PERRY AND THE HOT DIGGITY DOG

The Westminster Kennel Club has announced that this year’s Best In Show competition

will include six new breeds, bringing to 185 the number of breeds vying for the grand prize. The  new breeds are:

1)      The Entlebucher mountain dog, a native of Switzerland, is praised for its work ethic and ease of training.

2)      The Finnish Lapphund is a reindeer herding dog from the northern parts of Scandinavia.

3)       The Norwegian Lundehund is also called the puffin dog. In arctic Norway the Lundehund retrieves puffin birds. The dog has six toes on each foot so it can handle the almost vertical areas where puffins nest.

4)      The American English coonhound is a descendant of the English Fox hound.

5)      The Xoloitzcuintli is the national dog of Mexico. It was previously known as the Mexican Hairless.

6)      The Chesky terrier is a well muscled short-legged hunting terrier. It is longer than it is tall and has a long, soft, gray silky coat.

            Thanks to a very discreet friend I have been made privy to information – let’s call it “insider barking” – concerning the breeds that are being considered for future inclusion in the Best in Show competition. These breeds are as follows:

1)      The Austrian Hairy Bottom Bowl - a breed quite popular among skiers and breakfast chefs, the name derives from the dog’s fuzz-covered tummy which resembles an outdoor salad container.

2)      The Laptop Terrier – as the name implies, this loyal dog, first bred in Belarus, will sit next to anyone who is busy typing on a laptop computer. For reasons scientists and canine experts are unable to understand, the Laptop terrier has the ability to correct a laptop user’s grammatical mistakes.

3)      The Poochie – this incredibly tiny dog (smaller than a Chihuahua) can fit in a woman’s purse or a man’s shirt pocket. On formal occasions it can be worn as a hair ornament.

4)      The New Zealand Ka-Pow – this indigenous breed,  whose bark sounds as if it’s saying the somewhat cartoonish phrase “Ka-Pow,” is associated with the fact that Kiwis (New Zealanders) enjoy an early dinner.

5)      Ralph.

6)      The Hot Diggity Dog – an oldie but a goodie. Named after the 1956 #1 hit by the relaxed, wonderful, great Perry Como, the song “Hot Diggity (Dog Ziggity Boom),” lyrics by Al Hoffman and Dick Manning, is based on the French romantic composer and pianist Emmauel Chabriel’s orchestral composition “Espana.” Please join in:

                  “Oh, hot diggity, dog ziggity boom, what’cha do to me,

                   It’s so new to me, what’cha do to me,

                  Hot diggity, dog ziggity boom, what’cha do to me,

                  When you’re holding me tight.”

            Best of luck to the once and future Best in Show.

The End of the NBA Lockout

The NBA is back, but as Jimmy Crack Corn often said, “I don’t care.” I’m a long-time fan, but not having professional basketball for the last few weeks has been good for me. I’ve learned to live without it, and I feel better about myself. I’ve finally gotten back to painting (still life – mostly blueberries with an occasional apple turnover). I’ve returned to my favorite form of writing – epic tone poems. (After much careful research I am almost finished with my work about the Visigoths versus the Boston Celtics.) I’ve rekindled my love of UPPER CASE LETTERS. I’ve used the hours I would have spent in front of the TV to walk along Hazeltine Avenue and count the number of apartment air conditioners that need dusting. I’ve thought of new friends and old nursery rhymes. I’ve practiced my penmanship and polished my sneakers.

Sure they’re back, making their millions, but during all their time off did one of them ever ask “How’s Preminger doing? Is he all right? Would he like a muffin?” My guess would be NO.

Sure they’re back, in their much too long shorts (cute on 9-year olds, not on grown-ups), and we’re suppose to say, “Poor babies, we hope you’re okay.” Well, I have a painting of two pineapples looking over a sunset to finish, and a poem to complete and miles to go before I standish.

My family and friends are what’s most important to me…so, owners and players, fill your pockets and slam your dunks, I’ve got a life to lead.

More paint, Shirley.

The Sound of Butterfly Applause

                                      

            If you’re lucky, when you’re a kid, you have a favorite relative. I had a few of them, one of whom was Claire, the daughter of my father’s cousin.

            Claire was fifteen years older than me. Her father, an angry, bitter sourpuss, didn’t approve of her “lifestyle.” (It turns out he didn’t approve of anything.) Her mother stayed in the kitchen and cooked things. To compensate for and try to overcome an unpleasant home life, she laughed a lot. You’re either born with it, though some people develop it – whichever – Claire had it; a sense of humor. She always felt comfortable when she came to visit, and because she was comfortable, she was able, and allowed herself, to be funny and have fun.

(Gratitude – a feeling of thankful appreciation for favors or benefits received; thankfulness.)

            She didn’t talk about herself much, but what Claire often would do was tell my brother and me to express our gratitude to our parents for what they do for us and to be grateful for what we have - and to find and choose as many things as we can each day for which to be grateful. (Decades later, when I wasn’t feeling very good about myself, my daughter and my son, and my therapist, told me the same thing.)

            At some point, I don’t remember when, we lost contact with Claire. It is with a bow to her and the laughter and joy she so cherished that I submit a list of just a few of the things for which we can, and should, all be grateful. Let’s be grateful that:

            There are still singers who sing.

            Presidential elections are held only once every four years.

            The names Etwinda, Mortimer and Cleopatra are no longer popular.

            There is a mute button on the TV remote.

            March Madness is only in March.

            It feels so good to hug someone.

            Horses don’t put their hair in a ponytail.

