UNCLE LENNY - REDUX (THE Original Gangsta)

Virtually everyone who can…oh, I don’t know……breathe…is familiar with the Mafia, but how many know about Jewish-American organized crime (sometimes called the Jewish Mob, Jewish Mafia, Kosher Mafia, or the Kosher Nostra)? Some of the names are legendary in the crime world, Meyer Lansky, Dutch Schultz, Bugsy Siegel, Lenny Weinstein……..Lenny Weinstein? My dad was born in Brooklyn, N.Y. in 1924. It was a time when crime was running rampant in the Italian and Jewish areas of the city among immigrants who felt alienated by other segments of society, yet somehow safe with these perceived Robin Hoods looking out for their well being. Little Italy was (and probably still is) one of the safest areas in New York City. Murder, Inc. was wiping out bad guys for the Mafia and all seemed right with the world of the disenfranchised. Rumor had it that my dad’s uncle Lenny was quite heavily “involved”. I’m not sure what gave it away. Maybe it was the big beautiful car he drove or fine suits he wore during the Great Depression, while others were walking in the snow of Brooklyn winter with holes in their shoes and wearing clothing that was completely inadequate, even if they were fortunate enough to be the proud owner of a sweater or a jacket. Lenny was generous to a fault within his neighborhood and, at holiday time, would drive from the docks to the neighborhood, open his trunk and hand out fine silk stockings to all of the ladies on the block. My dad was Uncle Lenny’s favorite nephew and Lenny made no bones about it. When dad came back from WWII, where he had served nobly in the Battle of Leyte, Uncle Lenny took him to his tailor. “This is my nephew, Jerry,” he told the guy, in an unmistakable Brooklyn cadence, “He’s a war hero and my favorite nephew. I want you to make him a suit just like mine. Now, don’t be cheap. There’s nothing too good for ‘da kid. My suits are the best quality….his will be too, got that?” The tailor nodded, almost subserviently, and got to work on making a suit “just like Uncle Lenny’s. A few days went by, when my dad received word that the suit was ready. He was to meet Uncle Lenny at the tailor’s to try it on and make sure it fit…….everything had to be perfect. He tried on the pants and they fit beautifully. Now, if the coat fit as nicely as they did, he’d be the suavest guy in Bensonhurst. As he put on the coat, something didn’t feel quite right, so he grabbed hold of the lapel, looked inside at the lining and saw the problem. There was a holster for a gun sewn into the lining of the coat. Just like Uncle Lenny’s………… Rumor confirmed!

