Is he "magisterial" in the way he plays? Or maybe how he walks or how he dresses. In a cape, perhaps.
Their imagination began to wane here, because the next act was a "superb young British foursome" doing their thing at Alice Tully Hall. I assume "superb" is the minimum price of entry into these pages.
After that came "the renowned group"that performed music by 3 composers I've never heard of, also at Alice Tully Hall. Again, renowned where? New York? London? Zaire?
And finally we have "three distinguished keyboard colleagues" appearing with "the musical major-domo" of something or other. I'm not sure what a "major-domo" is, but it's got to be worth seeing.

You've got to admit, those are better choices of descriptors than "interesting" or "fine" or "really good," even surpassing "popular" and "cool." All you need is the right word to fire the public's interest. Again, to quote Twain: "The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug." Ladies and gentlemen, choose your words.

Spring Snow: A Long Winter's Tale

2011-03-26T13:01:00.000-07:00

I've been sitting here for several minutes, feeling the urge to post something, wanting to say something poetic and uplifting about what I see out my window right now. But I'm not up to the task. I've seen the scene too many times in the past 3 months. Feels more like 6. And there is still white stuff coming down. If I truly had the soul of a poet, I could find comfort and beauty in the scene. Like, say something about delicate dusting of pine trees with nature's frosting. Or the silent drift of countless snowflakes blanketing the lawn, covering up little yellow flowers that no longer stand a chance at making it to summer. Even confusing the robins, making them think they returned to the wrong latitude. I wonder if robins like frozen worms. We'll find out. To show you what an optimist I am, I dashed outside mid-week, when the sun was out and the temperature hovered in the high 60's, uncovered our deck furniture and arranged it to welcome Spring in all its glory. It's like throwing a big party and nobody comes. I should know by now: you don't do a thing for spring in St. Louis until mid-April. Still, with global warming in full swing, I thought, sure, we'll have an early spring. Notice I can't bring myself around to capitalizing S(s)pring every time. It's unworthy.

News flash: These photos are outdated. The snow is even deeper now. I think I'll listen to some music, pull out some old standards, like "Spring will be a little late this year," and "Spring can really hang you up the most." Yep, I'm hung up. That's what I'll do now.

The Final Frontier: e-books

2011-03-15T11:31:00.000-07:00

MAJOR LITERARY ANNOUNCEMENT: With the help of an excellent book designer, Cathy Wood, I am happy to say my novel is available as an e-book. Which means my words can now be carried in a Kindle or iPad or Droid or wherever the hell these things end up. And think of all the trees that will be saved. The title, as you probably know by now, is "Shadow and Substance: My Time with Charlie Chaplin."

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/47143

Good-bye, Jay...and thanks for the good times.

2011-02-27T13:59:00.000-08:00

Jay Landesman was an integral part of the cultural scene in St. Louis for many years, and a big part of my directionless youth. Not that I was a pal of his. I knew who he was, shook hands with him whenever I had the opportunity, but I doubt if he knew my name. That's okay. He was cool. I spent a lot of time in Gaslight Square. Cool jazz at the Dark Side, the Other Side (Spider Burke's place), and Georgie's; dixieland jazz at Smokey Joe's and the Tiger's Den (the swinging two-beat temple of Sammy Gardner and the Mound City Six); hip and hilarious comedy, distinctive bars, and a vibrant street scene. Like a small rendition of The Village.

Mary Lee (my wife of several years) and I used to celebrate TGIF there after we got off work at KMOX-TV (before it was KMOV). Olive and Boyle was a great gathering area, and Jay was largely responsible for inspiring it...thanks to his Crystal Palace. I have clear memories - at least they're clear in my head - of that place, where I saw the Smothers Brothers, Lenny Bruce (it was the first time I ever heard the "f" word on a stage), Jack E. Leonard, a nerdy and nervous Woody Allen, Nichols & May, and others...including a very young and shy Barbra Streisand. When I saw her, as the opening act for the Smothers Brothers, I predicted, "She's not very pretty. She'll never make it." That might have been the same year I bought an Edsel. Thanks to the wonderful comics and satirists and improv geniuses, I developed a love and appreciation for slightly off-center humor. Okay, more than "slightly."

Jay had a full-time piano player in the bar named Tommy Wolf, who wrote songs with Jay's wife, Fran. Strange: the more I'm writing about Gaslight, the more I remember. Some other time, maybe.

Yes, St. Louis had a Golden Age once, and its name was Jay Landesman.

Thanks, Jay. Whenever I think of "cool," "hip," and an inspiration, I think of you.

http://www.stltoday.com/news/local/obituaries/article_85d046b6-63cb-5544-a689-d286b2debddf.html

AARRRRGGHHHHHH!!!!!

2011-02-05T08:42:00.000-08:00

I woke up this morning and looked out the window. IT'S BACK!!!!!! Words fail me.

The Call

2011-02-03T11:05:00.000-08:00

I’m waiting for the phone to ring. It will be the vet.

He will tell me that he has good news.

I will ask him what it is.

He will say, “That neuromuscular problem with Hannah? I think we can treat it.”

“But,” I will say, “You’ve already euthanized her. On Monday.” I can barely get those words out.

“No problem,” he says. “We have reversed the effects of the injection. She’s back. You can pick her up tomorrow morning. Good as new.”

And that’s where the fantasy fades.

The neuromuscular problem was myaesthemia gravis, two words forever seared onto my soul. The prognosis was grim.

How do you know when to say, The time has come? Hannah was 12 years old. That seems to be the magic number for Golden Retrievers, the genetic time bomb. I always thought she’d go the way most Goldens go - from cancer. Okay. No more medical talk. I don’t like writing about it or even thinking about it any more than you do reading about it.

I’ve been trying to figure out what hurts the most. Possibly the loss of one of the best friends I ever had. Maybe the sadness at seeing a beautiful creature come to the end of the trail much too soon. Then there’s the sheer habit of having her around, developed over twelve years and thousands of miles of travel, including New England, Florida, Chicago, Colorado. Finding motels that took dogs, and sneaking her into those that didn’t. If we drove, she was a passenger. Even scoring the front seat on several occasions. She would watch the road as carefully as I. And she knew the landmarks in town. Where we turned off I-44 for West Tyson County Park and our hike through the hills. Where we pulled in at Weldon Spring State Park and walked to the river. What part of Forest Park we were headed for, where the cops couldn’t see her off- leash. Where she could expect a treat to come sliding down the chute in the capsule. Answer: Walgreen’s Drive-thru Pharmacy, U. S. Bank, and MacDonald’s. But not White Castle. So I’d order an extra burger for her. No pickles, please.

The loss hurts for so many reasons. But the one that hits closest to home is most beautifully conveyed in a quote that a good friend sent to me after she heard of Hannah’s passing. It’s by John Galsworthy, a British writer best known for “The Forsyte Saga” and winner of the Nobel Prize in 1932. But you knew that. Here’s the quote.

“Not the least hard thing to bear when they go from us, these quiet friends, is that they carry away with them so many years of our own lives...”

I like that. It is true. He understands. “...so many years of our own lives...”

We have not only lost a loved one. We have lost part of ourselves.

My beautiful Golden girl is gone. But somewhere, lodged deep inside me, mingled with memories of a youth immersed in fantasy and science-fiction, of knowing the impossible is sometimes possible, I still wait for that phone to ring.

A Sports Talk Show I Can Live With

2011-01-11T14:08:00.000-08:00

Sports "Talk" is really a misnomer. It's actually Sports "Shout." That's where these 3 or 4 guys, dressed in ties and jackets, sit at a long desk, kind of like a counter at a diner, and shout each other down on all the various aspects of sports. I can watch about 3 minutes of it before I realize I AM ANGRY! At what? I'm not sure. Because I don't care who wins the Stanley Cup or the NBA Championship, or who's playing in the Final Four or the fact the A-Rod makes too much or some NFL coach tripped a guy on the sidelines. I really don't care about all this.

But I do like being entertained. Which is why I'm so enthused about a new sports "talk" show that begins tonight on Comedy Central at 9:30 CST. It's produced by The Onion, in my opinion one of the funniest publications and websites on earth. I check them out frequently or, when I'm in Chicago, pick up The Onion newspaper, which is available just about everywhere. My all-time favorite Onion headline: "Lou Gehrig Dies of Lou Gehrig Disease."