            No one who is covered from head to toe with tattoos of Portuguese vacation cottages 

             is dating your daughter.

            Your son’s trick knee hasn’t been booked in Las Vegas.

            Nobody has yet come out with Seven-Layer Cake Light.

            2+2=4.

            Love is here to stay.

            John Phillip Sousa’s last name was not Cavoldenklaben, because, if it had been, members

           of college marching bands would still be playing the Cavoldenklabenphone.

            It didn’t really happen in Monterey a long time ago.

            The pinky finger is shorter than the pointer.

            Our Founding Fathers were smart enough to realize that July 4^th should fall on a holiday

            weekend.

            Tollbooth collectors don’t wear bathing suits.

            There are people who believe that what you believe in should be kept to yourself.

            The next door neighbors sold their kangaroo.

            Kissing beats fighting.

            Four and twenty blackbirds were not baked in an egg roll.

            The All-Weather station and the How-To-Tie-A-Knot station have not combined to form

The Weather-Or-Knot station.

             Peaches are round.

            Waffles don’t get angry.

            Professional sports teams have made a pact not to scout potential players at youth games        

            until a child turns four-years old.

            Cartoon animals are so darn cute.

            People can still get on the dance floor and dance slowly, with their arms around each

other.

Patience is a virtue. Tofu is not.

Mary had a little lamb and not a pterodactyl.

The sweetest sound in the world is that of a baby laughing.

Despite the overwhelming use of computers, pens and pencils are staging a comeback.

The sagging/baggy-pants look has not caught on as the official dress code at the

United Nations.

Cranberry sauce has not learned to talk, otherwise we would hear, “You only come

around in late November. It gets kind of lonely around here How about saying hello the

rest of the year. What are we, chopped liver?”

Most comedians/comediennes are very bright and funny people. (The others who just    

curse and talk about body parts are not very bright or funny.)

Plaid French fries never became popular.

Writers are never totally lonely as long as there are words around.

Household pets don’t mind being told not to answer the phone.

Jazz musicians have no intention of going away.

Books with pictures of vegetables have not been found to be subversive.

The couple sitting behind you at the movies, eating four tubs of popcorn and constantly

talking, isn’t staying in the guest bedroom.

Turkeys don’t get together and get really ticked off.

When you laugh, and love, all that other stuff goes away.

The next sweetest sound is that of butterfly applause.

The greatest sound is that of an audience laughing.

Thank you, Claire – and take care of yourself. I’m going outside to hug ten strangers. Wish me luck.

                         

True Love, a Many Splendored Ming

I was a young kid the first time I saw him. Tall, thin, shaved head, mustache and goatee, and a mean streak as long as your arm (or, I guess, his arm).

            The guy wanted to conquer the universe – not just the town a few miles down the road, or the city across the bay (where a lot of people used to sit, right there on the dock), or the planet to the left -  no, this guy, who lived on the planet Mongo (if you call that living), had his sights set on the whole universe, which, of course, would include the planet Earth, which therefore would include the United States, which, in turn, would include Idaho.  The dude was mean. It’s no wonder they called him merciless. Ming the Merciless. Emperor Ming the Merciless.*

            For those under the age of sixty – and I’ll bet there are hundreds, if not thousands of you – who are wondering who this Ming guy was, allow me to fill you in.

            In the early days of television - the late 1940s, early 1950s - programming was needed, especially by smaller independent stations,  to fill the broadcast day and night. One of the ways TV filled its schedule was to run old movies; “old” meaning movies of the 1930s and 1940s. Some of those old movies were called “serials.” Think of serials as “Chapters” in a book, in which each chapter ends in suspense, the hero/heroine on the brink of disaster – here comes a train, a dinosaur, an in-law, a guy with a gun, a meteor, a bad egg salad sandwich. One of the most popular of all serials was “Flash Gordon.” (Steven Klevben, on the fourth floor, was the only kid who I ever heard refer to Flash as Mr. Gordon.)

            The very existence of the planet Earth was being threatened. This had nothing to do with global warming or divisive politics. This threat to the well-being of Earth,  not to mention Friday night football and candied yams, was coming from another planet; it was up to Flash Gordon to save the day and planet, whichever came first....and hence, the film’s gripping storyline.

  Flash Gordon – played by the handsome, athletic (two time gold medal Olympic swimmer) Larry “Buster” Crabbe – would need help, as well as at least a couple of very long extension cords, to pursue his difficult task. He turned to Doctor Alexis Zarkov (actor Frank Shannon), a brilliant scientist with a beard and penchant for strawberry milkshakes. And, of course, nobody heads into outer space – especially to the planet Mongo – without a beautiful woman by his side. Dale Arden (the actress Jean Rogers) was the woman. She asked her father’s permission to go with Flash. “Don’t forget,” said Pop Arden, “you have a twelve o’clock

curfew.”

*There have been other famous – and infamous – people with the middle name of “the.” A short list includes: Alexander the Great; Catherine the Great (no relation to Alexander); Ivan the Terrible; Eric the Red; Henry (the) VIII; Hootie and the Blowfish; Flora the Red Menace; Millard the Fillmore; Bozo the Clown; and countless others. (Feel free to add to the list, or to make your own list, or to have another slice of pie.)

