Desert Island Discs… The Housemartins, “London 0, Hull 4″

This is the second in a series about music that has shaped my life or that simply kicks major ass.  Greatest hits collections not included.

The Housemartins are a great British band, now defunct, that combined smart, snappy lyrics about about the UK’s disaffected working class with incredibly danceable melodies that almost, but not quite, make you forget what they’re talking about.  On “London 0, Hull 4” (a soccer reference) the band cranks out one great song after another about the perils of sitting idly by while the rich and powerful stuff their faces and crush the little guy. 

It’s interesting to me that I love this album just as much today as a proud member of the upper class as I did in the mid-1980s, when I was taking $20 out of the ATM machine and making it last all week long.  Should the revolution ever come, I will crank this one up to 11 as they drag me out of my McMansion and cut my well-coiffed head off.  

My favorite track on the album — “I’ll Be Your Shelter (Just Like a Shelter)” — has nothing to do with politics; it’s simply about one person being there for another.  About halfway through, lead singer Paul Heaton says, “Let me hear the choir,” and, sure enough, a gospel choir kicks in, singing “I will see you through.”  Toward the end, Heaton starts wailing “He’s alright” over and over again in ways that would leave a mere mortal’s vocal cords in shreds.  (Believe me, I’ve tried it.)   

The album cover perhaps says it best, “16 songs — 17 hits!”

Postcard from the Hamptons

We spent this weekend in Easthampton — my wife and my two kids, my sister and her daughter, and my parents.  We stayed at my sister’s ex-partner’s house (say that ten times fast), which she recently purchased from a gay couple, who sold the place furnished.  I found that strange and sad.  People break up all the time, of course, but they usually divvy up the posessions.  These two guys just walked away — from each other and all of their stuff. 

And, oh, what stuff it was!   Say what you will, but gay guys can DECORATE. 

I’m not sure there was a single item in the entire house that I would have purchased for my own home, but, in that house, it all worked beautifully.  In the guest bedroom, for example, there was a huge photo of Dolly Parton hugging Mick Jagger, which in Westfield, NJ, would earn you a place on the local police watch list, but in Easthampton, NY, simply means that you are hip, rich, and comfortable with your sexuality.

My parents are neither hip nor rich (though they are comfortable with their sexuality, I suppose), so instead of having dinner on Saturday night at one of those fancy Hamptons restaurants, my Mom brought frozen meatballs and spaghetti with her from home, which we heated up and ate just like we did when we were ten years old.  It was delicious.  (For lunch on Sunday, we took it up a notch and ordered a pizza.)

The whole Hamptons scene is pretty ridiculous from my perspective, but on Sunday we went to the beach and it was absolutely beautiful.  As I’ve described in a previous post, I love the beaches in St. John, where the presence of so many islands, large and small, means that the waves are measured in inches, not feet.  Out in the Hamptons, the waves come in BIG, baby, since the only thing standing between the sea and the sand is, well, Europe, I guess.

 Those waves could care less what kind of car you drive or what kind of stove you have in your house.  (The gay guys had a Wolf.  Nice.)  Those waves were here a long time before you and I showed up, and they’ll be rolling in long after we’re gone, God willing.  We hung out on the beach for a while, flying kites, building sandcastles, and collecting seashells. 

I felt like a millionaire.

Best Lines… “What’s that for?”

This is the second in a series of posts discussing the most memorable lines I’ve heard in my life.

The father of one of my college roommates, Dave, owned a high-end photo studio in NYC.  Their claim to fame was that they used to produce those enormous photo-ads for Kodak (I think) that would wrap around the walls of the main terminal inside Grand Central Station.   

Well, that gave the roommates and me an idea, since our dorm room happened to have high ceilings and a very large, empty wall in the living room… We would take a photo of ourselves (natch) and Dave’s father would make a giant print of it that we would hang on the wall.  I’m not sure why we thought this would be funny, but we did.   