So if you enjoy sharp satire, if you appreciate The Daily Show or The Colbert Report or The Office, for instance.... if you like Monty Python TV and SCTV and the musicals "Spamalot" and "Urinetown" ... if you'd like to get away from SportsShout, check this out. Mind you, I haven't seen the show yet - it premieres tonight - but I know it just has to be good. I've attached a couple of links. http://www.onionsportsnetwork.com/channels/sportsdome/
http://tv.nytimes.com/2011/01/11/arts/television/11onion.html?scp=1&sq=the%20onion%20sportsdome&st=cse

That Can't Be Right

2011-01-02T17:21:00.000-08:00

Hey! Wait a minute. This is WHAT year?? 2011?
No, that's impossible. Wasn't it just a year ago, maybe two, that we were all waiting for the New Millenium? Sure, just a couple of years ago. The ATM's were gonna go down. Airplanes were gonna crash. Our computers were to be rendered useless. So what's this 2011 stuff? What has happened to the past 8 or 9 years?

Somebody, I'm convinced, is screwing around with Time. Like putting it on Fast Forward, throwing more coal in the boiler, shifting into high and putting the pedal to the metal. It's probably terrorists, or people on Wall Street, or Republicans, or maybe aging hippies who have finally entered that 4th or 5th dimension now that all the drugs have kicked in. Whoever it is, I don't appreciate it.

I want Time to slow down to a crawl. Even during winter. I want to be able to enjoy lots more hikes with my wife and dogs, good pasta and salads at Italian restaurants, pieces of Godiva dark chocolate, episodes of Dexter and Walking Dead, performances by the St. Louis Symphony, new movies that have an honest-to-God plot and characters that I care deeply about. And Time to write a few more posts on my blog, and maybe even another book.

So I guess I've arrived at my thought for this year. Slow down. What's the hurry? We're all going to get there. Let's not be out of breath when we do.

"City Lights" & My Novel at Powell Hall for 2 Nights

2010-12-28T09:55:00.000-08:00

Okay, it's another post about Charlie. But this is big. The St. Louis Symphony Orchestra will present Chaplin's greatest film, "City Lights," with the full orchestra playing the original score, "live."

There's nothing like seeing a Chaplin film with a large audience, to share the laughter.

As an added attraction, my novel will be available for sale in the lobby. It's not as funny.

The dates are Wed. 12/29
and Thurs. 12/30, at 7:30 pm.

Irving Berlin had it right

2010-12-25T20:58:00.000-08:00

Like the man said, "I'm dreaming of a White Christmas." But it wasn't a dream this year. You could also sing "Walkin' in a Winter Wonderland" and feel right in place. And "Jack Frost nippin' at your nose...or toes..." or wherever it was he nipped. Here are some shots of our house, our street, our yard, our tree, and of course our dogs. This is basically a photo essay, which means I don't have to write much. I'm too full.

"That Night, Again." A Short Story for the Holidays

2010-12-21T19:08:00.000-08:00

Jesse shoved his dead beagle out of the way with his bare foot and set another log on the fire, watched the smoke curl around it for a second, then leaned back in his cracked red leather easy chair. “Okey-dokey,” he said. His favorite word. He reached for the cup of hot cocoa on the tv tray, let the sweet steam waft up into his nostrils, and smiled. He took a small sip. A bit of melted marshmallow clung to his upper lip. He felt it sitting there, wiped it off with the back of his hand.

“Bet you would’ve liked some hot cocoa, Samson,” he said to the immobile dog. Samson had been dead four days now, but he was the only company Jesse had. Better a dead dog than no one. Even if Samson had still been breathing, Jesse wouldn’t have given him any cocoa. He knew that chocolate was bad for a dog, something about their digestive system not being able to handle it. And he sure wouldn’t have done it with just one more day til Christmas. Ain’t no way to find a decent vet on Christmas day, he knew. All the good ones are at home with family or on a cruise ship in the Caribbean, he figured.

Outside a soft snow began spreading its stark winter blanket across the neighborhood. The first snow of the year, and what better time than on the night before Christmas? He looked out the window. “Okey-dokey.”

Jesse thought about the dogs of his life. His best friends. Dogs that died before they left puppyhood, dogs that trembled and slept into old-age. Samson was one of his favorite dogs, probably the last one he’d ever have. “Got you the year after Emma passed,” said Jesse. He remembered other Christmas eves, when Emma would hang the stockings on the mantle, wrap last minute presents, slide chocolate chip cookies out of the oven. Forty-six years of chocolate chip cookies must be some kind of record, both for baking and eating, he thought. He wondered how many chips of chocolate had melted down on their behalf.

Emma had gone off her meds before she passed, twelve years ago. Except she didn’t know she had. She had become impossible to live with, drove Jesse up one wall and down another with her incessant complaining and whining, her mind melting down like those chocolate chips. So he dumped her meds, all seven bottles of them, down the toilet, replaced them with placeboes. He liked that word “placebo.” It took a couple of weeks, but eventually Emma passed in her sleep. “A peaceful placebo departure,” said Jesse at his most poetic.

He lifted Samson by his tail, half off the floor, to reveal the tattered book under his rump. He picked it up and turned to the first page. He always felt a thrill when he read aloud the very first line. “Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house...” What magic, what power, what craftsmanship. Not “It was the night before,” but “Twas.” Not “Christmas Eve,” but “the night before Christmas.” Jesse stretched his legs out to let the fire warm his bare toes. Samson slid across the hearth to the edge of the fire. Outside the snow thickened, swirled, piled along the curbs and bushes. The street lay silent, no headlights, no crunch of tires.

Jesse continued his annual ritual aloud, to deaf, floppy ears. “Not a creature was stirring...” He stopped on that line and laughed. “You can say that again” and looked at Samson. “...not even a mouse, The stockings were hung by the chimney with care.” Jesse looked at the mantle. Yep, the stockings were still there. He had never gotten around to taking them down from last year, although Emma had complained about that until midsummer.

Jesse got as far as “... had just settled down for a long winter’s nap” when he smelled the burning, an acrid smell that was neither oak nor hickory. He looked down at the fireplace. Samson was smoking. Or at least the fur on his backside was, turning the dull brown fur into stringy black ash. “Move away, dog,” he said, and reached over and scooted Samson to the side. Luckily the dog had not burst into flame yet, and as the smoke subsided, Jesse approached the conclusion of the poem. He stopped before the last page. “Not so fast, not so fast,” he thought. “Gotta let the magic last a little longer.” He drained the cup, scooped the remaining marshmallow with his finger and licked it clean.

“Okey......” He felt his eyes getting heavy. The fire, the cocoa, the snow, his dog. “How lucky I am,” he said aloud. His eyes started to close. But he had to get to the part about “But he heard him exclaim as he rose out of sight ...” and the rest of it. His head nodded and his chin dropped to his chest.

The peace was shattered by a loud rap-rapping at his door. Jesse lifted his head. “Who could that be, Samson?” He struggled out of his chair, shuffled to the door. Another series of rap-rap-rapping, this time louder. “Keep your shirt on, I’m coming, fast as I can,” said Jesse. He opened the door. And what to his wondering eyes should appear, but Santa Claus standing there, with no shirt on.

“Sorry couldn’t keep my shirt on,” said Santa. “Are you named Jesse?”

Jesse nodded. This was wonderful beyond belief.

“Then let’s go for a ride,” said Santa with a hearty laugh, making his stomach shake like a bowl full of jelly. He slipped on his red coat.

“I’ll get my coat,” said Jesse.

“No need to. I’ve got a propane heater in my sleigh. I just wear this because it’s expected.” He laughed again. “Here we go.”

Jesse and Santa walked out to the sleigh and climbed in behind the eight reindeer. “Good looking reindeer,” said Jesse.

“I take good care of ‘em. Thanks for noticing.”

“Bet you never give ‘em any chocolate.”

Santa smiled. “You sure know your reindeer.” He grabbed the reins and gave them a shake. “Hold on, Jesse.”

As they rose above the house, the neighborhood, the town, Jesse heard Santa shout, “Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”

“Okey-dokey,” shouted Jesse.

Burgers for My 84-year-old Friend

2010-11-29T14:10:00.000-08:00

A couple of weeks ago, before the cold weather and the rain moved in, while the trees still held on to a few straggling leaves, Mary Lee and I celebrated a Major Birthday. Hannah, our Golden Retriever, was 12 years old. As is our custom, we bought her a hamburger on her birthday. Not a White Castle burger, but an honest to God Hamburger. We used to go to Steak'n Shake, but that was before the economy took a dive. So this time we grabbed a couple of Doubleburgers at Mac and headed for Weldon Spring Trail, where we followed the trail from the parking lot on Hiway 94 to the bluffs overlooking the Missouri River. The day was warm and the dogs were excited. Sadie, who is only 3, covered the entire area, checking for slow-moving squirrels or sociable deer. She found none.