Flash and Dale and the good Doctor met with many challenges (remember, they didn’t have the option of calling a friend). This Ming dude was, to put it simply, not a nice fella (anger management class might have helped, or possibly some herbal tea, but....).  He had a really sexy daughter, Princess Aura (actress Priscilla Lawson) who drove him nuts. “I’m trying to conquer the universe and you won’t cover yourself up when you leave the house,” he often said to her. She would wind up having an affair with one of her father’s enemies, the good-hearted Prince Barin (actor Richard Alexander) – another one of those guys who ran around in a helmet and what looked like an off-the-rack diaper (we’ll never know the color since the movie was in black and white). In the last “chapter,” Flash, with the help of the curvaceous and cute as a button Dale, Doctor Zarkov (whose buttons, to be honest, weren’t that cute), Pricess Aura, Prince Barin, and the cast of CSI: Los Angeles, were able to thwart (I love that word,  it should be used more often) the Emperor Ming and save the planet Earth (though they were unable to prevent various people from getting late night talk shows.) Ming was not captured. He “got away” and showed up in two more Flash Gordon serials. (The three Flash Gordon films were released in 1936, 1938 and 1940). Flash, Dale and Doctor Zarkov – somewhat of a prototype to “Doc” in “Back To The Future” and a lot of other “docs,” including my urologist – returned to earth and were given a parade and individually designed soft drinks.  (The three saviors would return to Mongo two more times. The second time Dale went from blond to brunette. The third time she went from Jean Rogers to  Carol Hughes.)

Throughout the years I’ve remained a big fan of “Flash Gordon.” Yes, the “special effects” were, to be kind, just a little tacky. Most rocket ships don’t have a tag hanging off the side that reads, “Return to Property Room by 11.” But, I loved the music (classical music was used), and the cast and the “adventure.”  Remember, when I watched the serials I was a kid, and had never been to Mongo, though I once got on the wrong train and wound up in Brooklyn.

So it was quite a thrill to meet someone whose aunt had appeared in the first Flash Gordon film. I asked the woman if it was possible for me to meet her aunt. She called the next day and told me her aunt would be thrilled to meet a true “Flash Gordon” fan.

The woman opened the door and gestured for me to “come in.”

“Please, have a seat while I get us some refreshments,” she said as she walked into her kitchen.

I looked around. The house could have been a museum. There were at least a hundred framed photographs on the walls, most of them dating back to the early days of “talking” pictures and some even to “silent” pictures.

The woman moved slowly as she put down a tray of coffee and cookies on the table.

“I’m not bad looking for a ninety-five year old, am I. Unfortunately I’m eighty-five,” and she laughed. “Actually, ninety-six next month.”

She had been an actress.

“I often played a sexy vamp. As I got older I was able to hold on to the vamp but somewhere I lost the sexy.”

“I think you still look great,” I said

“Thank you. But don’t get too worked up. I have a boyfriend. He’ll be dropping by as soon as he finds his teeth.”

I took a sip of coffee and then jumped to it. “Please tell me about ‘Flash Gordon.’ ”

She leaned back in her chair. She smiled.

“That was some guy,” she said, a warm glow covering her face. “I saw him once in the dressing room. That was some Flash, and his Gordon wasn’t so bad either.”

I laughed, though I didn’t know if she was serious or if she was....

“What’s the matter, you think we didn’t have fun back then. I could give you names - and numbers. Clark Gable  – had a dimple, I won’t tell you where -  it was so adorable, you could...”

“I’ll bet you’ve known and worked with many of the greats....”

“....and the near greats and some that weren’t even near the near ones and some that never should have left the house, you want a macaroon?”

“No thanks, these cookies are enough.”

“I didn’t bake them myself, if that’s what you’re thinking, but I could make you a nice piece of fish. You like salmon?”

“I appreciate your hospitality, but I would rather just talk about the Flash Gordon movie that you were in,” I said politely.

She smiled. “Those were good times. I was young then. All the other young people were young too. And we had nice weather, especially on the weekends.”

“Was it exciting to work on the movie? Were the people nice to work with?”

“It was wonderful and everybody was terrific. Everybody! Buster, that’s Buster Crabbe who played Flash, he’d invite us to his house. He was an Olympic swimming champion, you know, and we’d go swimming and then have a dinner salad. Those were good times,” she said, basking in the memories.

“Could you tell me the name and something about the character you played,” I asked.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” she said, pushing on the arms of her chair, so that she was sitting as straight up as possible. “They put me in an outfit that was – that was some outfit – cleavage and sandals. The cleavage was mine, the sandals they gave me. I have chocolate macaroons. You want a chocolate...”

“No, thank you.”

“ It was going to be a movie to maybe make me a star, or, at the very least, lead to a lot of big parts. I wasn’t supposed to be just a girl in the background yelling, ‘Watch out, look out,’ and whatever other ‘out’ they wanted. I was supposed to....”

She stopped talking and leaned back. At that moment her age started to show.

“I just find it fascinating to meet you. If talking about the movie is in any way painful....”

“It’s okay,” she said, sitting straight up again. “You want to know who I was supposed to play....I’ll tell you” She took a deep breath.” Charles Middleton. Sometimes known as Charles B. Middleton...”

“The man who played Ming,” I said excitedly.

“You got it, tootsie. A great character actor. He was in almost two hundred movies. People don’t know he started out on the stage as a song and dance man. He had a beautiful voice. A rich baritone. That’s why they cast him as Ming. That voice could be scary. And he had that hatched, tight face that looked like a couple of rocks had been in a fight and both of them lost. And you know who I was all set to play? That’s right, you better believe it – the Empress, Mrs. Ming the Merciless.”

I was stunned. “You look stunned,” she said. “I am. I’m stunned.” “You look it.”

“There’s never a mention of Ming’s wife in...”