So the four of us got dressed up one day and our friend, Christine, took a whole bunch of pictures of us in various poses — sport jackets slung rakishly over our shoulders, crammed into a phone booth, staring profoundly off into space (in an “homage” to the cover of U2’s “The Joshua Tree,” which was huge that year), and so on. 

We picked our favorite shot — the four of us just sort of standing there looking at the camera, no smiles – and Dave’s father dutifully turned it into a print that I’m guessing was 10-11 feet high and 6-7 feet wide.  We hung it on the wall, covered it up with some sheets, and invited everyone over for the “unveiling.”  (“An exercise in hubris,” I believe it read on the formal invitations that we sent out.) 

A few weeks later, Dave scored two front row seats to “Phantom of the Opera,” which, at the time, was the hottest ticket on Broadway.  Instead of inviting one of his beloved roommates, he (quite reasonably) invited this girl he was interested in, Laura.  Prior to departing for NYC, Dave invited her over to our room (she had not attended the unveiling).  Laura took one look at the giant poster on the wall and said rather sharply, “What’s that for?”

This may seem like a perfectly reasonable question now, but, at the time, it was seen as a clear omen that Dave’s romantic evening in NYC was going to tank (it did) and that Laura was devoid of a sense of humor or any other redeeming quality.  (I’m sure she was lovely; I never really got to know her.)

Today, my college roomies and I still use “What’s that for?” in situations where someone is completely missing the point… even if there is none.   

First… Friend

This is the second in a series of postings about the many different firsts in my life.

My family moved from Queens, NY, to Milford, CT, when I was seven years old and right in the middle of the school year.  I was in first grade and the transition was tough.  Lots of tears, lots of confusion.  I remember clutching Sister Beatrice (it was a Catholic school) and just crying and crying.  Everyone seemed to have friends, except me.

One day, a red-headed kid named Timmy came up to me and told me not to worry… he would be my friend.  I have no idea what prompted him to reach out to me, but I didn’t really care.  I had a friend!

Timmy and I remained friends all the way through grammar school and we went to the same high school together, too.  One of the things we shared in common was a complete lack of athletic ability.  The two of us would always get picked last, or close to last, for just about everything.  I remember one time in high school when the gym teacher held some sort of wrestling tournament.  You could pick the person you wanted to wrestle, so, of course, Timmy and I picked each other.  I think I pinned him, but it could have just as easily gone the other way.  We had an unspoken understanding that we would make a decent show of it, but not really try very hard.  In the next round of the tournament, I was pinned in about five seconds by David Snell, whose parents were famous locally for taking in foster kids.  I believe he was one of 18 children at the time, which apparently provides excellent training for rolling around on a mat.

I recently found my high school yearbook and there’s a picture of Timmy and me, sitting together at lunch.  I’m laughing at something he said and he’s got this deadpan look on his face.  He was perhaps the world’s youngest curmudgeon.

We parted ways in college, but always kept in touch.  I was a groomsman at his wedding in the early 1990s and he returned the favor for me when I tied the knot a few years later.  Tim (as I now call him) got up and spoke at our rehearsal dinner and it was very cool to think that we had known each other for well over 20 years at that point.

I talked to Tim just yesterday.  I sent him the link to my blog and he called to tell me that he liked it and to encourage me to keep at it.  He asked me about my recent “First… Kiss” posting.

“Who was the Bryan in the car with you?” he asked, and I told him Bryan’s last name. 

“That guy was no Rico Suave, either,” Tim said.

“Well, he was more ’suave’ than me,” I said.

“Evidently,” Tim said in that deadpan style of his and we both cracked up.

We also took care of some business.  I recently asked Tim to be the executor of my will and we talked that through, especially who would take care of my kids in the event that both my wife and I meet an untimely end.  That’s a strange conversation to have, to be sure, but it was less strange, somehow, having it with Tim, my first friend and someone I know will be my friend forever.

“Promise me I won’t need to do this,” he said toward the end of our conversation.

We can’t make promises like that, of course, but I know what he meant.  Tim, I will do my best.

