Show me your friends and I’ll tell you who you are.

“Show me your friends and I’ll tell you who you are.”

With that phrase in mind I am proud to say that Randy Giles was my friend. I have to use the past tense; as I recently took a phone call from an old camp friend, “Spinner, got some bad news man. I just got a call from Kim Slaton. Randy Giles died. I guess he had a small stroke on the way to work. They took him to the hospital and he had a massive stroke later at the hospital and he died. I figured I’d call you directly, I didn’t want you find out via email.” I appreciated Glen’s call and I knew that Glen needed to talk to someone who knew Randy. Shocked, digesting the information, we processed Randy’s passing. We chatted about Randy, his sense of humor, laugh, athletic ability, his easy manner, his wily independence, his sense of style. One phrase Glen used resonated with me, “Wise beyond his years.” That was perfect for Randall.

Randy, Glen and I went to camp together, YMCA Silver Lake in Sussex County, New Jersey. When I first met Randy he was a camper and Glen and I were staff members. Randy was my favorite camper. And I am not saying that out of respect, I mean because he just passed, that’s the truth. In six years at Silver Lake, with probably hundreds of kids in my various bunks, kids that I loved having in my bunk like: Gray Goldfarb, Craig Calzaretta, Sean Croke, Chris Casabona, Greg Giordano, Vinny Aprile…the list goes on, Randy was top of the list. Alright, tied with Calzaretta, for all the same reasons. Having Randy in your bunk, I had him in Lennape, Pioneer Unit, was like having an 11 year old junior counselor in your cabin. He was responsible but he also knew how to have fun. Unlike most kids, myself included, Randy (uncannily) knew where the proverbial line was. He got all of our jokes, even though he was years younger, and he really knew how to dish it out and take it.

One of my favorite Randy memories: We had a lot of inner city kids from Paterson, NJ coming to Silver Lake. For some, this was their first excursion away from a concrete world. It’s the first night of our two week session, we are getting ready for bed. I am sitting on the front porch of the cabin as the kids are inside putting on pajamas and grabbing their toiletries for our walk over to the Kybo (bathroom) to brush our teeth. I can hear Randy talking to one of the boys about being scared to walk down the dirt road at night. This kid is dealing with crickets, frogs and darkness like he’s never seen before. He does not want to leave the cabin. Now you have to remember both campers are the same age. However, Randy’s a veteran of a few Silver Lake summers so he tells the kid, “Listen, I was just like you, it is scary but you are better off walking over with the whole bunk and the counselor now. You better use the bathroom now because if you have to go in the middle of the night, it’s even scarier.” The boy takes the measure of Randy and joins us for our walk. On the way over Randy continues to talk to Malcolm to assure him. When we get back to the bunk, and I’ll never forget this, I can hear through the screen, Randy says, “Malcolm, if you need to use the bathroom in the middle of the night you can wake me up and I’ll walk over there with you.” THAT was Randy Giles.

What else can I tell you? Randy was just cool. He had a sense of style, of who he was. One summer he took to wearing a goofy chef’s hat everywhere, just because. And it fit Randy. He never seemed to get flustered, nothing bothered him. One time on the hoop court, and this story always comes up, someone called Randy for traveling. And he freaked. “I didn’t walk. I DIDN’T WALK! I DIDN’T WALK!” As the argument continued, Randy’s voice got louder but it was comical, because it was so out of character for Randy. When my wife, who I met at Silver Lake, told me a few years ago that she and Randy had a little fling back at camp, that made sense to me. If I was a girl, I could see dating Randy. He was just cool.

As news of Randy’s passing circulated, I spoke to other Silver Lakers and we all man or woman, said the same things about Randy: smart, funny, great smile, responsible, good friend, energetic, athletic, independent…The calls came, as they do after friends pass, because we needed to share stories of Randy. Moira Flanagan broke down in tears shortly after we started talking. We were both so sad, but this was different, we were sad about losing a friend we hadn’t seen since the 80’s. During our conversation, Moira mentioned that on an Explorer trip down the Delaware, she and Randy shared a canoe for the 4 days they were on the river. And my thoughts were, that would be fun! What a great combo in that boat, they must have had a freaking riot. Sharing a boat with Randy, or Moira for four days would have been a hoot. God, those were the days. Not only are we mourning Randy, we are mourning those long ago days.

Randy was a heckuva, basketball player. He was tough, smart, knew the game so well that he made other players better. Lefty, and six years younger than me and most of my friends, he was one of the better players on the court. Man could he pass, always putting the ball in the right place at the right time. Actually, Randy preferred to make a nice pass rather than shooting himself. He was competitive but not ultra-serious. As Glen said, wise beyond his years.

I have a picture of Randy having a catch with our friend Woody in front of our old Cabin 15. Randy, with his Met hat on is throwing the ball right at the camera. That is my favorite picture of Randy. Youthful, smooth, engaged in life.

I'm trying to wrap my head around why news of Randy’s passing, a friend who meant so much to me, so long ago makes all of us so sad. I know that I am sad for the people who are still in Randy’s life, his wife and kids, mom, dad, nieces, nephews, colleagues at work, guys he still plays hoop with. I also know that with each passing year and each passing friend we continue to be confronted by our own mortality. I know I am torn up because Randy and I lost touch, saddened by the fact that Randy and I were unable to play catch up one last time. Glen Gruder and I spoke of how we had reached out to Randy over the years with little success. That was surprising to me. Randy seemed like the kind of guy that would keep in touch. I guess, as a doctor and father of three, like a lot of us, he was probably pretty busy. Kim Slaton, a fellow Silver Laker and close Giles family friend said to me, “I don’t know why he didn’t keep in touch but I know that his Silver Lake years were a big deal for him.”

I’ll take solace in that…As the saying goes, “Show me your friends and I’ll tell you who you are.”  I’d like you to know, Randy Giles was a friend of mine.

The Not-So-Kosher Deli

Nicholas, my 13 year old, is starting to ask questions about earning money. Like many of us at that age, he’s starting to care about what he wears, he’s tired of hearing No from his parents. I am sure our lectures about being fiscally responsible are wearying as well.  That’s a good thing for kids. Didn’t we all go through that? My father was a working class dad (carpenter) in the 70’s and with four kids in the Spinner house we knew the financial realities early on. Right around seventh grade, my peers became conscious of name brands and certain fashions, starting with sneakers. You might remember the neighborhood song, “Rejects, they make your feet feel fine. Rejects, they cost a dollar ninety-nine.” Once I was aware that the abuse was targeted at me, I asked my mom if I could get a pair of Pro-Keds. I can still see them in the Royale Sporting Goods window on the corner of Church Avenue and East 5^th Street. They were white, with the little red and blue stripe where the pinky toe would be. I asked my mom, but I knew the answer. Like many of you, I got my first job because I wanted something, sneakers.