We got to the bluffs abut 2:00, and gave the dogs their burgers. Hannah moves a little more slowly now, but what the hell. At 84 you can't expect someone to leap and dash and do back-flips anymore. She still sits and shakes. Her paw, not her body. The view from the bluffs is quite relaxing. You can almost hear Lewis and Clark urging their men up the river, singing their songs of exploration, slapping at the millions of mosquitoes and gnats that came to feast, telling mean jokes about Tom Jefferson.

But enough history. Oh, wait. One more tidbit. Weldon Spring was first settled by a frontiersman named John Weldon from North Carolina. That's it.

One more fact: A MacDonald's Doubleburger stays hot in a styrofoam container placed inside a backpack for 45 minutes. We didn't get fries with that. Not good for dogs.

And justice shall prevail. Kinda.

2010-11-14T12:00:00.000-08:00

Buried in a recent NY Times edition was the sad story of Bruce Karatz, former chief exec of KB Home. It seems the law caught up with Bruce and dragged him to justice after he went into hiding. Bruce, you see, had been found guilty in April of hiding backdated stock options from auditors and regulators. To the tune of more than $6,000,000.

Now I'm not financial whiz, and don't understand how the markets work, but I do know that hiding stuff from the Feds if you're a chief exec is not a good idea. Unless you already have your ticket to Costa Rica.

So they dragged poor Brucie in and administered proper punishment. He must pay a $1,000,000 fine. Do the math: that's a $5,000,000 profit. And now comes the hard time: Ol' Brucie was sentenced to serve 8 months of detention - at home. "Home" in this case is a 24-room mansion in Bell Air, California. That's one of the better 'hoods in LA.

My personal opinion? I think the law could have taken a tougher stance. They should have restricted him to the use of only one bathroom. Kept him from spending more than 1 hour a day in the billiards room. Put the entire East Wing off limits, except on holidays. Made him vacuum his swimming pool once a week. And forced him to eat all his meals alone, at the long dining room table in the spacious dining room, then do his own dishes.

Bruce, however, takes a positive view of the situation. "I won't get over to the links for a little while, but I can keep my swing in shape on my private driving range." Maybe the Feds should've taken away his clubs, at least his driver. But that would be deemed "cruel and unusual punishment."

Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm 95

2010-11-07T08:20:00.000-08:00

We sat in the yard next to his house that was built in 1864. That's the year before the war started. Not WWI, but the Civil War. The house overlooks the Missouri River and the Great River Road, on the outskirts of Alton. His name is Erwin A. Thompson and I was there to do a video interview of him, at the request of his daughter and my friend, Janet Riehl. www.riehlife.com

Erwin will be 95 this coming Tuesday, Nov. 9, and he shows no signs of slowing down. We talked for over an hour on a warm day in October. He read poems he had written, sang songs he had composed, talked of his life before this day, and what he had planned for the future. He knew the songs by heart, remembered all the lyrics. He read the poems without reading glasses. He sang in a strong, vibrant voice, occasionally interrupted by a deep cough. His mind was as clear as the sky above.
A line from one of his poem still resonates with me:
"But no matter where or how I seek, I never hope to find
Music that will thrill me like what echoes in my mind."

Erwin spoke of the Second Mile. How it meant doing more than what is asked of you. It's a concept he believes and has lived. Here is a man who has met some tough times in his 95 years, but persevered. More than once in WWII he stopped to help others at the risk of his own life. He encourages others to do more than what is expected. He thinks not of the past, but of the future. When I asked him what his plans are in the time ahead, he gave me a one word answer: "Music." I know he'll keep singing, and playing a fiddle, and going that Second Mile, in the months and - hopefully - years ahead.

"Shadow and Substance: My Time with Charlie Chaplin" Novel Accepted by Chaplin Archives

2010-11-03T09:18:00.000-07:00

Available at www.stlbooks.com

I've just returned from a 3-day Charlie Chaplin International Conference, at U. of Ohio in Zanesville. (My first time in Zanesville. Never imagined I'd go there.) I brought copies of my new novel with me, "Shadow and Substance: My Time with Charlie Chaplin," even sold a few. But the best part was giving a copy of the book to Evelyne Luthi-Graf of the Archives de Montreux, in Switzerland, for the Chaplin collection. I don't know if this is the equivalent of eternal life for me, but it's close enough. And I'm in good company.

The conference was incredible, with participants from Italy, Japan, England, France, Belgium, Switzerland, Holland, Canada, and Finland. Plus from universities around the U.S. And two guys from St. Louis, me and Joe Delmore. For 13 or 14 hours a day, we saw films, restorations, presentations, discussions, on almost every aspect of Charlie's life and career. I even got to hold his derby and cane.

Me and Joe

At this point I pause to say "Thank you" to Dr. Lisa Stein, at the U. of Ohio, for having the imagination, courage and energy to put this conference together. And have it come off so smoothly. Even the coffee and pastries were excellent. And I got to meet David Robinson, from London, the acclaimed expert and high priest of all things Chaplin. He signed my 1985 edition of his book, "Chaplin: His Life and Art." I also spent time with Chuck Maland, author of "Chaplin and American Culture."

Back to the novel: it's available now, through Amazon, B&N online, or - preferably - www.stlbooks.com

Mickey Mantle and the Road Not Taken

2010-10-25T19:16:00.000-07:00

George Vecsey in today's NY Times offers up a fascinating "what if." In his column, "Home Runs and Demons for Hamilton and Mantle," he talks about Mickey Mantle's problems with alcohol and promiscuity, his troubled childhood, and - most damning of all - the permissive environment he found himself in with the Yankees. Nobody helped Mickey deal with any of this.

Then George comes up with the thought that dazzled me. I quote: "Suppose Mantle had signed with his boyhood favorites, the Cardinals, and played for a fatherly manager like Eddie Dyer or Johnny Keane, alongside his temperate hero, Stan Musial, instead of being scolded by Stengel and ignored by Joe DiMaggio and indulged by the open city of New York? We will never know."

I can almost see Mantle in a Red Bird uniform and a couple of more pennants flying over Sportsman's Park.
Here's a link to the article. In Rangers’ Hamilton, Shades of Mantle, but Brighter Outlook - NYTimes.com

Chapter One - Continued. "Shadow and Substance: My Time with Charlie Chaplin"

2010-10-24T20:03:00.000-07:00

Here is more of the first chapter. The book is available at www.stlbooks.com

(CHAPTER ONE - CONTINUED)

FlashBack Productions occupies a large house in a residential neighborhood, just north of Sunset Boulevard where Hollywood meets Beverly Hills and the rent begins to escalate. I walked up the stone-lined path to the front door, through a yard deep in shadows amidst a tangled variety of tropical trees, the yard accented with splashes of yellow and pink and red flowers. If it hadn’t been for the hum of traffic on Sunset, I might have thought I was in the Brazilian jungle. Back in Ohio, they might have been shoveling snow.

“Hi. You must be Cooper. I’m Heather.” The receptionist spoke with a warm, husky timbre. “Can I get you anything? Water? Juice? Herbal tea?” Pause. “Coffee?”

“Juice sounds fine. Thanks.”

“Guava? Papaya? Pomegranate?” Pause. “Orange?”

“Surprise me.”

She headed down the hall. “I’ll tell Kevin you’re here.”

I sank down into a long, plush sofa set against a large, bubbling aquarium in the wall. I knew Kevin McDaniels, the head of FlashBack, only from several phone conversations. His enthusiasm about the project was contagious. I hoped he was as likable in person. And I hoped he liked me. I was the outsider from the Midwest with the credentials he had been looking for.

Kevin had said he was looking for a “nontraditional” viewpoint, even though I wasn’t quite sure what it meant. This was an incredibly significant opportunity for me: a writing assignment in Hollywood with the potential to establish myself on my favorite subject, Charlie Chaplin. my all-time favorite, close to obsession status.

Heather brought my juice over. Orange. I expected her to take me into Kevin’s office. I was wrong. Two minutes later, Kevin walked up. From his voice on the phone, I had pictured short, chunky and bald. He was over six feet tall with the smooth, powerful lines of a natural athlete, topped off with a head full of pure white hair. The hair just didn’t match up, an anomaly that looked like a bad make-up job. He appeared to be in his mid-forties, about ten years older than me.

“Cooper. Hi. Kevin McDaniels.” He extended his hand, which I both shook and used as a rope to pull myself out of the couch. He backed up his grip with a wide, contagious smile. I liked him immediately and relaxed. “Come on back. How was your flight?”

“Smooth. The way I like them.”

“Hotel okay?”

“Very nice.”