S Is For St. John

St. John is my favorite place on earth, bar none.  We have a time share at the Westin there and and I love it more and more every time we go.  St. John is the kind of place that makes me feel the way I wish I felt more often — calm, happy, and slightly buzzed in the early afternoon.  I have a shark-tooth necklace that I wear when we go there.  When I have it on, my sister-in-law, Peggy, says, “Poppy has his freak on!”  As soon as we get back home, I take the necklace off and, that’s it, the vacation is OVER.

St. John is incredibly beautiful and still fairly undeveloped once you get out of the main town of Cruz Bay.  A few years ago, we were driving down a narrow, roughly paved road and had to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting a wild donkey.  This August, Peggy and I woke up early, jumped in the rental car, and headed to Maho Bay, where we were, quite literally, the only two people on a postcard-perfect beach.  We snorkeled with not one, not two, but three sea turtles.  (Hint: They hang out in the sea grass, not on the reef.)

St. John is also a great place for foodies.  We’ve always enjoyed the Fish Trap, Chloe & Bernard’s at the Westin, and, above all, the Stone Terrace.  Prepare to spend a shitload of money pretty much no matter where you go. 

This August, my wife, son, sister-in-law and I went on a “sunset sail.” (My daughter and mother-in-law stayed on dry land.)  This is just about as good as it gets for me.  Out on the water, the wind blowing, the sails billowing, the bar open.  I was about four beers into it when I decided to take some pictures of my family.  So there I was – the camera in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other — when a particularly large set of swells came our way.   I fell in slow motion and in several stages.  First, I fell onto my ass.  Then I went down onto my back.  Then my legs went way up into the air.  I am proud to say that I did not drop the camera, nor did I spill a drop of beer.   Still, I know it was a spectacular sight to see because my son — who was 19 months old at the time — STILL says to me periodically, “Daddy fall down boat?”  Yes, son, and someday you, too, will fall down boat.   

My wife has ruled out retiring to St. John because she cannot imagine driving there.  They drive on the left side of the road and the twists, turns, and hills are, I must admit, a little unnerving.  Still, I have worked it out with her that I will retire to St. John permanently when I die by being cremated and turned into an artificial reef.  It will be my small way of giving something back to a very special place that has given so much to me. 

Body and/or Soul

I’ve only had a few massages in my life, but I had one yesterday courtesy of Amanda at the On the Side spa in Westfield, NJ.  This was a birthday present given to me back in March by my wife and, even though it took me seven months to go, it was well worth the wait. 

The session started with Amanda asking me, “How does your body feel today?” which led to an interesting (and depressing) conversation about how I work all day on a computer, holding my head, neck, shoulders, arms, and hands in roughly the same position for hours on end.  What ends up happening over time, Amanda explained, is that your body creates an infrastructure of tissue, muscle, and nerves designed to support the position you most often assume.  In other words, my body has reconstructed itself to better enable me to sit at a desk for the rest of my life. 

I’ve often thought that the decision to work for a large company, in an office, at a desk, on a computer, largely had spiritual ramifications.  Can my SOUL take it?  Now, I realize that there is an added dimension.  Can my BODY take it?  Or, even scarier, has my body LEARNED to take it?  And, if my body has learned to take it, then what on earth is happening (has happened?) to my SOUL?  Might the physical construct of my body somehow be impacting — maybe even impeding — my ability to do what is beneficial for my soul?

Amanda worked exclusively on my upper body, attempting to unravel the desk-jockey connections that my body has built for me.  There were times when it hurt like hell — this was deep tissue, my friends — and times when it felt just wonderful.  There were times when I nearly drifted off to sleep and times when I had to fight the urge to giggle. 

“Take the time you need to come back to yourself,” Amanda said very quietly and seriously at the end of the session, to which I very nearly responded, “No, thanks.”

I have often thought that the meteoric rise in the number of spas and nail salons in Westfield recently is indicative of great financial wealth and equally widespread spiritual bankruptcy.  But, for one hour at least, it sure was working for me. 

Now please excuse me while I go hydrate.