 After a series of odd jobs shoveling snow and walking neighbor’s dogs, Jimmy Quinlan, a neighborhood friend hooked me up with a job at The Cortelyou Deli. Simon Althaus ran the Cortelyou and central casting could not pick a better aging, Jewish counterman. He was stout in his restaurant issue white pants, shirt, and apron. His jowly face was framed by tufts of white hair above his ears. The guy was a classic.  Schmuck. For the two years I worked at the Cortelyou, Sy called me Schmuck. As a teen, raised in a Catholic household, I knew Schmuck wasn’t a good thing, but I didn’t know what it really meant. When I finally saw the real definition years later…He was calling me THAT!?

I knew Sy was making fun of me, but I put up with it because of those Pro Keds. There seemed to be an innate goodness to the man or I would not have taken his abuse. At two bucks an hour, it would not have been worth it. I could see in his eyes that he liked me, that he loved to bust my chops, so I would give it right back to him.

On school nights we worked 4:30 to 8. I’d leave John Dewey High School, take the B to Stillwell Avenue and then grab the D train to Cortelyou Road. I’d be in a great mood, walking along the avenue, past Hurley’s Bar, looking in all the store fronts, past the fire house and as soon as I open the glass windowed front door I’m smacked with the smell of hot dogs and sauerkraut from the steam table and…

"Schmuck, we got a dewivery from Dr. Brown’s you have to stock the soda coolers.”  

“Nice to see you too Sy, how was your day?” 

Sy turns to Henry, hovering on the half door that separates his kitchen from the restaurant, “You hear what the Schmuck says to me Henrrry?” Central casting did a nice job with Henry too. Also in restaurant white, Henry’s response to Sy is a grunt through the ever present stub of a cigar on the left side of his mouth. Henry took the train from Harlem every day, and it was his job to run the kitchen. That was Henry’s domain, even Sy wouldn’t mess with the kitchen. Henry was retired army, spent most of his career working kitchens for guys like Sy and teaching kids like me about life.

With the wisdom of hindsight, I can see now that the two of them loved to toy with me, to knock me down a peg.  At that age, I had the unfounded confidence of the teenager and the curriculum of East 4^th Street Wise Guy class to help me hold my own. I was close to calling this piece, the Dysfunctional Deli because I can see now how screwed up the place was, so many experts, who could barely run their own lives. But boy was it fun, a crucible for youth, as most of our first jobs were.

By the time I got there, The Cortelyou Deli, like the neighborhood it was in, was clinging to the glory days. Like the few remaining doctors, lawyers and accountants in the classic Victorian houses (mansions we called them) along Stratford, Rugby and Westminster Roads, the Cortelyou was a reminder of days past. The neighborhood once warranted a kosher deli for the well-heeled neighborhood professionals. The memory of those days was fading as a large percentage of Sy’s customers packed up for the leafier zip codes of Long Island’s Five Towns or Jersey’s Bergen County.

The Cortelyou Deli was really my first exposure to Jewish people on a regular basis. Most people who keep a kosher house are devout. I mean you have to be conscientious to keep a kosher house. And in order to maintain this lifestyle, you are not supposed to mix your dairy and your meat. We served a decent cup of coffee at the Cortelyou Deli and we were supposed to stock non-dairy creamer to maintain our kosher status. Sy would have me buy half-and-half at the regular deli a few blocks away. To watch people rave about our coffee, while they were actually drinking a dairy product caused Anthony (who split the week’s schedule with me) and I to snicker. We were just complicit in this petty offense. Sy, who was very Jewish, didn’t care. How he slept at night with this crime against his landsmen, I’ll never know.

There was tension in the neighborhood between the newer black residents encroaching from Flatbush Avenue westward, and the remaining white residents. The deli was on tenuous financial ground and would become the setting for drama. Sy would bend over backwards whenever Mr. Kalish came in or any of the other long-time customers. But if a Caribbean gentleman came in or a group of young black teens, Sy would reluctantly slump out of his chair at the back table and stand by the slicing machine while the customer tried to make sense of the menu. Chopped Liver, Tongue, Pastrami, Corned Beef, Knishes…, “Yeeees, can I help you?”  The response was a stare that said, hold your horses old man I’m spending good money or conspicuous silence that said, I’m anxious and confused. “Uh, Ya Mon, I’ll have a ham and cheese on rye with mustard.” Wiping the counter with a towel, I loved to watch these exchanges. Sy would put his head down, “Sorry, dees is a kosher deli, no dairrry and no pork.”  Intimidated and feeling worse, Jimmy Cliff starts to panic, he realizes all eyes in the deli are on him. “Uh, alright then, give me baloney and American on white bread with mayo.”   “SCHMUCK! No dairy and no pork.” Eventually the lost customer would head for the exit cursing as Sy did the same as he headed back to his “office” at the back table, his coffee and NY Post.

Towards 7 o’clock my duties included putting away the condiments on the tables, windexing the glass on the front windows, restocking sodas and beer…and making Sy a scotch and water. We hid a bottle of Dewar’s White Label below the slicing machine. The bottle was strategically placed so Sy’s wife, who pulled up in her sky blue Cadillac a few times a week, would not see it. There were secrets at the Cortelyou Deli, but this wasn’t one of them. Mrs. Althaus knew about the Dewars, she knew Sy drank. Once in a while I would have to call Mrs. A and tell her that I thought Sy shouldn’t drive home.

Sy, Henry, Anthony and I knew very little about the many secrets our lives held. The entire time I worked there, my parents never once came in for a meal, never came to check out the place or the guys I was working for. Can you imagine doing that today? One day while I was grabbing a sandwich at the back table, Sy rolled up his sleeve revealing a faded blue number, tattooed on his forearm. The tattoo sat there on his too white arm, a pregnant pause between us. Sy knew that I knew what it meant. He snorted, and raised his chin as if to say, Yeh, that’s what it is. We never spoke of it. The thought of his tattoo, and all that it represented, provided an answer to Sy’s gruff exterior, his need for Scotch and water.  