A CLOWN DIED

I was born in the late 1940's, right around the time TV was starting to “catch on.” We didn't have a TV for the first few years of my life, so, we listened to the radio. Kids shows, ball games, sitcoms, soap operas, sports, news....it was all theater of the mind. Pictures were “told to us” and we saw them with our ears. The DeLongs had the first TV on the block and, at 5 'o'clock every weekday afternoon, all the neighborhood kids would pile into their family room to gather around a small black & white screen to watch the wonder that was “Howdy Doody.” We finally broke down and joined the video revolution when I was about 8. We bought a TV set. I was fortunate enough to grow up smack, dab in between two giant markets, New York and Boston. The amount kids TV that was available was staggering. From Boston we had “Boomtown” with Rex Trailer, “Romper Room” with Miss Jean and “Big Brother” Bob Emery. The Big Apple gave us “The Sandy Becker Show,” Ray Heatherton, “The Merry Mailman,” Officer Joe Bolton on WPIX, “Wonderama” with the Sonny Fox that was NOT my radio partner and myriad others that would take the rest of the day to list. But, I was in Manchester, Ct. and I was more impressed (at least as impressed as a 9 or 10 year old can be) with our “local” fare. TV that came from Hartford. The Boston and New York programming was distant and, deemed, in my immature mind, to be “professional.” It was great stuff, but, it wasn't local and therefore, something that I could only watch from a distance, but, not be part of. Local Connecticut programming was what I waited for. It was “home grown,” tangible and attainable. The hosts were no less heroes to us than those in the surrounding metropoli, but, when the make-up and costumes came off, our local stars were our neighbors, although, that particular fact could really blow up a fantasy if you saw one of them in “civilian clothes,” at the local market. “Ranger Andy” came to us from WTIC in Hartford. It was a short ride to the studios and my mother, who was Cub Scout Pack 152's den mother, knew people and was able to get us on the show as part of the kiddie audience in the “Ranger Station.” I was the lucky kid who got to stand up and introduce our group to all the kids who were watching their TV's wishing it was them. It was then that fire in my belly grew to a point of no return and my career path was set. But, that was not the spark. That came from my very first local TV hero - “Flippy, the Clown.” Flippy the Clown came to us on channel 18 in the Hartford area. Channel 18 was a small, independent station in a medium that provided us 4 channels to watch. NBC(30), CBS(3), ABC(8) and our “local” channel 18. The other 3 had the big shows from the big cities, but, channel 18 had Flippy the Clown and his wonderful puppets like Curtis the Crocodile, Beverly the Beaver and everyone's favorite, Leroy the Duck. Flippy not only gave us hours of joy and laughter, he also introduced the kids to the wonders of classical music and, for that, I will be eternally grateful. Flippy and the characters were the creations of Ivor Hugh, an immigrant from England who came to these shores at the age of 10. He had a very long and fruitful broadcasting career that included Flippy, Ring Around the World, narrations of children's concerts from the Bushnell Auditorium by the Hartford Symphony and 35 years at WJMJ doing a classical music program called "Good Evening, Good Music," delighting a dedicated audience with great music and vast knowledge. Ivor Hugh passed away last week at the age of 86 and I and scores of others will long remember his contribution to our lives. He is survived by his wife Beth, 9 children,15 grandchildren and one great-grandchild. One of those children is son, Grayson Hugh, who is an amazing entertainer in his own right having given us a huge hit song with the Sam Cooke sounding “Talk it Over.” I was a fan from the very first time I played it on the air and I never got tired of it as most deejays do with most songs. I did not, however, connect the dots and didn't realize that he was the offspring of Flippy the Clown, the character that infused in us a set morals, ethics and values that reinforced everything our parents were teaching us. These lessons were coming from our hero rather than a mom or dad, who we knew were supposed to be telling us those things. When Flippy said them, they became the right things to do. When I realized who Graysons father was, I felt an immediate kinship. He began to feel like a brother who was taught the same lessons I was by the same man. Rest in Peace Ivor Hugh and rest assured that your years of dedication to the children of the greater Hartford area have paid off in spades as we have now passed these lessons on to our children and our grandchildren who will continue to pay it forward. A clown died last week, but, he will live forever in our hearts and our deeds.

MY BABY, SHE WROTE ME A LETTER

I don’t write letters anymore. Honestly, who does? I prefer e-mail as a means of communication, although, even e-mail has become relatively archaic in these days of tweeting and texting. That’s an art that I just can’t seem to wrap my fingers around given the size of the keys in contrast to the size of my thumbs. I don't tweet. I can't speak the language. Even when I am able to figure out how to text I can’t seem to get the right letters onto the screen. And, with the text “language” that everyone uses, I may be sending a pretty indecent proposal when my initial intention was honorable. I suppose if I get any of my grandkids to sit still long enough, I could conceivably learn how to do it. I have nothing against traditional letter writing. It truly is a lost art form. For what seems like an eternity, letter writing was the mainstay for communication and, in many cases, these letters became legacies and, in some cases, great literature. Great minds would write to other great minds, telling them things like how great they thought the other guys mind was. Volumes have been published that consisted solely of letters. The Alice Walker masterpiece “The Color Purple” was a series of letters to the protagonists sister and, ultimately, to God. Nowhere is the human being more truly revealed than in his letters. Mark Twain is, perhaps, the greatest satirist we have ever produced (with all due respect to the likes of Lenny Bruce, Family Guy and South Park). His letters are quite revealing. He was a man of few restraints and of no affectations. In his correspondence, as in his talk, he spoke what was in his mind, unencumbered by literary conventions. Like I said, I have nothing against traditional letter writing. My gripe, these days, is with my mailman. It must be post office policy, but, if there is a vehicle parked within 15 feet of the mail box, he won’t deliver the mail. I have nothing against policy. A rule is a rule, but I live at the end of a cul-de-sac. It’s a very difficult are for visitors and those who are there on business to park, but, people do try their best. I have a new neighbor who is having quite a bit of work done to his house. This means there are always trucks and cars nearby. The poor guy hasn’t seen his mail in, probably two weeks. I’ve missed a few deliveries as well, so, creditors, please don’t get too upset when my payment is late. I haven’t received a bill. Here is the paradox. The other day, I saw the mail truck moving up the other side of the street. As he approached my mail box, he noticed a truck in front of the neighbor’s house (and, yes, his mail box). I knew that he would not get a delivery…..again. The mailman must have deemed that the truck was less than 15 feet from my mail box. It was probably 12 to 14 feet away, but less than 15. Needless to say, I got no mail that day either. The mailman did, however, stop his truck, get out, walk over to my neighbor’s mail box and put in a notice that said “Vehicles have to be more than 15 feet from the mail box.” He then got back in his truck and drove away. Could he not have delivered the note along with the guys mail? Did he have to make extra work for the sorters back at the office? Did he have to make my neighbor late in paying his bills? I mean, he was already out of the truck and sticking his hand in the mail box anyway. Neither rain nor sleet nor gloom of night? But, a truck parked within 15 feet of a mailbox. That, apparently, falls under an entirely different set of rules I am the son of a woman who has always believed that a good letter can get great results. Whether it’s a letter to the editor, to a merchant who she believes has scammed her or praise for a job well done. She instilled in me a love of language and its ability to garner results. I’ve toyed with the idea of writing a letter to the post office to complain about the situation, but my neighbor is still having work done and I’d hate to have all that well thought out prose languishing all alone in my mail box for the next two weeks.