V Is for Vasectomy

On November 19, I will be placed under a mild, general anaesthesia and a doctor will make a small incision in my nutsack.  He will then remove a piece of my vas deferens, which is basically, a transportation duct for sperm (and, now, the name of that rock band I will try to form before I die).  He will cauterize (yep, I said cauterize) and tie off the two ends of the vas deferens, and sew me back up with a few butterfly stitches.  I will not be sterile right away.  Apparently, millions of sperm still linger around for a while.  But once I ejaculate 15 times or so (which, at the current pace brings us to around 3Q 2011), my baby-making days will officially have come to an end. 

I’m approaching V-day with no fear whatsoever about the procedure itself, but with some melancholy around the finality of it all.  I have fathered two amazing children — a girl and a boy — and my wife and I both strongly believe that two is the right number for us. 

And yet…

What if my wife runs off with George Clooney?  Or, as she has suggested, dies in a fiery car crash?  Would I re-marry?  If I did, would I want to have children with my new (incredibly young and hot) wife?  I guess we’ve decided to play the percentages here (back off, Georgie boy!), but shit happens.  It’s also one of those contradictory things where you spend much of your life trying to avoid getting women pregnant, but there’s still something nice about knowing that you could if you wanted to.

All in all, though, I know it is the right decision.  There is just something incredibly pathetic about a 39-year-old man fumbling in the dark to try and get a condom on before the mighty oak becomes a weeping willow, or about my 36-year-old wife having an anxiety attack if she’s 20 minutes late getting her period. 

So I will take one for the team and do the deed.  More to follow on this topic to be sure.

Meet the Family… My Grandmother, Gertrude

Three of my four grandparents had already passed away by the time I was born in 1968.  The one grandparent who was alive back then — my maternal grandmother, Gertrude – is still alive today.  At 97, she is hard of hearing, legally blind, and largely confined to her apartment in Rego Park, Queens, where she has lived for nearly 40 years and where, since a stay in the hospital over the holidays last year, she now lives with Mabel, her full-time caretaker from Namibia.

I’ve been lucky to have had many positive influences in my life, but I don’t think anyone has had a greater impact on me than my grandmother.   We’ve always been extremely close.  I think it had a lot to do with the fact that my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer when I was a baby.  As she fought — and won –her battle with cancer, my grandmother stepped into the breach and took care of me and my older sister.   That bond has never broken.

My grandmother was born in Germany, the tenth of ten children.  There is a picture in her apartment of her and several of her siblings.  She is about two or three years old in the picture and she is sitting on a bench, not smiling, not scowling, just sitting.  She stayed in Germany through World War I, but emigrated to the United States in the mid-1930’s. 

She came to this country to be with my grandfather, Steve.  She met him at a party held in his honor when he, a recent immigrant to the U.S., returned to Germany for a visit from New York City.  They were married shortly after her arrival in America in a church on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, known then as Germantown for its high concentration of immigrants from that country.  Their wedding picture hangs in the hallway of my house today.  My grandmother doesn’t like the picture very much at all because she has on a “sourpuss,” but I think it is beautiful.   

My grandmother remained an incredibly vital, energetic woman well into her 80’s.  In 1989, I took a summer internship in New York City.  I needed a place to live and couldn’t afford anything on my own.  My grandmother invited me to live with her in Queens and it was a lot of fun.  One night, I showed up at her apartment incredibly late at night with a few friends of mine.  My grandmother greeted us at the front door.  “Who wants a steak?” she asked, ready to begin cooking for us right then and there.    

The following year, I moved to an apartment of my own on the Upper East Side, just a few blocks away from where my grandmother had once lived.  It was a tiny studio apartment, smaller than the master bathroom in my house today.  It had a “half kitchen,” which made cooking (to the extent that a 22-year-old guy cooks at all) quite difficult.  Occasionally, the buzzer would ring and it would be my grandmother, who had taken the subway from her apartment to mine to bring me pot roast or chicken cutlets.