Most of us can point to the crucible of our first real job and take inventory of all the life lessons learned. Things like how money earned is empowering, how hard work and being dependable can pay off. And how working with and for others, it pays to get along. Eventually, the deli was a second home for Anthony and I, there was something comforting and safe about the Cortelyou. Maybe it was the food? I put on about 30 pounds while I worked there. The job introduced me to not only Sy and Henry but the world outside my neighborhood. Henry and Sy became part of our group’s lore, they were, characters. After getting off from work on a Saturday night, I’d bike the 10 or so blocks back to our neighborhood and hook up with the Tomasi brothers, Donald Kenna, Andrew O’Callaghan. We’d discuss many topics but the guys always wanted to know what kind of crazy stuff Sy or Henry had done. Donald Kenna would always ask, “What kind of antics did Sy pull today? Anything happen with Henry?” Our crew knew their personalities, they remembered the stories…

One Monday morning, Henry called in sick. Shocking. I had never worked a day without Henry in the kitchen. Sy called a restaurant temp agency and they sent over the dregs of the service industry to help us get through the night. This Harry Dean Stanton look alike mixed ammonia with bleach and practically blew the place up. Sy kicked him out and we had to make do without a cook. Sy performed admirably in both roles, showing off his decades of restaurant experience. Henry called in sick the next day. And the next. Saturday night Henry showed up and he wasn’t our Henry. His face was shiny, he hadn’t shaved, his clothes were unkempt, he was overly friendly and his voice was high-pitched. AND he was talkative. Sy knew what was up. For me, it was my first look at a real life bender. It was scary and exhilarating. Who was this boisterous, fun, Henry inviting me to Harlem “Ah, JIMMY, you have to come up to my place in Harlem! It’s not all black folks you know. Used to be a lot of Italians, some of those people never left. Those old ladies in my building will love you.”  Henry was coming in for his paycheck, even though he wasn’t working. I don’t know how much Sy paid him, considering Henry’s response, it seemed like a regular pay day for Henry. Sy was sympathetic, he knew what Henry was going through. After Henry left, Sy informed me, “Henry does this every once in a while. It lasts about two weeks, has to get it out of his system.” I wondered about the cause of Henry’s benders? I envisioned it was something like Sy’s reasons for drinking. Growing up black in America in the 50’s Henry had endured hardships. Being in the army, basic training down south, this fiercely proud man, had to eat his share of Jim Crow. Working for mostly white restaurant owners, scratching out a living on an hourly wage, life would grind him down and he’d snap. Henry was smart, he knew stuff. You got the feeling he could run just about anything. And he’d tell you too. “That asshole Ed Koch, Ah, he doesn’t know what he’s doing. What he should do is…”

Eventually I moved on to a better paying gig. One night I was meeting Anthony to go to a party. I pulled my  bike into the store and placed it safely to the side by the front window. I proceeded to bust Sy’s chops. Liberated in my street clothes, secure in the knowledge that I did not work there anymore, I pushed. There was a pay phone right where I parked my bike. I called the number for the Cortelyou. Ring! Sy awakens from his slumber seeing dollar signs, “Anthony, maybe eet’s a dewivery.” He lumbers to the front, just before he picks up the phone, I hang up. Once Sy gets comfortable, at the back table, I ring the phone again. You can take it from there. I do it six times, and he keeps schlepping across the floor boards. He’s probably into his second scotch so, he's a little slow on the uptake…Eventually, he figures it out, “OH! SCHMUCK! YOU TINK THEES IS FUNNY?” Sy comes charging around the counter. Anthony and I are howling. For me, running away is not an issue, but I also have to get my bike out the door, while I am doubled over laughing.  “Henry, do you see what the Schmuck ees doooing. Oh, you wait…”

I think of the hours, days, weeks, eventually years that we worked together, and that we never saw each other, outside the deli. Now, the Cortelyou is a bodega where other neighborhood kids are cutting their teeth on the employment line. I wonder how many people from the neighborhood remember the Cortelyou. I wonder what happened to Sy and Henry…The Cortelyou keeps popping up in my memory and my writing. I learned stuff there, about life, about people. Probably like you did at your first job. Where did you work? What were the characters like? I would love to hear.

Regrets Only

"Regrets Only"

There’s an Eddie Money song from the 80’s called, “I Wanna Go Back.” Eddie Money is connected to the soundtrack of my life. This song in particular is an enigma to me. Upon recognizing the initial notes, I am reminded of great times: it’s the 80’s, my friends and I have just graduated from college, working in Manhattan, the world is our oyster…. However, when I listen to the words, I find it haunting, painful. I think of that younger Jimmy Spinner and today’s Jim Spinner and I get that little twinge. This song provides for me, exactly what Eddie Money is singing about….
“I was listening to the radio
Heard a song, reminded me of long ago.”

So many of us are afraid to admit we have regrets. As if to look back and say, I wanna do something over means that you were wrong somehow. Most people probably say they have no regrets because all of the things they lived through, the successes and the failures, made them who they are today. I understand that sentiment, and I feel that way too, sometimes. But does having regrets imply that you are not happy with who you have become? What does it mean if you look back at your life and realize, I might have done a few things differently? I think most of us do have real regrets; and in our hearts we rewind our lives and kick ourselves about choices and decisions made. We listen to songs that remind us of long ago and say, “I wanna go back.”

Biggest regret I have is my reaction to Kira’s first pregnancy. What a class “A” selfish jerk I was. Knowing now, what I know about having Nicholas and having children in our lives, my reaction would have been so different. At that time, all I saw was: we won’t have enough money, life is going to change, people who have kids are exhausted, we’ll never go skiing…I couldn't see all the positives that Nicholas and all of my children would bring. I should have jumped for joy, stood on the deck and shouted to the tree tops, hugged Kira and danced around like in the movies. “And do it all over again.”

Considering that cigarette smoking killed my grandmother, my father, Shelley Stemmer, Bernie Swierczek and a host of other people that I really care about, I would grab every one of them, by the throat, and beg them to stop. I would tell them of the grandchildren they would never see and fishing trips they would never take. I would show them the hurt and sadness they would leave behind and maybe, just maybe they would stop. “Back then I thought that things were never gonna change.”

I would have been a better student, I would have studied harder, I definitely would have taken an SAT Prep course. I left Immaculate Heart of Mary in 8th grade as a very good student. I went to John Dewey High School, a public high school in Brooklyn and the wheels came off the cart. I loved my high school, but the freedom we had and the anonymity of being one of 3500 students proved too much for my adolescent psyche. I graduated on time, got into a decent college but with even 15% better effort? 30%? 45%? Who knows what my fate would have been? Maybe it would have been SUNY Buffalo anyway? It’s possible that that was meant to be. I can’t help but think that if I hadn’t played Ultimate Frisbee until midnight on the Friday before the SAT’s I might have had more options for college. “I wanna go back.”