We entered his office, a spacious room that looked out onto the back yard and the pool, some orange trees, and a golden retriever stretched out by the sliding glass doors. A living, breathing real estate brochure.

We sat in director’s chairs on opposite sides of a low, teak coffee table. He cut to the chase. “Why should I hire you, Cooper?”

A fair question, but one I hadn’t expected as a starting point. “Because you want to give highly talented writers from mid-America a chance to participate in the dynamics of Hollywood.” Sometimes I speak before thinking.

He laughed. “Of course.” He shifted forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped, staring intently at me. “Frankly, I’m not sure why you’re here. Let me explain. You made the short list, but I pretty well had it narrowed down to another writer. Then I got this in the mail.”

He handed me a single sheet of folded paper, undated, no letterhead, with a short, handwritten message. “Mr. McDaniels, it has come to my attention that you are embarking upon an important new series dedicated to early Hollywood personalities, including Sir Charles Chaplin. Forgive my impetuousness, but I would suggest you consider a young man named Cooper Thiery of Columbus, Ohio, as one of your creative resources. Through my duties here at Oxford University, I have become aware of his insight into the subject and believe it would be in your interest to, at the minimum, contact him. Please excuse the abruptness of this intrusion and lack of follow-through on my part, but I shall be on sabbatical for the next six months. Best of luck on your project.” The signature read “Ian Picking, Professor of Cultural Heritage, Oxford University.”

The handwriting matched that in the Robinson book.

I handed the letter back to Kevin, held my hand as steady as possible, and said nothing.

“I called Oxford,” he said. “Picking is indeed on sabbatical. Out of touch for another four months.”

Kevin continued filling in the background on our meeting, but my mind was working over the similarity in handwriting, the appearance of the book at the hotel and the Oxford letter. I just wanted Kevin to say I had the job, so I could start to work and not deal with the puzzle.

“Any thoughts about that?”

He was waiting for my answer, and I hadn’t even heard the question.

“About what?”

“About where you might start. Are you with me, Cooper?”

I apologized for my drifting, then recalled some of the comments from the book. Maybe that would take the interview in the right direction. “Two areas,” I said. “First, Chaplin’s relationship with Edna Purviance. I think there’s more there than has been uncovered so far.” In a paragraph about her and Charlie, her name had been circled with the comment, “Half the story.” It could be accurate. “The other area is what he did with some of his films, where he stored them, especially one that theoretically no longer exists. Chaplin didn’t destroy much of his work, even if he didn’t like it. It’s worth a look.” I stopped. Other areas seemed workable, according to the notes in the Robinson book, but I didn’t want to start a laundry list of possibilities. Less is more, as someone once said. An architect, maybe.

Kevin moved into an overview of the project, much of which we had discussed on the phone a couple of weeks ago. Then he stood up and the meeting was over. A four hour flight, each way, for a half hour meeting.

Back in Columbus, a message was waiting on my answering machine. Also, a new e-mail was sitting in my inbox. They both said the same thing. “Good news. You start on Monday. Welcome to the dynamics of Hollywood.” I treated myself to a couple of double-cut pork chops for dinner and four draft Guinness's at a neighborhood hangout. I would have gone dancing if I liked to dance.

The Mad Men and Women of D'Arcy Advertising

2010-10-24T09:31:00.000-07:00

We gathered on a brilliant afternoon in late October, the Mad Men and Women of D'Arcy. We reconnected and remembered, traded stories, hugged and kissed, told each other how wonderful we looked, and held handshakes longer than usual.

A hundred different paths now brought us back to the large room of a micro-brewery and restaurant in the heart of Kirkwood - paths that had taken many of us to distant reaches of the country, moved some of us just a few blocks, to new jobs, different careers, or nothing more challenging than a round of golf or a flower bed. Now some of us spoke of our children's achievements or our grandchildren's talents. Most of us talked about faded campaigns, unforgettable clients, celebrations and disappointments, theme lines that once bristled with energy and originality and still called forth a spark of pride.

In each other's eyes, we were still young, unafraid of any assignment, willing to deal with tough clients, able to prove that we were the best damned ad agency anywhere in the world. But we wore name tags, just in case that name or that face was slightly out of reach. And so few were.

Advertising was a different business back then. For many of us, it was the only one we knew. For others, the younger ones there who still had plenty of hair and a youthful glow, it was still the same game, only the rules and tools had changed. In fact, the world had changed in the less than 100 years of D'Arcy. With roots that had their beginnings in 1906, the agency no longer exists except in the history books and occasional columns, where tales of Mad Men and Women are told with a flair reminiscent of great battles, heroic deeds, and wondrous achievements.

And D'Arcy still lives in one other dimension: in the hearts and memories of those of us who once worked there, and - on this one day - came together in the warmth of the love we once shared.

A Solid Review About "Where the Mountain Takes Me"

2010-10-22T13:15:00.000-07:00

Earlier this year, a biography I wrote was published, and has recently received a fine review (not a perfect 10, but highly acceptable) from Jeffrey Penn May. The name of the books is "Where the Mountain Takes Me, and it is about a rather incredible individual who overcame depressing odds from the moment he was born to become an accomplished engineer and dentist. He finally succumbed to mesothelioma earlier this year. You can read about this book, and the review, at http://www.stlbooks.com/bookscape/

Chapter One of "Shadow and Substance: My Time with Charlie Chaplin"

2010-10-19T14:09:00.000-07:00

In case you have a few minutes and feel like reading something new, here is the first chapter (or the first part of it anyway) of my novel. The book is due from the printer next week, and then I head for a Chaplin conference in Ohio end of the week. I hope you enjoy this.

An artist's only concern is to shoot for some kind of perfection, and on his own terms, not anyone else’s.

- J. D. Salinger

Creativity takes courage.

- Henri Matisse

CHAPTER 1

“You like Charlie Chaplin?”

The guy in the next seat obviously had noticed the book I was reading. From the tone of his voice, I knew he wasn’t a Chaplin fan.

“Yeah, I think he’s pretty funny.” I wasn’t really interested in getting into a conversation with him, not with a four-hour flight ahead of me.

“You look like an intelligent guy. Let me ask you a question.” He rolled up his Sports Illustrated and jammed it into the magazine pocket. “How can you find running around in circles and poking people with a cane and throwing pies funny?”

I kept my book open. “Chaplin did more than that. He wasn’t big with pies either. Other comics did pies.” I couldn’t believe we were discussing pies at thirty-thousand feet. I felt trapped in my seat, there wasn’t enough leg room, my sneakers looked dumb.

“Anything in that book about him being a Commie?” he said.

The captain’s voice interrupted with information about altitude, cruising

speed, and the approximate time we’d be landing in LA Even though I didn’t want to go any further with this guy, the Commie remark bothered me.

“That actually was never a fair accusation,” I said. “He wasn’t a Communist. Maybe if you’d read a little about him, you’d know what that was all about.”

“I know they kicked him out of this country. I don’t have to read more than that. And what about all those little girls he was messing around with? You saying that didn’t happen?” With each accusation, his voice grew louder.

I didn’t answer. Confrontation makes me uneasy. Given a different situation I might have launched into a stout defense of Chaplin and his personal life. Like when you stick up for a friend who’s not there. Not this time, though. I just wanted to be left alone, read my book, prepare for the opportunity ahead in Los Angeles.

“I guess there’re some people who don’t like him,” I said. “I just think he’s funny, that’s all.”

I missed Lauren. I still felt the need to reach over and hold her hand on takeoffs and landings. That’s when I get nervous. Lauren was always there, reassuring me with her warmth and strength. But Costa Rica had ended that. I hadn’t flown since then, nor gone bike riding, our favorite sport.

“Now Bob Hope...he was funny,” he said and returned to his Sports Illustrated.

I picked up my laptop, briefcase and book, and moved to an empty seat further back. I was still trying to get a handle on my interview tomorrow. Their consideration of hiring a freelancer from Columbus, Ohio, to write a documentary about Charlie Chaplin, still baffled me. Sure, I had good credentials on Chaplin, and writing for film had been my goal for the last several years. My shelves were stacked with scripts, treatments, and concepts, none of which had aroused much interest. Sometimes luck follows persistence. Still, why me?

The rest of the flight was smooth. I didn’t know it at the time, but it would be the last smooth period in my life for awhile.

******

The following day in LA shaped up as relatively predictable. I’d grab breakfast in the coffee shop at nine, spend a couple of hours in my room reviewing notes, take a walk to put my thoughts in order, eat a light lunch, then be at the production house a little before one for the interview. By late afternoon I’d be on a plane headed back to Columbus, either to continue my gradual decay there or pack for the return trip to LA That was the only part I couldn’t predict. Or so I thought.