“They cut out the part. I wound up, how do they say it, on the cutting room floor.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So was Ming. You’re trying to conquer a universe, you want a wife.  You come home at the end of the day, you’re tired, it’s not easy being a tyrant,  you want to hear “How was your day?,” you want a nice meal, maybe a piece of salmon. You sure you don’t want any? I’ve got a nice piece in the refrigerator.”

“I’m okay.”

“Charles B. Middleton, he wanted Ming to have a wife. They gave him a daughter – a daughter without a mother. Even on Mongo a daughter should have a mother. You go to a mother, you say, ‘Ma, dad’s at it again with this conquering stuff.  I think he needs a hug.’ And the mother says, “Don’t worry, sweetycakes, I’ll take care of it, you go do your hair.’ ”

“If they made Ming a nice guy with a wife, plus a daughter, wouldn’t that have changed the movie?” I asked, respectfully.

“And what’s more important, the family sitting down together for a nice Sunday brunch or the father running off...”

“To conquer the universe. I guess you’re right.”

She smiled. “Charles B. Middleton did a lot of parts, but he’ll always be remembered as Ming. And I would have been remembered as the Empress, Mrs. Ming the Merciless. Mrs. Merciless!  It has such a nice ring to it. Good evening, Mrs. Merciless, we have a nice table for you by the window.  Mrs. Merciless, we’re getting in a dress tomorrow that I’m holding just for you. Mrs. Merciless, we’d like you to present the Oscar for Best Picture, and don’t forget to wear that delicious tiara.” She sighed a deep sigh. ‘What can you do, you can’t cry over spilled milk - better you should use a paper towel. You sure you don’t want a macaroon?”

“I would like one now, thank you. Maybe just a small macaroon.”

“The macaroons are big! It’s the pictures that got small.”

“Didn’t Billy Wilder have the Norma Desmond character say something very close to that in ‘Sunset Boulevard’?” I asked, trying not to be accusatory.

“And where do you think he heard it first? That’s all right, he was a nice fella anyway.”

She nodded to herself and smiled, lost again for a moment in her memories.

It was time to leave. “It was truly a pleasure and an honor to meet you. And the next time I watch ‘Flash Gordon’.....”

She simply nodded.

“You’re not on anyone’s cutting room floor,” I said.

She smiled. “In that case, Ming, come here and give me a hug.”

As I left the house she stood in the doorway. “When they make the next remake of ‘Flash Gordon’ maybe I’ll get to play the part of The Empress, Grandma Ming the Merciless. It has such a nice ring to it. Grandma Merciless.”

She’s right, even an emperor trying to conquer the universe should take a break every now and then and enjoy a macaroon. The chocolate ones are very good.

           

           

Pipp Pipp Hooray

He was a very good baseball player. He played first base for the New York Yankees and
led the American League in home runs twice in his career (12 in 1916, 9 in 1917). On June 2,
1925, during his eleventh year in the majors, he told his manager he had a headache and would
not be able to play that day’s game. Another player took his place at first base. The other player
played the next 2,130 games at the first base position. The other player was one of the greatest
ballplayers of all time – Lou Gehrig. The player who lost his starting position was Wally Pipp.
Before the 1926 season he was traded to the Cincinnati Reds, where he played for three more
years. He finished his career with 1,941 hits, 997 runs batted in (RBI), and a lifetime batting
average of .281 – very impressive statistics for a player who is all but forgotten and wrongly
remembered only for the fact that he was the player replaced by the great Lou Gehrig. (Note:
Wally Pipp, years after his playing career ended, was one of the first writers for Sports
Illustrated.)

There have been, and will continue to be, many Wally Pipps in this world – those over-
shadowed, their accomplishments all but obliterated, by others who achieved greatness. There
has never been a movie titled “Good-bye, Mr. Pipp(s),” nor a cheer, as glasses are raised, in
which everyone shouts, “Pipp, Pipp, Hooray.” There’s “Where’s Waldo?” but not “Where’s
Wally?”

To the Wally Pipps, the ones you know, the ones your neighbors know, the one you see
in the mirror every morning, I say “a job well done.”

Here are just a few of the many, the recognition of whose accomplishments are long
overdue:

Tyler Pattiwillow – has the most lifetime hits of any player in the history of the senior softball
league (men 55+) of Los Angeles. Tyler played in the league for 46 years. He kept playing even
though, after all of his teammates had passed away, he was the only one left on his team. He
died at the age of 101 while running from first base to second....for no apparent reason. After his
death he never played another game.

Shawn (Sean) Shaughnessy –Johnny Vander Meer pitched two consecutive no-hitters. Shawn
(Sean) Shaughnessy pitched three consecutive no-hitters – against teams that didn’t show up
because of rain.

Don Majkowski – quarterback for the Green Bay Packers. In 1989 he led the NFL with 4,318
passing yards. That same year he threw 27 touchdown passes. On September 20, 1992 he tore a
ligament in his ankle. He was replaced by Brett Favre. In 2005 Don (The Majik Man) Majkowski
was inducted into the Green Bay Packers Hall of Fame – as was his torn ankle ligament.

Maureen LeFond – early woman sports pioneer and winner of the Tour de France. Stripped of
her medal for riding a tricycle.

Potsy Gibson – never lost a 100-meter race in his life. Never ran a 100-meter race in his life.

Identical twins Quentin and Quincy Jarvis – in the late 1800s were undefeated in doubles play
over a ten year span on the tennis circuit. Despite their stellar play and impeccable conduct on
and off the court, their record was expunged when it was discovered that Quincy was Quentin
and Quentin was Quincy.