In high school and college, I would have taken more classes that I actually wanted to take, I would have followed my passion. I look now at the Wesleyan Graduate Liberal Studies course catalog and I drool at the offerings. I don’t blame my high school guidance counselor, Ms Cilento, she was a sweet, well-dressed, conscientious lady. For her I was one manila folder in a large stack of manila folders. In meeting Ms. Cilento to choose a college and eventually a major, we decided with my quantitative scores on the SAT that I should pursue a career in engineering. I had no idea what engineering was and those of you that know me, know that choice is laughable. I blame myself for not being invested in the decision. I should have done one of those "personal inventories" that help you figure out what you really love to do. My quantitative brain was strong, I was on the math team at IHM, and algebra and geometry came easily to me; but literature and the written word, the creative side of my brain that was what really gave me goosebumps. I switched majors from Engineering to Economics because those classes were easier for me. As I moved toward graduation I realized that I had a boatload of credits in a variety of English/Literature classes from Irish Lit to Shakespeare. To this day, those are the classes that are most memorable to me. I tried to do a double major but it was too late. “And do it all over.”

After graduating from college, I tried for a few months to get a job on Madison Avenue. I figured a job in the creative department at a place like Young & Rubicam would be perfect. I bought a copy of How to Get the Right Job In Advertising. I sought the advice of Amy Lazar, my friend Stemmer’s cousin who worked for Grey Advertising. Then I started going on interviews. I looked for a grand total of 2 months, 7 to 8 interviews tops. I had no clue what an entry level position in an ad agency entailed. In every interview I was asked if I could type 40 words a minute. The answer was a lukewarm Yes. Behind the yes was, I didn’t go to college to type 40 words a minute and I’m definitely not getting someone coffee. I got zero offers. All this time, my college buddies were working dowtown and the siren song of Wall Street began to pull me. I went on one Wall Street interview and got a job offer, on St. Patrick’s Day! I thought it was an omen. For the next 10 years I hopscotched around the financial district. If I could do it all over again, I’d say, “Yes I can type 40 words a minute, sure I can pick up your dry cleaning, I will do whatever it takes to become a part of the creative team here at BBD&O."

Every once in a while I regret not sticking to one thing, just one thing so that I could be really good at it. Of course every great success story is a combination of hard work and talent. What percentage of the population has that talent? No matter how hard someone practices, more than likely, they won't become Michael Jordan. But aren’t we all a little jealous of the Mia Hamms, the Eric Claptons, the Meryl Streeps of the world? There’s a little bit of that feeling in all of us I think, what if had worked really hard at (fill in the blank) What if I hadn’t quit (                          )  If I were one of those laser-focused guys, like Ted Williams with hitting, or John Steinbeck with writing...what might have happened? 
Growing up in Brooklyn, the ability to defend one’s self physically as well as verbally was held in high esteem. I was a small, fast guy in mind and body. I became quick-witted because quick-fisted would have involved physical pain. On East Fourth Street, besting one of your cronies verbally held pride of place. As I moved off the block, and outside of Brooklyn, I didn't tone this down. I suppose over the years I got some good chuckles at other people's expense. I also know that I probably should have thought about who was on the other end of those jibes. A few years ago, Char, one of Kira’s best friends said, “Jim’s funny and all but did you ever notice that he gets a lot of his laughs at someone else’s expense?” I was kind of oblivious to that, I mean that’s what my buddies and I did, still do to this day. But to see it from another’s point of view was powerful, to be aware of everyone in the audience was enlightening. And now as a teacher, I witness students doing exactly this in the classroom, and depending on the audience and the comment, it can be funny but it can be hurtful too. “I wanna go back.”

I would have played a musical instrument. I would have made the effort, taken the lessons, just a few hours a week, a few classes in high school. I would have made the decision to stick with the guitar or the piano or the saxophone. I love music so much, it’s such a huge part of my life, the singer-songwriters really speak to me, like Lennon, McCartney, Neil Young, Springsteen, Dylan, Petty…to be able to play the guitar would be nice, really nice…”Cause I’m feeling so much older.”

By now I would have been bilingual. I would have continued studying Spanish, one of the classes that I excelled at in high school and college. Any excuse to go to a Spanish speaking country and immerse myself in the culture right? Think about how marketable that would be in today’s America, bilingual English/Spanish.

Obviously we can’t go back, I know. I also know that my 10 years on Wall Street helped me become the teacher and the father I have become, and maybe that was meant to be? I suppose we can take the wisdom that we gained and help our kids right? And can’t we take this tinge of regret and use it to our advantage? Can we continue to move toward the person we thought we’d become? It’s not too late is it? Please reply with regrets only.

I have to go ask Kira if there's money in the budget for my new guitar.

Powerful Outage

How cool was that October storm? Well sure, I could see that you might see it as a major inconvenience. If the Spinner house is like others, we lost hundreds, maybe thousands of dollars. But you have to admit, to take your life down to brass tacks, to strip it to the bare necessities (light, heat, running water, food, friends and family) was kinda cool. How many of us will never take for granted that when we flick the light switch, we get light? Wasn’t it sobering to be reminded that we are animals on a planet, a sometimes violent, unpredictable planet?

Walking up North Street from The Jorgensen’s that fateful Saturday night, it felt more like Christmas than Halloween. The wind was whipping large flakes of snow, the trees were sagging, some were down already. With my family safely at home, I stopped in the middle of the street. Every few seconds I heard the crack of a tree giving way under the weight of all that wet snow. I thought to myself: this is going to be really bad.

About 10 o’clock that night, Kira and I were sitting on our living room couch, our three boys asleep in bed. The fireplace was roaring and I had a cold ale by my side. Throughout the day there had been flickers of power loss but just after 10 o’clock there was an outage with a POP. Kira and I both knew it was the big one. We sat in silence, then she said, “That didn’t sound good, I’m going to bed.” We said good night. I grabbed my flashlight and continued to read by the fire.

The power was out but so many other things were ignited. Reading my book by the fire I could feel what life was like for our forefathers. I sat, thinking. Immediately, we all started to problem solve. Okay, what do we need to do to get through this?

We started to live our lives by the sun, a primal instinct. For most of us it was, early to bed, early to rise. Once the sun went down, we gathered by the fire to read and play games as a family. All of my boys thought, this is fun. We stoked the fire, we gathered candles and blankets; we lived, like pioneers, by the rising and setting of the sun.

Speaking of Pilgrims. Alright, maybe we weren’t speaking of Pilgrims but at least descendants of Pilgrims, Connecticut Yankees. Many of us were driven by an altruistic nature to help our fellow human beings. We felt the need to help friends and family, neighbors and strangers.