The phone rang after breakfast.

“Mr. Thiery, this is the front desk. We have a package for you.”

“A package? For me?”

“Yes, sir. A large manila envelope. Shall I send it up, or would you prefer to fetch it?” The clerk with a British accent seemed to be the hotel’s attempt to add some class to a pleasant but otherwise undistinguished Hollywood establishment.

“I’ll come down.” I hadn’t expected a package, not even mail or messages. I was here for only the one day. Maybe it had something to do with my pending interview. I “fetched” the envelope, opened it on the elevator and a book slid out, one that was appropriate for the day’s events: David Robinson’s acclaimed biography, Chaplin: His Life and Art. I flipped through it and saw no note, no explanation for its presence, no name or address. I already owned the book, had read it more than once, referred to it dozens of times. This was, in my opinion, one of the best books ever written about Chaplin. My copy was sitting on a shelf back home, along with another hundred or so books about him.

I called the front desk. “Where did this package come from?”

“A gentleman left it here, Mr. Thiery, just minutes before I called you.”

“What did he look like?”

“Rather short, looked to be in his fifties, white hair. Steel-rimmed glasses, I believe.”

“Did he leave a name? Or a message?”

“No, sir. All he said was, ‘I think Mr. Thiery needs this.’ Something like that. He was a cheerful sort, pleasant smile. Is there anything wrong, sir?”

I told him no and hung up. The book was obviously used, the dust-jacket well worn, the black and white cover photo of Chaplin slightly faded, the edges of the pages stained. My sense of order began to unravel as I looked through the book. Notes had been written in the margins, words and phrases underlined or circled, large “X’s” scrawled, seemingly at random, with comments such as “rubbish” and “not so” and “Yes.” Not an abundance of comments, but enough to hold my interest. The previous owner, it seemed, had either possessed a keen insight into Chaplin or a willingness to question the author. Why it had been passed on to me, and who had delivered it, puzzled me. I worked my way through the book, paying closer attention to the markings, balancing them with my knowledge of Chaplin’s life. I didn’t know if the comments were accurate. They were, however, within the realm of possibility, with some intriguing speculation about his life and art.

I forgot about my walk, about lunch, and spent the rest of the time engrossed in the book. If I got the job, I would spend my next three months focused on my favorite personality of all time, attempting to define the line between an artist’s work and his private life. One other line would become significant, a line that would test my sense of reality, a line that I had previously believed to be impossible to cross.

Books vs Nooks

2010-10-14T12:07:00.000-07:00

Dear Reader: What lies ahead? Check out the cover on the latest New Yorker Mag. Title of it is "Shelved."

Books, Nooks and The Big Read

2010-10-11T20:25:00.000-07:00

I spent a couple of hours last Saturday wandering among the booths and displays at The Big Read in Clayton. Mostly I was trying to stay on the shady side of the street, since the temperature was more reminiscent of August than October. I saw several people from the St. Louis Writers Guild there and some other book-focused friends. I also saw lots of books, stacked and displayed on tables, resting on shelves, put there by organizations and individuals who were showing how they wrote, printed, bound, marketed, distributed books...and got young people involved in books. All in all, a very positive experience for a writer.

However, there was an item there that alerted me like the rumble of distant thunder. Or maybe the sky brightening just before sunrise (to stay with nature metaphors). I'm talking about the Nook. A young man was offering demonstrations of just how easy it is to use a Nook. As I stood there looking at it, I felt as though I was at an Exposition of The Latest Radios sometime during the 1930's. I was surrounded by the latest table models, portable, consoles, cabinets, all heralding the dominance of radio. And over in a corner sat a young man with a strange looking contraption on a table. It had a little screen, which had a picture on it, a picture that was grainy and in black and white and moved. He called it television.

So what about all those books at The Big Read on all those tables? What is their future? Will the Nook and the Kindle and the iPad hold sway in the not-too-distant future? Quite possibly. But I think there will always be a place for books. At least I hope so. One thing for sure, though. Unless technology comes up with something I can't even imagine, nothing will ever replace The Writer. The story will always start with someone sitting down at a table or desk and looking at a blank page.

What do you think?

Another Taste of Chaplin

2010-10-09T14:10:00.000-07:00

If things go as planned, my novel, "Shadow and Substance: My Time with Charlie Chaplin," will be off the press by next weekend. Later in the week I'll probably post the first chapter. In the meantime, here's a wonderful scene for your enjoyment. It's from "The Great Dictator," (1940) with Chaplin performing a marvelous pantomime to a familiar piece of classical music.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=monaXOpmH1U

The New Novel: Me and Charlie Chaplin

2010-10-04T09:35:00.001-07:00

Twelve years in the writing. And rewriting. And rewriting. So my new novel, "Shadow and Substance: My Time with Charlie Chaplin," will be off the presses in about 3 weeks. The idea hit me in 1997 or '98 in LA when I was walking around the Chaplin Stage at what was then A&M Records, then became Jim Henson Productions. The novel takes place in - naturally - Hollywood, and the time is today, and the 1920's. And yes, Chaplin is a major character in the book. A couple of other characters in the book are Fatty Arbuckle and William Randolph Hearst. I'll tell you more about it in future posts. That photo of Charlie and me was taken in Vevey, Switzerland, where Chaplin lived after he left the U.S. in 1952. For now, though, enjoy one of Charlie's most famous sequences. It's from "The Gold Rush," released in 1925.

YouTube - Charlie Chaplin- Table Ballet

Dummy with a Photo of Freedom

2010-09-27T13:52:00.000-07:00

I bought a book yesterday: Blogging for Dummies. Because I'm meeting with a friend of mine, Janet Riehl, in a couple of days to talk about blogging, and she said "Buy it." So as soon as I learn what I'm doing, I'll become a blogging fool. But in the meantime, just browsing through the book, I saw a section that talked about using photographs and how readers like photos. So I thought, what's an interesting photo I have? And here it is.

I'm on the rear patio of a rich friend's house 2 weeks ago (mansion/estate/castle) in Aspen, pretending I, too, am rich. Those are my size 13 sneakers and my lean, muscular legs. The book is terrific. Freedom by Jonathan Franzen. Labelled by some as "a Great American Novel." I bought it at Left Bank Books, paid full tilt for it, not a 40% discount from Amazon, opting to support my local independent bookstore. (a rare occasion) To close this circle, last Monday night I saw Franzen at a reading at Christ Church Cathedral, SRO. Not only is he a good writer but a good reader. I don't know if he blogs, probably not, as he needs to spend his time writing The Great American Novel, which I could do if I didn't blog...and procrastinate...and had fathomless talent. I'll be blogging your way soon, even to tell you about a novel I wrote that will be published in a couple of weeks. In the meantime, check out Janet's link. www.riehlife.com.

Conversation with a Renegade Chicken

2010-09-24T09:46:00.000-07:00

The road runs from Hannibal, Missouri, to St. Louis. It offers a lot for the eyes. Lush, green hills; stands of oak, elm and cedar; occasional glimpses of the Big Muddy, just as Tom and Huck might have seen it.

I had spent the night in Hannibal at a quaint B&B (aren’t they all “quaint”?), attempting to conjure up the spirit of Sam Clemens. I had questions for him about how to write humor. He never showed.

The second “B” at the B&B was excellent: scrambled eggs with cheddar cheese and onions, wheat toast, homemade strawberry preserves, and a thick slice of country ham. As I took a long walk in the woods that border the B&B, seeking a little exercise before driving back home, my thoughts were on eggs. “The” eggs. The ones that were being recalled, millions, maybe billions of them, all originating in Iowa, just a stone’s throw from Indian Joe’s Cave. I was little prepared for the encounter that awaited me on my walk.

I left the main path, worked my way through elder bushes and low-hanging pines. (I’m not sure what an elder bush looks like, but it sounds good.), and stepped into a clearing, still in morning shadows.

And there she stood. Or, rather, huddled. A chicken. Brown and russet, rather thin, scraggly feathers, eyes wide with fear. She didn’t move. I approached her, walking slowly, a smile on my face, thinking loving, positive thoughts

She looked me right in the eye.

“Hello, chicken,” I said. “What are you doing here?” I spoke as though to a child.

I expected silence, maybe a slight squawk. Instead she said, “You’re not with them, are you?”

“Excuse me?” I’m not sure what surprised me more, the sound or the suspicion.

“I asked if you’re with them.” She looked behind me, checking for others.

“Who is ‘them’?”

“The guards. The keepers. The gatherers.”