Harky Tomlinson – broke more shuffleboard records than any man before or since. He also,
never able to control his emotions, broke more shuffleboard sticks than any man before or since.
“Nobody could hold a candle to Harky,” says his fifth wife, Twalya. “Especially when he
wanted to wax poetic…if you know what I mean.”

Ira Plotz – before Hall Of Fame Jewish athletes Hank Greenberg (baseball), Sid Luckman
(football), Dolph Schayes (basketball), and Sandy Koufax (baseball), there was Ira Plotz. Many
say that Plotz was the first great Jewish American athlete. Others continue to point out that
during Plotz’s peak years, 1674 to 1687, there were few sports to play. Some people are simply
hard to please.

Millicent Larabee – despite a stellar fencing career, Millicent Larabee is rarely mentioned as
having been one of the greats in her sport. Much of the lack of recognition is due to the fact that
during her career she accidentally killed eleven opponents, and was therefore quite unpopular in
the locker room.

Thomas “Tips” Goslin – gained the nickname “Tips” because of the number of times he would
just tip the pitcher’s pitch. He led the league in fouling off pitches for seven years until the
arrival of Jimmy “FB” Tarkanian. (The FB stands for “Foul Ball.”) After his big league career
ended “Tips” Goslin ran a youth baseball camp, teaching kids how to “tip” (foul off) a pitch. Not
one of his campers ever made the majors.

Bobbob Norton – Hall of Famer Lou Brock holds the major league record with 130 stolen
bases in a season. Bobbob Norton stole 129 bases in a season. Unfortunately Bobbob was not a
professional ballplayer; he was simply someone who liked to steal square shaped items, bases
being his preference. He is still hiding somewhere in Minnesota.

Coco Crisp – Coco Chanel – Coco Cox Arquette – Cocoa Puffs. Pick one.

Mo Columbus – rarely spoken about half-brother of older sibling Christopher. Mo Columbus left
Spain the day before his brother, but pulled over for a sandwich. The rest, as they say, is history.

Larry Doby – the second African American to play in the major leagues, he joined the Cleveland
Indians months after Jackie Robinson began to play for the Brooklyn Dodgers (the year was
1947). Larry Doby was a terrific hitter and outfielder and a quiet man whose career and
achievements have long been overshadowed by Jackie Robinson. (Note: According to his wife
Rachel, Jackie Robinson preferred to be called Jack. It was the media that always referred to him
as Jackie.)

John Francis “Phenomenal” Smith – Pitched in the major leagues from 1884 to 1891. In 1887 he
won 25 games….and lost 30. There is no record as to how he got his nickname, but there is little
question that as far as nicknames go, his is Phenomenal.

Phidippides – the Greek warrior who, after the Greeks beat the Persians at the Battle of
Marathon, ran 26 miles to the city of Athens to announce the Greek victory. Upon finishing his
run, he collapsed and died. If not for Phidippides the 26 mile marathon run (now officially 26.2
miles) might today be called Lester.

Carroll Hardy – member of the South Dakota Sports Hall of Fame. A terrific three sport athlete
– baseball, football, track - he played in the NFL and caught four touchdown passes thrown by
Y.A. Tittle. In a Red Sox game on September 20, 1960 Ted Williams fouled a pitch off his instep
and left the game. Carroll Hardy went into the game to pinch hit for Williams….the only player
ever to pinch hit for The Splendid Splinter. (Note: During his major league career Carroll Hardy
also pinch hit for Carl Yaztrzemski and Roger Maris.)

Jasmine Prawn – talked about as the next in line to Peggy Fleming-Dorothy Hamill-Michelle
Kwan, Jasmine gave up her promising career when, after looking everywhere in her house, she
couldn’t find her skates.

Walter Alston- Tommy LaSorda ---Walter Alston had one at bat in the major leagues. He struck
out. Tommy Lasorda, a left-handed pitcher, finished his three year career in the majors with a
record of 0-4. Alston went on to win four World Championships as manager of the Dodgers.
Lasorda followed with two World championships as Dodgers manager. Both are in the Hall of
Fame – as managers. As a Little League player Titus Finnerman had three hits and struck out 127
times. Finnerman went on to manage the Independent League Zanesville (Ohio) Zanies to nine
championships. Six of those championships were won when the league only had one team – the
Zanies.

Pia Zambrowski – though she never won a tournament – or a game – as a tennis pro, crowds
loved to see her jump over the net (and back again). A stunning beauty, she is overlooked as one
of the people who brought personality (and, yes, sexuality) to the game. She is married to her
fifth husband, Lord Nigel Costwold of Cambridge. In their backyard he loves to watch her jump
over the net – and back again.

Paul Figgen – a diehard Detroit Red Wings hockey fan, unfortunately best remembered for
asking Gordie Howe for an autograph during a game (in 1959). Doctors say Mr. Figgen’s
wounds are healing nicely.

The Laslow Clan – though there are a number of people who have attended every Super Bowl, it
is the extended Laslow family (clan), numbering 43, who have never altered their “stay at home”
Super Bowl menu….egg salad sandwiches and freshly cut celery stalks. Plus a beverage.

Oliver (Ollie) (Ole) Oliphant – on his way to the big leagues as a shortstop, Oliver (Ollie) (Ole)

Oliphant sat out one game to rest on his laurels. He was replaced by Ozzie (the Wizard of Oz)
Smith. Ozzie Smith became a Hall of Fame shortstop for the St. Louis Cardinals. Today Oliver
(Ollie) (Ole) goes by the name of Herbie.