By Sunday morning it was evident that this was a long-term outage, we formulated new plans…I knew that I was welcome in any number of places, which was heart-warming. I knew that if I picked up a phone, or showed up on a doorstep, I had myriad houses I could go to. I would be welcome at my Mother’s or Kira’s Mom’s or Kira’s Dad’s house. We were also invited to: the Weizners, the Grices (which is where we went) and the Swierczeks…

Steve Swierczek texted, “Wow that sucks. Keep it together man, kids are gonna sense your anxiety. Easy for me to say but no one in ur family’s hurt and you guys like camping.” That stuck with me as my wife and I managed our family through the challenge. I had this awareness that my boys were watching, that it was a teachable moment, proof positive about all of the things we’ve been preaching about hard work, persistence and positive attitude.

I failed miserably, at least twice that I know of. Kira and I led the league in hissy fits. My boys were incredible, inspirational really. Of course they were unaware of bills piling up and they could give a rat’s pitooty if they shower at all but they were very helpful, and patient. Not one of my boys complained after hearing the news that Halloween was cancelled. Kira bitched a bit about missing X Factor. They did their best to keep the fire going and did the back-breaking work of cleaning up the yard. As a family we traversed the tri-state area, buying supplies and sleeping in any number of places. The fellas treated it as one big holiday.

We were welcomed with open arms by my friend Ian and his wife Sharon and their two boys. I never got the feeling we were putting them out, which is the key to taking someone in. A lesson I hope we learned. Ian’s boys had school on Tuesday so in an effort to do something educational, I took the boys to Princeton University. What a special place; if you ever get the chance, it’s one of the nicest campuses I have ever visited, even nicer than SUNY Buffalo!

While on a tour of the Princeton campus with Morgan Robinson, one of my former students (another nice outcome of the power outage was a chance to catch up with Morgan) Kira got word to me that the South Brunswick Home Depot had a generator. I high-tailed it off the University grounds and up Route One. In trying to read the GPS and drive the car safely, the tension was mounting. The market for generators was pretty liquid. Nicholas, my oldest son, made a joke from the passenger seat. I started to shoot fire from my eyes, “Nick, now is not the time for jokes!” To which he replied, “Dad, you’ve always said when times are toughest, that’s the time to make jokes.” My heart melted, I could hear myself and I could hear Swierczek’s message, “gonna sense your anxiety…” I slowed the car and said, “You’re absolutely right Nicholas. This is the perfect time for humor.”

Kira and I kept reminding each other, when one of us was losing it, “We’re all healthy, it’s an inconvenience.” I kept saying, “We’ll be laughing about this in the summer on the beach.” I had to duck a few times as Kira tried to bust me one in the mouth toward the end of the week. It really hit home while I was watching the pre-game for the LSU/Alabama game Saturday after the storm. There was footage of a devastating tornado that ripped through Tuscaloosa this past April, killing many. ESPN did a story about ‘Bama’s long snapper, Carson Tinker, who was hovering in a closet with his girlfriend (Ashley Harrison) during the storm. When the tornado sucked their house apart, it tore his girlfriend from his arms. His body was thrown a hundred yards from that spot, he had some injuries. Sadly, Ashley did not survive. Looking at the damage, and hearing the story of this tornado, confirmed the mantra we had been repeating... We’re all healthy, it’s just inconvenient…

So it has passed, and we are starting to laugh about it. We are cleaning up. I am sad for the beautiful magnolias and dogwoods on our property that didn’t fare so well. But I see the trees that survived, like Brian’s pine tree, Charlie’s cherry tree, Nick's Japanese maple and the sugar maple we planted with Papa Bill and Suzanne. Taking inventory, we see the resilience of nature and the toughness of the human spirit; all kindled by our “loss” of power.

Mullin Matters

Chris Mullin was recently inducted into the Basketball Hall of Fame. Like it was the Oscars, I watched (and taped) the coverage of the red carpet entrances and the induction ceremony. I changed my Facebook picture to a pic of Chris in his St. John’s uniform, a skinny white kid with a full head of 80’s feathered hair. My son Brian asked, “Dad is that you when you were younger?” I got a kick out of that. “No, Brian, that’s Chris Mullin. Does he look like me?” Yeh, a little bit when you were younger.” That just confirmed for me, why Mullin’s induction was so emotional. My wife could see the glazed look in my eyes, “Did you know him?” How do I answer that? Did I know Chris Mullin? It seems cliché but I feel like I know him. And it’s lame to say, “Well, not really. But I could have.” For guys like me, that is to say Catholic school guys from Brooklyn, The Bronx, Queens, maybe even Staten Island, Chris was ours, he was one of us. During his induction ceremony he said, “This is a long way from Flatbush Avenue but Brooklyn is definitely in the house tonight.” That made me laugh, and it made me proud.

Mullin went to St. Thomas Aquinas out in the Flatlands section of Brooklyn while I was attending Immaculate Heart of Mary in Windsor Terrace. Every morning, Christ the same mornings for 8 years, Chris and I donned our white shirt, blue pants, navy tie with the school insignia as we shouldered our books to head off to school. Guys like us know Chris’s upbringing, because it was like ours. When I see images of his father, mother, and brothers I can see the Mullin family dinner table because it was a lot like ours, red faces, bad food, lots of laughs, sports talk and maybe a few arguments. He played the same street games we played like: stickball, Johnny on the Pony and Scully. I know Mully and his friends spent some time, like us, down Breezy Point during the summer. I know he went to Brennan and Carr's. And when he wasn’t playing ball he hung out with his friends at Kings Plaza. At the end of the night, he probably had a few pints at Nana Daly’s or the Jolly Bull too.

Chris and I graduated from high school in 1981, Chris from Xaverian (where my brother Jeff went) and me from John Dewey. Chris was on our radar early on but once he decided to attend St. John’s University in Queens, his legend grew. Mullin was heavily recruited, he could have chosen Indiana, UCLA, Duke….but he chose to stay close to home. As he likes to say, “I just went 12 miles down the Belt Parkway.” This meant something to us. At a time when white flight was real, when the threat of urban decay was scaring a lot of families to Long Island and New Jersey, the Mullins, like the Spinners, the O'Callaghans and the Savinos, stayed in Brooklyn. 1981 was also a time when not only were white people fleeing the city, on our tv's it felt like there were no white guys playing hoops. It seemed to be common knowledge that black guys were just better, naturally, at basketball. We all kind of believed it, we were disappointed but you had to look at the evidence. And along comes Chris Mullin. (And of course Larry Bird but this piece isn’t about Bird, he’s not from Brooklyn)

Chris was an underdog, a Catholic school gym rat, like Jackie Ryan from our neighborhood, who made it to the big time. We rooted for him for a lot of reasons. Christ, if he could be that good at something then maybe we could be too? When he was good, it gave us hope. The kid could flat out play the game. How much fun was it to watch him? Man could he shoot, but he also had a good eye for the court, could handle the ball and was unflappable under pressure, just like we all aspired to be. How many times did we watch Georgetown, the vaunted Georgetown team with Patrick Ewing, David Wingate, Reggie Williams (damn those guys were good and scary) throw their hornets nest of a press at St. John’s. And Mullin would slowly, he was slow, using ball fakes and feints, putting the ball behind his back, between the legs just “handle it.”