“I don’t under - “

“Don’t interrupt.” Her voice became more strident. “The crooks, the handlers, the egg Nazis.”

Suddenly it made sense. “You must be from - “

“Iowa. Wright County. The Factory.” She spit out the words, scratched the ground like a bull about to charge.

I sat down next to her. She backed away. “No, I’m not one of them.” I introduced myself. “I’m Gerry. With a ‘G’.”

“Phrances. With a ‘Ph’.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Did I make fun of your ‘G’?”

“Well said.” I held out my hand.

She gave me a weak high five. Actually a high four. She hadn’t eaten in days. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a slice of wheat toast, lightly buttered. She grabbed it and quickly tore it apart with her beak. “Thanks,” she said. ‘It’s not cracked corn, but it’ll do.” The toast disappeared in seconds.

“So...Phrances...tell me about it,” I said.

She sat in silence, gathering her thoughts. I waited as the sun edged into the shade.

Finally she began her story:

“It was a nightmare. Impossible demands. Despicable living conditions. A complete lack of sanitary considerations. And don’t get me started on the manure piled in there.” I shuddered at the thought. She continued. “No exercise, no socializing, no background music.” She stopped, stared at the ground. I thought that was the end of her story. There was more.

“I’m a good layer. I know I don’t look like much now. That’s what six days on the run will do to you. But I dropped a lot of eggs, Gerry. Even got a Happy Egger award last month. But you think they care?? Not one wit. You drop three today, they want four tomorrow.”

“My lord,” I said, unable to help myself. I reached over and scratched her head.

“Gerry, you can’t imagine the conditions there. I saw rats. They ran along the walls, scurried amongst the cages. I still have nightmares where I see their beady red eyes and wet twitching noses, probing between the bars. And the rain. There were holes in the roof. Besides the lightning and thunder, water dripped on us. Not on me. I was caged in a dry spot. but so many of the others...” She stopped, engulfed by memories of lost friends, most likely.

“You don’t have to go on,” I said.

“Do you have anything to drink?”

I pulled the half-full Evian bottle from my pocket. “There. As much as you want.” I tilted the bottle so it dropped into her open mouth. She smacked her beak. “You don’t have any coffee by chance, do you?”

“Coffee?” She had to be kidding.

“They gave us coffee. Black. Full strength. To keep us awake, increase production. I’m kind of addicted to it now. I get these headaches...”

I laughed. “I’ll take you to Starbuck’s.”

“What’s that?”

“Never mind. Go on with your story, Phrances.

She took a deep breath and ruffled her frayed feathers. “We had one guard, a sadistic sonofabitch. Skinny, pock marks, tiny black eyes like a rat. He’d walk up and down the aisle, bang on our cages with a baseball bat. Shout ‘Drop ‘em, ladies, drop ‘em’ in a high-pitched voice. He got off on scaring us, hearing all the racket we’d make. You can imagine what thousands of chickens sound like when they’re frightened.”

“Thousands! How big - ?”

“Tens of thousands, mon ami. This camp was huge. Thousands and thousands of us, squashed side by side, as far as the eye could see.”

The day had grown cold inside me. The story became clear as she talked. Over a half billion eggs from two Iowa farms recalled. More than a thousand cases of salmonella poisoning across the entire country. An egg operation involving as many as half a million chickens. Each cage holding 4 or 5 birds in an area no larger than an 8x10 sheet of paper. But the cruelest deception had yet to be spoken.

“You know, the name of this place I was at is the Wright County Egg Company. It’s run by a ruthless profiteer named DeCoster. He’s had run-ins with health officials before, but he keeps on doing business. And here’s the ball buster, Gerry.” She stopped and looked around. I could tell our time together was growing short. “Listen to this. You know how they sold their eggs? Not as Wright County. Oh, no, that’s too corporate. They packaged their eggs under names like Mountain Dairy. Hillandale. Shoreland. Sunshine. And, my personal favorite, Dutch Farms. Seriously, if eggs, or any kind of food, comes from Dutch Farms, you just know it’s gotta be healthy. Right? Talk about massive deception.”

“I never knew,” I said.

“Who knew? You go into Ralph’s or Albertson or Schnucks, you expect an honest egg. If they had been honest, the cartons would’ve been named Alcatraz Eggs, Sing Sing, Attica. Even Abu Ghraib. You like that? ‘Mr. Grocer, could I have a dozen Abu Ghraib eggs?’ Not in your lifetime, that’s for sure.”

“Look, is there anything I can do for you?”

She drew herself up, shook off the dust, trying her best to regain her former beauty. “Yes, Gerry with a G, yes there is. Tell people what went on. Let them know what we chickens have been through, just how evil those people are. Above all else, don’t let us be forgotten.”

I felt a tear form in the corner of my eye, a lump in my throat. I reached out and stroked her lovingly under her beak. “I promise.” I held my hand there. “But what about you?”

“I’ll be fine,” she said. “I have relatives in Defiance. They live on a farm. Nobody cares how may eggs they lay, as long as the owners have their beer and wine. And they don’t like fried chicken either.” She let out a loud cackle, possibly a laugh, and began to walk towards the woods. “It’s paradise, Gerry. Just remember your promise.”

“Safe travel, Phrances,” I shouted, as she disappeared into the undergrowth of elder bush. “I’ll keep my promise.”

And she was gone.

Under the Red Goose Sign

2010-09-11T19:09:00.000-07:00

Here's something from my archives. I saw a newspaper article recently about Cherokee Street in St. Louis. It talked about how the neighborhood has changed, about the new businesses and energy evident in that neighborhood, the influx of Hispanic culture, the result of immigration from Mexico to St. Louis. I was reminded of a memoir I wrote a couple of years ago, about an immigrant in an earlier era, about a shoe store. Here it is.

I stand on the littered sidewalk, staring through the grimy plate glass window into a dark and empty store. This was once my father’s shoe store, a business he ran for more than forty years and was as essential to him as food and air. The store, and the entire street, once resonated with shoppers and colorful window decorations and a transcendent energy, all accompanied by a soundtrack of voices and traffic. Now the store, on this street of deteriorating storefronts and struggling businesses, holds only ghosts and memories. Outside the entrance, over the name Proper Shoe Store, hangs a huge Red Goose Shoes sign. Suspended in immutable splendor, it is a happy reminder of the line of children’s shoes he once carried.

My father evolved from a four-year-old immigrant from Russia into a respected and well-liked businessman who made friends with aldermen and mayors, prize fighters and comedians, rabbis and priests, maitre-d’s and cops. Even now, twenty years after his death, I still am fascinated by the photographs he so proudly displayed: Dad with Jimmy Durante, Rocky Marciano, Joe Garagiola, Shecky Green, Henny Youngman, Rosemary Clooney and even Buster Workman, a notorious racketeer from across the river in East St. Louis.

Yes, Dad knew them all. But he did not know me. And I, sadly, did not know him. Over the years we went to ball games and boxing matches together, family dinners at restaurants and large dances at hotel ballrooms for organizations he and Mom supported. We had lunch together, usually at his suggestion. But our conversations never seemed to go beneath the surface. The job is fine, business is good, the Cardinals are playing great, Aunt Minnie isn’t doing so well. Even when I knew his heart was weakening and a fearful look in his eye had replaced the confident smile I had always associated with him - even then, we couldn’t get past the mundane. I must have been fifty years old before I could say ‘I love you” to my dad. It took him even longer to return the sentiment.

Don’t get me wrong. I loved him. He loved me. But it was unspoken. My entire life was, if anything, too easy. I never wanted for a car, a new suit, a college education, and - of course - shoes. He frequently would bring home shoes for me, even after I was grown and out of the house, shoes I didn’t need or like. They were his way, I think, of saying “I love you.” Shoes were his language.

Dad had a knack of associating people with the size of the their feet. He forgot people’s names occasionally, but never their size.

“You see that guy over there?” he’d say to me. “Size nine Charlie.”

“Who is that, Dad?”

“I don’t remember his name but he wears a 9-C.”

Dad had everyone pegged by their shoe size. The waitress at the diner down the street with the petite 5-B. The cop in the neighborhood with the gigantic 14-EEE. Dad specialized in hard-to-fit feet, and drew customers from the entire St. Louis area. His name was Milt, his nicknames were Smiley and Uncle Miltie and Curly, even though he was bald.

He’d proudly introduce me as his son. I was the piano player. My brother was the baseball player. I gravitated more to mom, who also played piano. We knew each other better. But here’s the strange part: In my dreams today I dream about Dad frequently. Not Mom. In my dreams, Dad is with me, healthy and happy, as he was when I was growing up. Even as I talk with him, I know he is dead. But we are together and that’s all that counts. Sometimes the dream seems to go on for hours, and I fear his departure, but he stays. And I treasure each second, impossible though I know it is. I wake up still locked in the magic of the dream, feeling fulfilled and sad and privileged.