Wilt Chamberlain – Frank Selvy - Bevo Francis – On March 2, 1962, in a game played in
Hershey, Pennsylvania, Wilt Chamberlain of the Philadelphia Warriors scored 100 points against
the New York Knicks. Rarely remembered is the fact that in 1954 Frank Selvy of Furman
University scored 100 points against Newberry College. Remembered even less than Frank
Selvy, who played in the NBA, is Bevo Francis who, playing for Rio Grande College, scored
over 100 points TWICE – 116 in a game in 1953, and 113 in a game in 1954. He never played
pro ball, choosing instead, after barnstorming with an amateur team, to return home to his wife
and family. (NOTE: In1982 Cheryl Miller of Riverside Poly High School in California scored
105 points. In 1990 Lisa Leslie scored 101 points for Inglewood (California) Morningside High
School in the first half. The opposing team forfeited the game during half-time.)

Pops Morganfrey (pronounced Morganfry) – there’s John Wooden, Bob Knight, Dean Smith,
Coach K and, no less deserving of accolades, Pops Morganfrey, who coached high school
basketball for 73 years. His team won a championship in 1949 when the opponent team’s bus
broke down just outside of town. The incident is still under investigation. (Pops is his real first
name. His middle name is Illinois.)

In 1958 the song “Tequila” was a Number One hit by The Champs. The song was written by
Champs saxophone player Chuck Rio. What is not remembered is that Rio also wrote the song’s
lyric – the clever and haunting word “tequila” - sung three times throughout the song. Rio was
quoted, when “Tequila” went Gold, as saying “I’ve always loved words.”

And, lest we forget…..it was alphabet soup factory employee, Jim Boree, who, when asked to
pass some letters, said to the worker next to him, “I only have ‘I’s’ for you.”

So, from this day forward, let us recognize and salute the Wally Pipps of the world with a
hearty “Pipp, Pipp, Hooray!”

Go get ‘em, Wally.

The Story Teller

            There was a wonderful, sweet, caring old man in town. Whatever his real name was didn’t  matter much because everyone called him The Storyteller.

            For as long as anyone could remember, the people in town would go to him and he would tell them a story. People who are now grandparents went to him, as did their children and grandchildren, and he always told each child, or group of children, a new and original story so that they felt the story told to them was their very own. He never repeated himself. It wasn’t his way. He couldn’t do that. He felt that wasn’t fair to the children, that each child, or group of children, should hear a new story, no matter how many times they came back to him. And come back they did – hundreds of times, from early childhood, right through their teenage years and into early adulthood, and sometimes even beyond that.

            The adults in town would read to their children, and sometimes even tell them a story, but they knew, and the children knew, that the best stories – the ones that were the most fun, the most exciting, the ones that made the kids learn, and most importantly, feel – were told by the  Storyteller. Sometimes a story would start with the words “Once upon a time.....,” and sometimes with “There was a bird....,” or “Melvin’s bedroom slippers didn’t fit, so he.....” The stories were about anything and everything – sometimes long, sometimes short, sometimes silly, sometimes serious.

            The child, or children, would sit by the Storyteller’s feet and he would rock silently in his rocking chair until a beginning of a story would start to form in his mind. Sometimes that beginning would only be a word or two....and then he would start telling a story.

            It was a wonderful feeling to know the Storyteller was there; it kept the people in town feeling good about things – especially themselves and each other. Sure the people would get angry at things – things at work, things at home – but, knowing the storyteller was there made it “all right with the world.”

            One evening a little boy sat at the Storyteller’s feet. The old man smiled. He had the warmest smile. His eyes would open wide, his cheeks would crinkle, and the air would get warm and comfortable. The little boy sat. The old man rocked back and forth and back and forth and started, “Once upon a time....”  There was a pause. He smiled at the little boy and began again, “Once upon a time.....” And he rocked. A look of concern started to cross his face.  “A time...once upon a.....” He started to rock faster. His eyes started to squint. One corner of his mouth curled downward. He scratched one hand with the other....and kept scratching harder. “Once upon a time...” and he rocked faster and faster, but the words wouldn’t come. They just wouldn’t come. Where were they? Where was a story? Suddenly the chair stopped rocking. He sat still. He stared straight ahead. His face was expressionless. He sat totally quiet, silent.

And then he stopped staring. His eyes focused on nothing in particular. The smile was gone, replaced by just a little grin. Nothing moved.

            The little boy said, “Storyteller, tell me a story, please.” But the Storyteller just sat there. “Please,” pleaded the  little boy, scared, confused, hurt. “Please.” Nothing. The little boy tugged at the old man’s hand. Nothing. “Please.” And then, bewildered, crying, the little boy ran home to his parents.

            “The storyteller wouldn’t tell me a story. He started, but stopped at the beginning. He won’t say anything,” the little boy said. “He won’t tell me a story.” And his parents held him close to comfort him.

            By the next morning word spread through town... “Something’s wrong with the Storyteller.” A doctor went to see the old man and examined him. His findings: “There is nothing physically wrong with him.”  “Then what’s happened?” asked the little boy. The doctor shrugged and said, “I’m sure he’ll be fine. He probably just needs a rest.”

            And the people let him rest. They went about their business – but it was not long before things started to change in town. People were short with each other, yelling at each other if the line in the supermarket didn’t move quickly, or if someone cut in front of someone else for a parking spot, or if one kid didn’t get a base hit in a Little League game.