Freshman year at SUNY Buffalo, my buddy Ian, Eric Friedman and I brought our Brooklyn accents and our love of the Redmen, they’ll always be the Redmen to me, to Fargo Quad. And our circle of friends: Lynchy, Conroy, Dunleavy, the descentants of Brooklyn Irish who had moved to Long Island, joined us on the Mullin/St. John’s bandwagon. I remember once in the early 80’s we took a road trip from Buffalo to watch St. John’s take on Syracuse and Pearl Washington in the Carrier Dome. We were a spot of red in a sea of orange. That didn’t stop our full-throated cheering as testosterone and Brooklyn pride took over. The game is tied down the stretch, St. John’s has the ball and Mullin is fouled, big mistake. With 30,000 screaming SU fans doing all they can to distract Chris, he calmly sinks both free throws, just like we knew he would. St. John’s wins. That was a fun walk out of the Carrier Dome.

Magic Johnson, Mullin’s teammate on the ’92 Dream Team, and someone who has to be in the conversation for greatest basketball player of all time said this during the Hall of Fame induction ceremony: “When God looked down and made a basketball player, he made Chris Mullin. That’s what Chris Mullin is, he’s a basketball player.” Magic said that.

It wasn’t a race thing for us, (Magic is probably my fav) we were just so happy to have a white guy out there, doing well. It’s not racism when you see someone like you, and pull for that person is it? White guys are always sensitive to that I suppose. When the Puerto Rican community makes Roberto Clemente their own or the Italians root for Dimaggio what is that? Human nature? It just feels right to most of us. Fitting that Mullin came along and infused Catholic-school Brooklyn, Queens and The Bronx with a little confidence and pride right when Ronald Reagan was doing the same for the country. In the final days of the Carter Administration, with unemployment skyrocketing, and puppet regimes in Iran poking America in the eye with a stick, Reagan made us proud to be Americans again. Mullin was doing the same for guys like us. I know my friends and I played a lot more ball after Mullin came along. And we wouldn’t think twice about grabbing the round ball and heading to any number of courts around Brooklyn to play the city game. Sometimes we won, sometimes we lost. In the end, despite the fact that we walked a little taller and played with a little more heart, who did we think we were? Chris Mullin? Nah, there's only one of him. Congrats Mully, you made us all proud.

The Bald and the Beautiful

Let me say up front, there’s no anger here. You can’t hear tone of voice in an essay but these are merely observations about men and women about images and life changes. I think we would all agree that women are the more sensitive sex. Women take people’s feelings into account before commenting on someone’s attire or new hairdo. Men? We try, especially married men because we have been trained to be more, sensitive. For the most part though, we are Neanderthals. Most things are fair game, all the time. Most.

When I hear women complain about Hollywood and Madison Avenue promoting images of genetic freaks, women who are supremely thin and buxom at the same time, I feel for them I do. I understand what they are complaining about. You are thinking: those women aren’t real. they have personal trainers, professional chefs, nannies. Real women have: careers, kids, homework, baseball games, recitals, laundry and mac and cheese. Maybe it’s my increased sensitivity? While guys appreciate the beauty of say, a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit model, we all know, like many popular video games, that’s not real life. But why does this outcry against unreal imagery, unreal expectations stop there?

Guys are victims in this too. Hear me out on this. When is the last time you saw a bald guy, or even a guy with thinning hair or a chubby guy on “The Bachelor?” How many of Hollywood’s leading men look like the guys you see at the town beach or on the sideline of a soccer game? Even in the Cialis commercials, these guys with limp noodles look like 60 year old freaks. Here’s a guy who can’t cut the mustard in the sack but he’s in unbelievable shape and he has a badger growing on top of his head. Every pharmacist viewing those commercials is saying, “You know those guys don’t look like my Viagra customers; the guys I sell Viagra to look more like, Joe next door.”

I think real guys, guys who are getting older, thicker in the mid-section and thinning on top, need a good public relations guy. What we need is an older guy union, The OGU. If women have been complaining about fashion magazines promoting unreal expectations, there should be an outcry for real men. Shouldn’t we be saying that the image that Hollywood and GQ are portraying is unrealistic? And shouldn’t women be joining us in this?

Truthfully, there won’t be much help from the fairer sex. Actually the reverse is true. How many times have you been at a dinner, and the topic of baldness comes up? At dinner. Want to see a Penn State Linebacker shrink up like a turtle? Bring up his thinning hair while you’re eating your clams casino. I love watching this conversation, simply because women, who are usually so aware of these things, seem so callous and boorish. At one wedding, we were all comparing coverage. I don’t remember who broached the subject but I can guarantee it was someone with a full head of hair or a wife who was very proud of her adequately coiffed hubby. Eventually, the conversation denigrated to something like middle school boys doing push ups in front of the girls. And the wives were leading the charge. “Your husband still has pretty good coverage.” I’m looking at my friend Jimmy thinking, yeh, he still has pretty good coverage, does he have better coverage than me? Suddenly his wife reaches over and pulls his hair back from his forehead and says, “Not really see, he covers it up with this new haircut. Really you can see that he’s losing it, there’s no growth right there.” One minute my buddy was laughing and joking, the next minute he looks like someone kicked him in the balls. And it was his own wife! We’ve all seen guys with thinning hair argue and compare. I was at a bar recently and two "follically challenged" friends were circling each other with their chests out, like gorillas in the jungle, “Well, you have less than me!" "Get out of here, look at your shiny head. Honey, don’t I have more hair than him?”

During these conversations, suddenly women become expert geneticists. “How come he’s losing his hair? His father had a full head of hair.” “You see that doesn’t matter, the baldness gene comes from your mother’s side. What kind of hair does his maternal grandfather have?” “Oh, yeh, he’s bald as a cue ball.” The only people comfortable during this conversation are the women and the guys with all their hair. Usually I’ll keep my mouth shut or toss out some non-sequitur, "Did you hear Joan and Peter are swingers?"