I often wonder why we have such difficulty getting in touch with our fathers. How and where the distance began. He was born on the other side of the world. He entered a strange land, made his way to St. Louis, learned the language, the hustle, the do’s and don’ts of making it in America. He ran his own business for four decades, survived The Depression, recovered from a devastating fire that put him out of business for almost a year, at a time when Mom was pregnant with my brother and Pearl Harbor was just months away. Even then, he never stopped, never looked back. I don’t think I could have achieved what he did. At one of our lunches, instead of telling him I got a raise or was thinking about buying a new Monte Carlo, I wish - God, how I wish - I had told him what an incredibly beautiful job he had done with his life and mine.

So many people migrated to America during the early part of the last century, became men and women of respect and accomplishment. Many of them died without ever talking about how they did it, why they did it, how they felt about it. This is a personal loss of lore and legend we must now seek out in other people’s books and experiences, to see what, if anything, applies to our own lives.

I touch the cold glass. In the darkness I can see Dad pull a shoe box from a shelf, flip open the lid, pull out a size five beige pump and present it to a seated woman who has one shoe off. He looks up at the window, sees me, and smiles. Then he slips the shoe onto the woman’s foot.

The Perils of Kansas

2010-09-02T19:39:00.000-07:00

The only thing that stands between me and the beauty of Colorado is Kansas. It's a long slog across that state. And boring, unless you entertain yourself. And thereby hangs a tale.

I've recently returned from a week-long trip to Boulder. In a rented mini-van. The word "mini" is a misnomer. This was a Chrysler Town and Country that made my Honda Insight feel like a scooter. I eventually got used to the size. What threw me, however, was the radio. I'm from the old school of radio operation. Two knobs. All you do is twist them. One to make the sound louder or softer; one to change stations. What more do you need? I've adjusted to buttons that scan. But touch screens? In a car? Does Ralph Nader know about this? I guess I've been living in the proverbial cave but I must've missed the segue when radios became computers. This radio featured a screen, surrounded by buttons. I could only guess at what functions the buttons were responsible for. "Media." "Aux" "Sound" "Radio" "My Files." And 3 or 4 more I have forgotten. And one knob. A tiny knob for volume. Why am I spending all this time on the radio? Because the radio is the villain of this piece.

Whenever I pushed Media or Radio or one of the others, the screen changed, giving me choices on the touch screen which I found bewildering. As the screens changed, I thought I was watching a PowerPoint presentation on combat operations on the Eastern Front. And I was losing. The options overwhelmed me. Do you know the difference between "scan," "search," and "seek"? Me neither. All I know is I would touch one of the arrows, the station would change, and before I could decide if I liked it or not, it had moved on. "The moving finger writes, and the scan continues to scan."

So, I'm driving through Kansas, heading home, trying to find some music either on FM or on my iPod (which was controlled by "Aux.") My wife is reading and my two Golden Retrievers are sleeping. I'm about 30 miles east of Hays, an unattractive town that pulls in unsuspecting motorists like flies to fly paper. It's a dreary stretch of motels and chain restaurants that offer respite from the flat Kansas landscape. A virtual oasis, if your expectations are low or your needs urgent. I'm fiddling with the radio, trying to find something besides religion or country. My eyes shift between the screen and the road, trying to make sure I don't rear-end someone. I should have added speedometer to my eye-balling.

I'm behind a woman in a blue Toyota Prius in the passing lane. For some unknown reason she has slowed up. "C'mon, lady," I say aloud. "If you're gonna go slow, at least pull over." She doesn't. I hit the accelerator (the T&C is a 6 cylinder job, unlike my little Honda), and fly past her on the right, giving her a dirty look. Got to move, can't slow down, got to get out of Kansas before sunset. Yee-haw! That's about when a car pulls in behind me and I see bright red and blue lights flashing below his windshield. Not on top of the car, where you can spot them a distance away. Yep, it's the highway patrol. He's nailed me.

As I pull onto the shoulder, the blue Prius drifts by. I don't have the stomach to look at her. I know what she's thinking. The state trooper comes over, I give him my most pathetic look, trying to look old and frail. He tells me how fast I was going. I tell him I was trying to get to a Rest Area so we could feed our beautiful, hungry dogs. The trooper shows no emotion. A hard man, I think. Too many years with a badge. Anyway, to end this tale, I'll just tell you I got a ticket, but it was for 80 mph, which is not a moving violation, as the very polite trooper explains. So it won't affect my insurance. Believe it or not, I thank him for his kindness. He then tells me that the radar detector I have stuck to my windshield - which didn't utter a sound through all of this - is a dead giveaway that I like to speed. Cops look for that, he says. He also tells me I can mail in the fine, or appear in court in Hays in October. Easy answer. His parting words are, "Now you can feed your dogs."

I pull back onto the highway, turn off the radio, unplug my radar detector and shove it into the glove compartment, slap the ticket into the visor without looking at the fine, and head for a motel in Salinas. We won't get out of Kansas by nightfall.

A Girl Named Bud

2010-08-21T09:52:00.000-07:00

I saw a familiar name on the front page of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch yesterday. A name that consumed a big part of my life for six years. I knew at the time this affair would end with me crying in my beer, thinking of all I had put into the relationship. But I knew at the time my love would be unrequited.

That name was Budweiser. The headline said, "Rebuilding Bud bandwagon." Actually the headline had put a positive spin on a rather devastating situation. A telling figure: 4 out of 10 people in their mid-20's have never even tried a Bud. Sorry to say, Budweiser is no longer the King of Beers. Barely a Prince. It fell from its throne some time ago. Actually overthrown by a mob of young drinkers who felt no connection with the brand. Done in by misdirection and myopia. Bud's share of market has declined from 26% in 1988 to just over 9% last year. That's a worse record than Bernie Madoff.

Okay, enough marketing data. I don't like it any more than you do.

Why do I care? I don't drink Bud anymore, don't own AB/InBev stock, my son isn't a beer distributor. I care because I was Creative Director on Bud for 6 years, back when D'Arcy Advertising was a big name in the business, not only in St. Louis but nationally. Today D'Arcy doesn't exist, except in distant echoes and dusty images conjured by aging Mad Men and Women who remember "back when we had fun." And we did.

As I read the article, I felt as though I had just run into an old girl friend. Once she was the stunning, vibrant object of my desire. Now before me stood a stooped, frail woman, chain smoking Camels, her face deeply lined, her arms and neck covered with a swirl of tattoos in an effort to appear young and hip. One of the tattoos said, "Whassup?" Whatever that meant.

"What happened to you?" I said.

"They did it to me,": she replied in a voice that still carried faint promise. "They sacrificed my honor, my soul, to the gods of easy fame and hearty guffaws."

"You poor thing," I said, still unwilling to touch her.

I worked on the Bud brand from 1982 through 1988. Good years. Advertising well thought out and beautifully crafted. Commercials that still move me. Then came The Frogs. I still tremble at the thought of them. Talking Frogs. Lizards named Louie. Even ants carrying a bottle of Bud. Ants!!! Yes, people talked how funny and clever they were. But, like termites, they bored from within.

And that was just the beginning. Throw the desecration of the Clydesdales in there while you're at it. Once they were a symbol of Bud's heritage. Unhitched, they became a circus act frolicking in the snow.

So now AB/InBev thinks it can resurrect Bud in the U.S., bring it back to its former glory, make it "relevant" again. Sure, and Burger Chef will sell hamburgers again and TWA will fly again and my next car will be a Pontiac.

You can check out this site to see what it used to be about. 2OldGuysTalkBeer.com

The Man & Me

2010-08-12T08:01:00.000-07:00

The woman behind the counter at Barnes & Noble took the Sports Illustrated from me and noticed the man on the cover. "What a wonderful person he must be," she said. "I'd love to meet him." I segued into my bragging mode and told her I had spent an evening with him, many years ago.

"You should write about it," she said.

The year was 1960. I was living in San Francisco, drawn there by Jack Kerouac's On The Road and having no idea what I wanted to do with my life. I was just out of the Army and had decided to balance those two years with the life of a beatnik. Poetry and jazz and black clothes and an air of despair and ultimate cool. So I headed west that year.

A month later my father called from St. Louis to tell me that the Cardinals were going to be in SF to open the Giants' new Candlestick Park. Two of his friends from St. Louis would be there: Henry Ruggeri, who ran one of The Hill's most popular restaurants and a favorite with ballplayers; and Doc Morrow, an optometrist. Would I like to join them? Absolutely. Given I was barely scraping by on minimum wage, here was a chance to see a game, be with people I knew, and maybe catch a good meal with it.