At the turn of the century, amid all the hoopla about the new millenium, I asked my grandmother for her view on the greatest advance made in her lifetime.  I expected her to give me an obvious answer — the airplane, the telephone.  “Hot running water,” she replied without a moment’s hesitation.  Oh.

One of my grandmother’s favorite sayings is, “Live well and go quick.”  This has taken on new significance as her vitality has faded in recent years.  We recently celebrated her 97th birthday at a restaurant near her apartment.  Several well wishers commented that she would probably make it to be 100.  “Don’t wish that on me,” she said.  “I’m ready for judgment day.”

My dear, sweet Oma, I love you so very much.  You have taught me so many things.  How to be a good boy, a good man, a good friend, a good husband, a good father.  You have lived well and I, too, hope that when your time comes, you go quick.  But I sure will miss you.

Best Lines… “Two beers, please?”

The first in a series of posts discussing the most memorable lines I’ve heard in my life.

It was 1989 and I was heading into NYC with two of my college roommates, Liam and Dave, and one of Dave’s friends, Chris Knapp.  (Chris was nicknamed “Knapper,” prompting my girlfriend at the time to ask him if he took a lot of naps.)  The destination? The Bottom Line, the legendary downtown night club.  The problem?  We were all under 21, meaning that, legally, we should not have been allowed in. 

Our strategy was simple… and lame.  We did not have fake IDs.  No, instead, we had driven all the way from New Haven to New York on a Saturday night simply to see if we would be stopped at the door of The Bottom Line or not.

I’ve always looked a bit older than I am.  This sucks now that I’m 39 (and rising, baby), but came in quite handy during the years leading up to the magical 21.  I was assigned to lead the charge and made it into the club without a problem.  Dave and Liam followed with equal success.  Ah, but Knapper was not so lucky — perhaps because he looked like he was about 13.  The bouncer asked him for his ID and Knapper just shook his head.

And here is what separates youth from age.  Rather than leaving the club, giving Knapper a high-five, and taking another shot at it someplace else, the three of us simply waved at him and went about our evening. 

We sat down at a table and a waitress approached us.  “What would you guys like to drink?” she asked.  Somehow this question — perhaps the most frequently asked question in the history of nightclubs — sent the three of us into a panic.  While a cold one would have been nice, we were there for the music, not to get drunk.  Was there some second layer of security at work, where the waitress might ask to see our IDs if we asked for alcohol?

Dave finally spoke up and I honestly don’t remember what he ordered.  I think it was a Coke and it certainly is funnier that way.  The waitress then turned to Liam.  He looked at me, took a deep breath, and said, “Two beers, please?” with his voice jumping an octave on the “please.”  The waitress didn’t bat an eye (of COURSE she didn’t!) and Liam and I were soon enjoying our beers, while Dave nursed his Coke. 

“Two beers, please?” has become a running joke among the three of us since that night.  We trot it out whenever we need a phrase that captures the remarkable awkwardness and stupidity of our college years.

Desert Island Discs: Holly Cole Trio, “Don’t Smoke In Bed”

This is the first in a series about music that has shaped my life or that simply kicks major ass.  Greatest hits collections not included.

Holly Cole is someone who deserves to be WAY more famous than she is. “Don’t Smoke In Bed,” released in 1993, is not her first album and she’s put out many more since then (most without Aaron Davis and David Piltch, two-thirds of the original trio). But it’s the first album of hers that I purchased and I still believe it’s the best, if only for the opening track, a masterful cover of “I Can See Clearly Now (the Rain Is Gone).” I first heard her version of this song on VH-1. I was wandering around my apartment in NYC, not really paying attention to the TV, when I heard this VOICE. I literally stopped what I was doing and stood in front of the TV, completely transfixed. I DARE you to listen to this song and not get the chills. It can’t be done! I have listened to this song at moments of great happiness in my life and at moments of crushing sadness. It all works. The rest of the album is wonderful, too, especially “The Tennesee Waltz,” “Everyday Will Be Like a Holiday,” and “Que Sera Sera.”