I often wonder what would happen if a group of guys did this at dinner? Imagine if at one of your dinner parties, you are sipping your martini and some dude lobs out this verbal hackey sack? “Julie, your ankles look really good. You are keeping yourself in really good shape” And her husband pipes in, “Not really. See, she’s covering it up with the dark colors and the Uggs.” “Really? I didn’t realize. But her mother has such nice ankles.” “See you have that wrong, the kankle gene comes from your maternal grandfather. Did you ever see Grandpa Guatano’s ankles? Looks like he’s got the gout.” “Yeh but your wife looks great! She doesn’t even watch what she eats, does she go to the gym every day?” “No, it’s the new Spanks-panty hose she has on. She looks good now but she’s a human sausage. When she gets undressed at home her ankles will inflate like a life raft.

Of course that would never happen. Why is that? If women are usually the more sensitive sex? Why do men know enough to stay away from certain topics in public? And how in the world could women be so clueless? And really, why do men care so much? Somewhere along the line a full head of hair has come to be connected to virility, with being in shape. What's a guy to do? Remember the Seinfeld episode where Elaine is dating some guy with a great head of hair and she mentions how important it is to women that their guy have thick lustrous hair. She turns to George who is balding and says, “Sorry George but it’s true.” Crestfallen, George puts his head down and says, “I knew it.”

This is exactly why so many men go to great lengths to make sure they don’t lose their hair. Why not just grow old gracefully? Most of try not to but what choices do we have?

We can shave our heads. That’s a choice for some of us. Once in the 90’s we were watching the NBA playoffs and my buddy Murph says, “You see that’s not fair, Jordan shaves his head and he looks cool.” Shelley Stemmer, my friend Steve’s mom, and our elder stateswoman posits, “It’s all how you carry yourself Murph.” To which Murph said, “It’s easy for Michael Jordan to be confident, he’s Michael Jordan.” “Oh Billy, you just have to be confident in yourself.” “I tell you this Shelly, I’d be a lot more confident if I wasn’t a pasty white guy with the sun shining off my head.”

I’m not one of those guys who will do the Rogaine thing. Not that my body is a temple but a topical solution to make sure you regrow hair seems, less than organic. I guess if I knew it was completely safe…but my fear is that years from now we’ll see guys with penises growing out of the top of their head and we’ll whisper, “Sure he’s got a thick head of hair but...

We can be creative with our haircuts. For most guys, the drawback with thinning hair, besides snickering women and kids, is that in everyday life, lack of hair is a hassle. I spent a lot less time worrying about it when I had plenty. I always tell Marisa, she’s my “stylist,” “You’re the professional, I don’t want to look silly, I don’t want to look like one of those guys who is trying to cover something up. But please do whatever you can.” She’s always so nice and tells me how great my hair looks. Yes I do know she works on tips.

And of course there’s the all-American, baseball hat. As we get older, every time we go to the beach, we have to bring a baseball hat. Actually, every time we are going to be in the sun for an extended period of time, we need a hat. It’s a drag. Or worse, you can reach the point of putting sunscreen right on your head. That’s a sobering moment for a dude. I tend to use some type of spray, unsightly white gobs on your head are really unflattering.

We can be careful with the pics we post on the internet. I love the fact that we all post flattering pics on Facebook. Often I think, if that’s his or her good picture, oh jeez. When my wife posts pictures I am always like, “Hon do you realize that shot really accents my double chin and people will be blinded by the sun beating off my cranium? I appreciate that.” When we find old friends on FB, admit it, the first thing we look at is, did she get fat and does he still have his hair? Those are really the only two worries for guys, bald or fat. One we have control over, one we don’t. They call it male pattern baldness and I have been slightly lucky so far, for the most part it’s been occurring from back to front, so I don’t have to witness it every day. I can delude myself into thinking it still looks good. Once in a while I will catch an alignment of two mirrors, in an elevator or in a bathroom in a restaurant and I’m always like, "THAT'S what I look like from behind?" If there are no mirrors, I have my kids at home, "Dad you should try Rogaine." And I teach 8th grade, so once in a while my students will let me know, as if I didn’t know it already, “Mr. Spinner did you know you are going bald?” I always try to handle this with humor. “Oh, my god, really? When did this happen?” Or sometimes I say, “Did you know you’re failing this class?”

My theory is that this is a control issue. No matter how much a guy works out and no matter what you eat, most guys will experience hair loss. It’s humbling for a guy. It’s connected to aging obviously. Through the Hollywood image-makers, we have come to see it as the autumn of our lives. Like trees, we start to lose our hair as we move toward the latter seasons of our lives. Oh, and that’s another thing, your head gets colder. Maybe all of us "regular" people, men and women, should work together to debunk the images that Hollywood continues to propagate? How about we start a magazine with regular people in it? Then again who would read it?

Doctor's Orders

Sometimes in the act of writing we learn things about ourselves. Recently this happened in, of all places, a Facebook stream. My friend Craig posted a black and white photo of Gilda Radner and John Belushi. The photographer captured a tender moment, Gilda seated in a chair, Belushi standing behind, leaning in to wrap his arms around her, his head next to hers. It was a provocative photo; in that it provoked, thought. I was one of the first to view it. We all know the pressure of wanting to write a pithy, poignant comment, right then. Myriad emotions coursed through my brain: the tragedy, the love, the talent, the laughter, the inspiration.


My comment was about comedians and how they seem to be drawn to comedy by some larger force. Thinking of comedians who seem to be haunted, like: Belushi, Chris Farley, Richard Pryor, John Candy and more recently Greg Giraldo. These performers seek the laughter of others to fill a need in themselves. At some point, Craig and I pulled off the main Facebook stream and had our own electronic conversation about “comedians like that.” Eventually, we reflected on our own desire to make others laugh.

I know just enough about Freud and Jung to be dangerous, or at least confusing, to myself. If you asked my grammar school friends at Immaculate Heart of Mary, I don’t think it would be a reach for them to place me in the class clown category. If you polled Jean Ann Powers, Robby Sullivan and Chrissy Ryan, they’d probably throw that moniker on me and a handful of others in our class. I started to think about what triggers this desire in me? Like Belushi, am I damaged in some way? Did I have abusive neglectful parents? No. Was my father a raging alcoholic? Well not raging, nothing out of the ordinary for our family, circle of friends, or the 70’s. Why do I feel this desire to make the one comment that will crack up the staff meeting?