            Nighttime was the worst. Parents seemed impatient with one another and especially with their kids. The town, the adults and the children, were not happy anymore.

            And one day in school a little girl suddenly stood up and said, “Maybe he ran out of stories.” The teacher and the other kids looked at her. Some kids started to laugh, but others didn’t, nor did the teacher. Later that day everybody in town was talking about it. “Maybe he ran out of stories,” everyone was saying. “After all, he’s told hundreds, thousands of stories.” “That can’t be why he’s silent,” someone said. And a few moments later an elderly woman said, “That has to be why. He simply ran out of stories.”

            And it got worse in town. Where once everyone was friendly, where once problems were solved in a peaceful, orderly manner, now things had turned ugly. Little problems were turned into big problems. Doors were slammed, windows shut tight. The sun came out, of course, like it always does, but that didn’t matter anymore – the town was dark.

            Weeks went by, and then one evening the little boy, the very little boy who had been the first to see the old man turn silent, sat up in bed. He then quickly dressed, walked quietly past his parents’ room, went down the stairs and out the front door.

            He hurried to the old man’s house and went inside. The old man sat silently, quietly, in his rocking chair.

           

“Hi, how are you?” asked the little boy. The Storyteller didn’t respond. “Is it okay if I sit down?” the boy asked. No response. The boy sat at the old man’s feet. He sat for a few minutes watching the old man and then asked, “Would you tell me a story, please?” There was no response. The boy sat for a few more minutes. And then he straightened his back, folded his hands, looked at the old man and began, “Once upon a time there was a cat....” He paused, thought, and continued, “.....who knew how to spell. She really did. See, when her owner, a little girl named Molly, couldn’t find a word in the dictionary, the cat would turn the pages. Well, one day....” As he talked he kept looking at the old man, and slowly the old man began to smile and his eyes began to brighten. The little boy continued, and the old man’s eyes got bigger and his smile got bigger and he began to rock – at first slowly, then faster. He didn’t say anything, but his face, his body, was alive for the first time since that night that he stopped telling stories. When the boy finished his story the Storyteller put out his hand and gently, warmly, tousled the boy’s hair. The old man then nodded his head. The little boy could tell that the Storyteller was saying “Thank you.”

The next day the little boy didn’t say anything to his parents or anyone  else, but that evening he went back to the old man’s house and told him another story and the old man listened and smiled and rocked.

The following day the little boy did tell his parents, and his teacher and his classmates, what had happened. One little girl asked, “Could I go with you and tell the Storyteller a story?” And the little boy said, “Yes.”

That evening, with the little boy by her side, the little girl told the old man a story and he loved it. He smiled and nodded and rocked.

And the next evening another child came to tell a story to the Storyteller, and soon more children came – and then some parents, and more parents, and grandparents.

And the town started to come alive again. People stopped arguing, stopped turning small problems into big problems, started to have patience with each other, smiled at each other. The darkness went away and there was a bright, happy light under the sun.

They had relied on the Storyteller. They had all relied on him. He had kept them all calm and caring and happy. And when he stopped, they stopped. Now it was their turn to keep him happy – happily alive. It was the least they could do. They owed it to him. They owed it to themselves.

And so in this town to this day, children, parents and grandparents sit at the feet of the Storyteller and tell him stories – stories about anything and everything. Sometimes a story might start with the words, “Joanne bought a hair ribbon for her friend...,” or “The team went swimming in the lake by Daniel’s Crossing....,” and sometimes the stories just start with “Once upon a time......”

           

           

           

I WON’T DANCE, PLEASE ASK ME

            The turkey was fresh. They sliced it right in front of you, so how bad could it be.

            “I’ll have the turkey plate, with gravy on the side, please.”

            It had been a long time since I had eaten in a cafeteria/cafeteria-style restaurant; one of those places where you share a table with strangers. I put my tray on the table, nodded a “hello” to the woman across from me and sat down. A few minutes passed.

            “How’s the turkey?” she asked.

            “Not bad,” I answered.

“They make good turkey here, and good salmon. You should come here on Fridays. They make good salmon on Fridays.”

“I don’t live around here, but maybe I’ll do that. Maybe I’ll come by on a Friday, give it a shot.” A moment or two passed.

“What part of New York are you from?” she asked.

I knew she meant the city, not the state. I grew up in the Bronx. I moved to Los Angeles when I was in my thirties. I thought I had lost my accent.

“You’ll never lose it entirely,” she said. “It’s the best place to be – New York. I lived there thirty years. I’m from Poughkeepsie.”

She stood up and walked over to refill her water glass. She walked with her back very straight. My mother used to say of someone who walks like that,”She carries herself well.” I guessed she was somewhere in her mid-seventies.

“Poughkeepsie’s about an hour north of New York. When I moved into the city I lived in the village – Jane Street,” she said. Then she pulled herself up very straight and announced, “I was a dancer! On Broadway!” Her name is Priscilla Nathans, and she was a dancer – on Broadway.

Sometimes you get caught in a situation – on a plane, in a bar, at a table at a wedding – sitting next to or across from someone who keeps talking about stuff about which you could care less. (If it’s about politics, religion, insurance, mortgages, computers, cars – I’m outta there. I don’t care if I’m 35,000 feet in the air, I’m outta there. If you’re talking about sports, literature, history, people – young or old – or about being a dancer on Broadway, keep it coming.)

Priscilla Nathans was never a star. She was an understudy to the lead in a few Broadway shows, and got to perform in the lead role a few times, but for most of her career she was a “gypsy,” the term used to describe a dancer who goes from show to show – if they’re lucky. Priscilla loved every minute of it. She told me all about it – the years in New York, the shows, the fun, the friends, the high kicks and the low times. She danced in some great shows with some great stars.