That Saturday night I found myself seated between Henry and Doc at Candlestick, enjoying hot dogs, peanuts and a couple of beers. I don't remember who won the game, but I can still see Musial easily roaming left field and getting two hits. I had seen him play in the '46 World Series against the Red Sox, and here he was, fourteen years later, still a beautiful sight at the plate. (Who knew that, fifty years later, I'd be buying an SI with his picture on it).

After the game, we headed for the players' entrance. We waited. "Who are we waiting for?" I said. "A couple of guys," said Henry. Doc just smiled. Fifteen minutes later, Stan Musial and Joe Garagiola walked out, threw big smiles at Henry and Doc, shook hands and hugged. Then I was introduced. When I shook Stan's hand, he looked at me like I was really there, not a passing glance and "nice to meet you, kid." Joe said "Welcome to the party." His voice by now was familiar to Cardinal fans via radio.

We grabbed two cabs - Henry was a very large man - and headed for the North Beach area, home for restaurants, bars and clubs. One thought dominated my mind: What the hell was a skinny, semi-beatnik kid doing with Stan and Joe? We hit several lively places. But one singular event remains clear and focused.

We had entered a popular piano bar in Chinatown called The Rickshaw. It was tucked away in an alley. The piano player was a tall, dark-complexioned Jewish guy who wore a white turban. As we entered, several people turned to looked at us. Comments ran through the crowd. "It's Stan Musial." "Hi, Stan." "It's The Man." Some recognized Joe, but most eyes were on Stan. I just tried to act cool and revel in his aura. The piano player stopped the song he was playing and launched into Meet Me in St. Louie. Everybody sang. Musial smiled and waved, shook hands with several strangers.

I learned a lesson from Stan that night. No matter how big you are, never forget to be gracious to everyone.

Years later I was at an event in St. Louis and Stan was there. Retired now, he still looked as though he could play nine innings. I went over to him, introduced myself and said, 'You probably don't remember - ."

"Sure, I do," he said with a smile. "San Francisco. That bar in the alley with the piano player in the turban. You and Joe and Henry and Doc. That was a good night."

Yes, it was.

If you want to read Joe Posnanski's excellent story on Stan, click here.

http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/vault/article/magazine/MAG1172566/index.htm

A Close Brush with Musical Fame

2010-08-03T18:31:00.000-07:00

I saw a familiar name in the NY Times today. Mitch Miller. If you're under 50, you probably have no idea who Mitch Miller was. To put it simply, he was an influential figure in pop music during the 1950's and '60's. Yes, ancient history, back there with LP's and AM radio stations. There's a reason I'm telling you about Mitch. You see, Mitch almost catapulted my songwriting partner and me to fame and riches. Unfortunately we weren't aware of how the music business worked, and ended up hiring a lawyer. I'll get to that.

Mitch was head of A&R at Columbia Records, and helped establish singers such as Tony Bennett, Rosemary Clooney, Johnny Mathis, Doris Day, Patti Page. And Frankie Laine - he of "Rawhide" and "My Heart Knows What the Wild Goose Knows" fame. (Mitch also hit it big with his sing-along albums and TV show, where people actually sat at home and sang along with him and his chorus. Times were different then.) But the key here is Frankie Laine. My buddy and I had been writing songs and trying to peddle them, with little success. Actually no success. We'd even traveled to New York, called on music publishers in the Brill Building, and sang our songs to disinterested men in wrinkled suits and stained ties. But we were sure this extraordinary song was destined to become a hit. It was called "In the Beginning. Yep, the first 3 words in the Bible, book of Genesis. We knew it would be perfect for Frankie Laine, at Columbia Records in Mitch's jurisdiction. Here are the opening lyrics, just to stir your imagination: "In the beginning there was nothing at all, other than God and a fiery ball. Then one day a piece broke away, and the Lord called it Earth, so they say." Now can you see why we were so excited about this? And that's just the first chorus.

So we contacted a DJ in St. Louis named Ed Bonner. He played pop, he was the go-to guy before the term "go-to guy" was invented. (Ed urged his fans to frequent his sponsors and tell them "E.B. sent me." Funny how some things stay in your mind forever). So Ed sent our song - the lead sheet - to Mitch Miller. We waited. A week went by, two weeks, four. We figured Mitch was talking to Frankie, working out arrangements, and it'd be just a matter of time before our song was released. We kept waiting. Living in St. Louis, what the hell did we know about how the music business works? Just be nice and patient. Talent will win the day, right? Wrong.

Three months after the song had been mailed, Columbia released a record by Frankie Laine, called "In the Beginning." Only problem was, it wasn't our song. Not the melody, not the lyrics. Same catchy, Biblically-inspired title. Frankie's song wasn't bad, it just wasn't our song. Not even close. To add insult to injury, it was released as the "B" side. I forget what was on the "A" side; it's a mental block, I think. We were hurt, we were sad. And then we became angry. So we found a patent attorney and filed a lawsuit against Mitch and Columbia. Not a smart way to move ahead in the pop music business. To end this charade, I'll just tell you nothing happened. The lawsuit was dismissed. Our lawyer received, as I recall, a letter saying "forget it." The closing scene on this travesty took place in the Saturday Evening Post (that was a popular magazine in those dark days). An article on the "genius" of Mitch Miller made mention of the fact that Mitch no longer accepts unsolicited songs "ever since two St. Louis songwriters tried to sue him for a song they wrote called 'In the Beginning.'" The article then quoted Mitch, as he proclaimed in court, "How can they claim ownership of that title. It's the first three words of the Bible." I hadn't realized till then that Mitch was a biblical scholar.

I still have the lawyer's letter, the Saturday Evening Post article, and several lead-sheets of the music. So if you know of anyone looking for a really terrific song to record, let me know. Just promise me you'll release it as the "A" side.

A Matter of Time

2010-07-29T13:28:00.000-07:00

I got the phone call in April of 2009. His name was Ron. He wanted me to write his autobiography. "Like a novel, a real page turner," he said.

I asked him when he wanted to start.

"Tomorrow. Today. As soon as possible."

"What's the rush?" I asked him.

"I have just been diagnosed with mesathelioma," he said.

I'd never heard that word before. He filled me in. "It's fatal lung cancer. Caused by exposure to asbestos. They give me, maybe 2, 3 years. See you tomorrow?"

I was there the next day. For several months I met with him once a week, for 2 or 3 hours, taking notes on my Mac Powerbook. Then I began putting the book into shape, writing in 3rd person, like a novel, keeping with the facts but inventing characters and dialogue to keep the story moving, make it dramatic, involve the reader.

In early 2010 I had a rough draft. 365 pages. And Ron had a bad report from his oncologist. He didn't have 2 or 3 years, he had maybe 8 or 9 months. He read the draft, I made changes, a lawyer got involved. In May of 2010, a little over one year after we had started our journey, I delivered the final draft to him. He held it close, didn't smile, looked at me.

"I got some bad news this morning. They say I won't make it until the 4th of July." He looked tired, sunken, done in by the disease, by chemo and radiation, he was on oxygen now. Still he didn't quit, never complained.

I got the book to a printer. "It's a rush," I said. The printer knew it was coming and moved with lightning speed.

The first bound proof came off the press on a Wednesday. It looked terrific. No problems. I rushed over to Ron's, found him sitting in his den, oxygen tubes in his nose, feet propped up, a smile on his face. "Here it is." I handed him his book. Where the Mountain Takes Me. He turned it over in his hands, showed it to his wife, held it close to his chest.

"Thank you." His voice close to breaking. I could say nothing.

That was on a Wednesday. The following week, on Thursday, June 10, my phone rang. It was his wife. Ron had passed away. His journey was over. So, possibly, was mine. He had shown confidence in me, believed I could write this, even when I doubted myself. He was a keen editor. And his story is now told in his book. An incredible story, actually. From a difficult childhood - not sure who his dad was, a mother who dragged him around the country, depositing him at homes for children, schools, relatives. A graduate of UC/Berkeley, an engineer - where he was exposed to asbestos - for several years, one of the men who worked on the space program. Then an abrupt change in his life. He became a dentist, a pilot, a skier, a traveller. I miss Ron.

If someone hadn't written "Tuesdays with Morrie," I might have written "Thursdays with Ron." It was that kind of journey. The name of the book is Where the Mountain Takes Me. By Ron Gersten. With me. But it's his story. The book is available through www.stlbooks.com. Check it out.