After my conversation with Craig, I thought about a morning this past summer….My wife and I had eye appointments. After shuttling our boys off to their respective day-camps, we met at the doctor’s office. As is usually the case, I arrive after my wife. It’s a big rectangular waiting room with multiple practices using the same space. I open the door, take a quick glance around the room and spy Kira on the exact opposite side. While I am glancing around the room, all eyes are on me; there’s not a lot going on in the waiting room. I fight the urge to break into song, seriously. Why? Because it amuses me. I had this vision of me donning an imaginary top hat and cane and doing a little Bugs Bunny/Al Jolson ragtime: “Hello my baby, hello my sweetie, hello my rag time girl…” I don’t have the nerve, I settle for an overindulgent stage wave, acting as if my trans-Atlantic crossing was successful and I am seeing Kira for the first time in months. Kira shakes her head and looks at the floor.

Some eyes are still on me as I make my way across the room. I notice a grizzled WWII vet right next to one of the magazine tables. I make a b-line and survey the inventory. I am looking for material. I already have something to read, I always do. Jackpot! There’s a copy of a magazine that’s perfect for my next performance; a periodical I would have no reason to ever read. I pick up the latest issue of, “Cheerleader.” I feel Sergeant Fury’s eyes on me. I peruse the cover as if I am really thinking about reading it. I put a quizzical look on my face, and say, “Oh, I have not seen this issue yet!” After delivering my line, I display, like one of the models on “The Price is Right,” the cover of the July issue of “Cheerleader” a glossy photo of the captain of the LSU cheerleading squad in all her blonde, blue and gold glory. Nothing, maybe a derisive grunt from my geriatric G.I. Joe. I am stunned. That was good stuff you old codger! I’m not expecting you to spit your coffee out but I was hoping for a guffaw, maybe a chortle, a snort, a chuckle, I would have settled for a polite smirk. But derision?

By now Kira is mortified, a few of the other patients might be as well, especially the women. I am beaming. I think it’s hysterical, especially the fact that Kira wants to crawl under the table. In my heart I know she thinks it’s funny. If she doesn’t, I think it is and that’s what matters to me. If my "Cheerleader" skit didn't work, no worries. I am used to these comedic lead balloons. My batting average for these impromptu jokes is probably like a decent major leaguer, that is to say, around .300. So 70% of these efforts fail, but I don’t care. I take my walk of shame, and sit next to Kira, a cheshire cat grin on my face.

The sliding glass window, behind which the clerical staff sits, is in the middle of the long side of the rectangle, across from the WWII vet. I open my book and do some reconnaissance. The room looks like a Woody Allen movie set. Every age group is represented, 90’s, 80’s, 70’s… “and playing the part of the 40 somethings will be Jim and Kira Spinner.” I know there’s a joke in here about early bird dinner specials but I decide to save it for later. I have this eerie feeling that I am glimpsing our future. Walkers, oxygen tanks, and canes, oh my.

I read and then interest in my book wanes, so I talk to Kira as if I am hard of hearing, “HOW DID THE BOYS GET OFF FOR THEIR FIRST DAY OF CAMP?” She pleads with me, with her eyes, please stop? “DO YOU THINK THEY’LL LANCE THAT LARGE FESTERING BOIL?” I can see Kira is pained, so I back off. Sometimes I know when to stop. I keep glancing over my book, like we all do, playing detective about the other patients…Hmmm, what do you think she’s in here for? She’s 90? I can’t believe she’s 90. She’s sharper than half the people I know. What an interesting lady. I wonder what her life has been like? Oh, look at him, he’s on his last leg, poor guy, now his wife has to wipe his butt for him. That’s not for me. I hope I go quickly, I don’t want to hang on like that….

The patients continue getting called up. There’s one recently retired guy, a sharp dresser, still thin at 60 something, making an effort to make the clerical staff laugh. I applaud the effort. He made some marginally funny comments as he was checking in. But when they call his name, he shouts, “That’s me! What did I win!” I am the only one to laugh, the sound of one man laughing, know it well. I think, that guy’s alright, I bet he’d be fun to hang out with.

The couples go in together, with the accoutrements of the aging process. Then they call, “Mr. and Mrs. Spinner!” I stay seated, “You go first.” I am thinking I will continue to enjoy some time to myself. Kira goes up to the window and is informed that we should go in together. I wave my hand at the window, “She can go first. I’ll wait here and enjoy some unfettered reading time.” I like to weave the word unfettered into conversations whenever I can. Despite my protestations, we are told to go in together.

We are escorted to the eye exam room and told to wait for the doctor. I begin to play with the equipment. I am like a kid in a candy store. I pick up some unknown eye implement and ask Kira, “Have you ever had the Aunt Jemima treatment?” Kira is a nurse and she has a respect, or a fear, of doctors that I just don’t have. While I appreciate their expertise and their devotion to schooling, there’s a part of me that knows they put their pants on one leg at a time. I also have a little chip on my shoulder because my 3:30 appointment should be 3:30 for them also. But I digress. “Put that stuff down!” Kira whispers, with one eye on the door that says, the doctor could come in at any... And on cue, the doc comes in.

The first thing I do upon introduction is to tell the doctor, “I think you should know, Kira memorized the eye chart.” Kira apologizes for what a jackass I am. Doctor McGillicuddy rolls her eyes, “I have one of those at home too.” The doc deals with me as she would an adolescent, after her cursory comment, she ignores me. I go back to my book. Unfortunately, the doc keeps feeding me lines, “Kira, your eyes are so red. Are they always this red?” Geez doc, if you are going to play straight man… “Doc, I’ve been talking to her about this, maybe you can help? Even though she’s the mother of three boys, she's still smoking the ganja like she's a coed at a frat party.” Freaking doctor doesn’t blink an eye, “Well at least she won’t get glaucoma.” I think, she might be fun to hang out with.

So, why did that Belushi/Radner picture make me flash back to that eye doctor appointment? Why did the conversation between me and Craig prompt this introspection about why am I like this? How come I can’t just go to an eye doctor’s appointment, the supermarket, the park, or a faculty meeting and behave myself? Why this need to entertain, to nudge, to in a sense beg for the attention of others? I really don’t know. My mother or father did not seem to share this quality. In the end, I am going to take the easy way out. Occam’s Razor, as taught to me by Maureen Grice goes something like: The simplest explanation for something is most likely to be the correct one. In the end, I think it’s because I find it entertaining.  With our trips to the doctor’s office, food shopping, t-ball games, DMV excursions…life can be, well, dull. What’s a person to do? Something my former principal used to say would work well here. Linda Demikat's spin on a common phrase was “Life is too long to be miserable.”