“Then you get to a certain age and it’s over. There’s ten-thousand beautiful young dancers waiting to take your place,” she said.

She married an actor. They moved to Los Angeles. They had two kids. She got some bit parts in movies and on TV. The kids went to college in San Francisco. They liked it. After college they stayed there. Her husband passed away a few years ago.

“Try to come here on Fridays. They make good salmon,” she said.

We had been talking – she was the one who had done the talking – for about an hour.

“It was a real pleasure meeting you,” I said as I stood up to leave.

“Do you dance?” she suddenly asked.

I smiled and shook my head “No.”

“I’ll teach you.”

“That’s okay. I appreciate the offer, but….”

“Be at Las Hadas in the valley Tuesday morning at 10:30.”

I can dance, at home, alone, to Chuck Berry, Jerry Lee Lewis, a couple of Elvis songs, The Stones,  Donna Summer – stuff with a recognizable melody and a strong beat  - when I’m alone. There’s no way I’m going to meet a 75-year old woman at 10:30 in the morning in a Mexican restaurant in the San Fernando Valley to learn to dance with a partner.

The place was packed. Gray hair. Mexican food. American music. Priscilla Nathans, sitting in a booth, spotted me and waved me over. As I approached the booth she grabbed my hand and pulled me onto the dance floor. A seventeen piece band played music from the ‘30’s and ‘40’s – swing music. The musicians were guys in their seventies and eighties who had played with the top bands in the big band era. They were sensational. The couples on the dance floor were great.

“I’ll lead. Don’t be embarrassed,” she said.

I was embarrassed, but I was dancing, with someone who had been a dancer – on Broadway.

The park is across the street from where I live. Baseball and soccer fields, indoor and outdoor basketball courts, tennis courts, an outdoor pool and a track. People of all ages walk and run around the track. I’m one of those who walk.

It was the kind of weather I like – cool and misty.

“I love it when it’s like this, a littler drizzle in the air,” a voice next to me said.

I turned.

“I’m Hal. I’m 86,” he said as he walked beside me. “Who are you?”

“I’m Michael.”

His legs were a little bowed and his shoulders were hunched over a wee bit.

“I have a nephew named Michael. He’s taller than me.  My own son, he’s an inch shorter than me. Go figure.”

Hal told me about himself. He grew up “right here” in Los Angeles. “When I was a kid we lived across the street from a guy who was in the movies – a lot of westerns. I still have one of his hats.”

We walked. I had to pick up my pace to keep up with him.

“I’m in pretty good shape for an old guy, huh.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement. I nodded. “You bet your ass I am,” he said. “I played softball till I was seventy-eight, when I hurt my knee. Give me a bat and I can still hit.”

Hal Skovron had been a successful civil engineer. He had three “grown” kids. “My oldest is sixty-two. I guess that’s grown.”  His first wife died after sixty-three years of marriage. “I’ve made one big mistake in my life, I married again. The second one was a pain in the ass. I divorced her two years ago. Irreconcilable differences. I wanted sex. She wanted soup. Imagine getting divorced when you’re eighty-four. Go figure.”

We walked.  “What do you do?” he asked.

“I’m a writer”

“That’s terrific. Without you guys the people in books and in the movies wouldn’t have anything to say,” and he gave me a kind of way-to-go punch on the arm. “I like to write myself, like when I go to the market I always write down what I need to buy.” He laughed at his own play on words. “Matter of fact, my wife, the one who was the love of my life, she and I lived next door to a writer and his wife. We spent a lot of time together. We used to go dancing, the four of us. Oh, could my wife dance. She made a lousy boysenberry pie, but could she dance. Go figure.”

“Do you still like to dance?” I asked.

“If you’re asking me out on a date,” he said laughing, and pointing at my under-nourished scalp, “I don’t go out with anybody who has less hair on their head than me.”

“How about…..”

“How about coffee and a movie first,” and he laughed again.

I waited outside the restaurant. When Hal got there we went inside. Priscilla Nathans waved from her booth. I introduced Priscilla and Hal Skovron to each other. He kissed her hand. Quite the charmer. Priscilla and I danced to a few songs. I actually was dancing. I made a dancing gesture to Hal and motioned for him to come onto the dance floor.

“You’re a swell guy, but, if you don’t mind, I’d rather dance with the lady,” he said, laughing. She laughed, too.

And then they danced.

Priscilla Nathans and Hal Skovron haven’t missed a Tuesday at Las Hadas since the Tuesday morning they met. They haven’t missed many other days either. They dance a lot and laugh a lot.

“We talked it over, and….we’re not going to get married, unless we decide to have kids.” He laughed. She did too, as she playfully slapped him on the arm.

“I never thought I’d ever feel like this again,” she said. “Me, too,” he said slowly, and then kissed her on the cheek.

“Look at me,” he said, “with a beautiful woman like this who was a dancer – on Broadway. Who would’a thought. Go figure.”

“What’ll it be?” the person behind the hot-counter in the cafeteria asked.

“I’ll have a plate of non-stop talking, with a side of feelings.”

The person behind the hot-counter stared at me.

“I’ll have the salmon. It’s Friday. I hear the salmon’s good here on Friday.”

I put my tray on the table and sat down. I said “Hello” to the person across from me. There was no response. After a few minutes the person got up and left. Some people don’t like to talk. Some do. Go figure.