TAKE IT OFF – OR DON'T

Nudity! Have I got your attention? I bring this up because, not long ago, my wife's nephew visited us in South Florida with the express intention of borrowing our car to go to Haulover Beach. I had never heard of Haulover Beach. I had no clue what this was. When I want to go to the beach, either by myself or with my family, I head to Hollywood Beach. It's unpretentious, family oriented, relatively quiet and is loaded with restaurants and shops. It's....the beach. I am aware of South Beach, where the “beautiful” and young people go to show themselves off and look at the other gorgeous folk, but, Haulover Beach? I decided to do a little research and see just what this was and whether I should hop in the car and go with him. After all, I love the beach and, if this was such a special one, I might want to check it out. As I began reading, one particular sentence struck me – “It's the only official, legal, nude beach in the state of Florida.” I am no prude. I have even been to a nude beach, although, I didn't participate – I preferred the role of spectator, and I wasn't, at all, thrilled at what I saw. It was on the island of Saint Martaan and I was there, between marriages, with a girlfriend. The island, itself, is wonderful. It has a Dutch side and a French side. The Dutch side is very touristy with hotels, casinos, shops and the like. The French side, on the other had, is very quaint with small villages, roadside native restaurants and.....a nude beach. The woman I was with was much more adventurous than I and insisted that, since we were on the French side and the beach was a very short distance away, we go. I was leery and relatively excited and curious at the same time. We took a cab to the beach and stepped onto the sand. She immediately shed her clothing and, since it was actually a clothing OPTIONAL beach, handed them to me as I had already made the decision to exercise my option and wear a bathing suit. I took her clothes and held them, very strategically, in front of me. Just in case. As it turned out, that wasn't really necessary. We walked the beach and I began to look around. People were playing in the water, playing beach volleyball, napping in the sun, reading and chatting with each other. All typical beach behavior with one notable exception. Everybody was nude. We didn't stay very long. The novelty wore off very quickly. My “take-away” from the experience was that I now realized why clothing was invented. There wasn't one, single person on that beach who should have been naked. Not one person that made either of us do a double-take and say “oooh” or “wow.” All we could come up with was “geez” and “yecchh.” My conclusion from the experience was that I will never go to a nude or clothing optional beach again and neither should anybody else, unless they are armed with a very big air brush.

IN PLAIN SIGHT

Seventh grade, for me and my friends, was a time to start branching out a bit and begin to find our selves. Until this point, we had pretty much done what we were told, when we were told and there were no questions asked, but we were out of elementary school now. We were “the big kids,” new teenagers and it was the turn of the decade. 1960 was OUR time. We understood that our teenage years were going to be a time to rebel and we were heading into “the 60's”, which was, as we came to find out, a time of major change for our society and our world, and, we were to be part of it. That was why, when I was asked to “skip” school with David and Tommy, I made the conscious decision to join the festivities and rebel. Tommy had already cut school for a full week and David was wrapping up his second week. Perhaps that should have been my cue to opt out. Obviously, somebody, at some point, would notice how long they had been missing and come looking for them. This was my first day. I had never done anything so bold in my life, which had, of course, only been the prior 12 years. Not much time or experience to make much of a mark on the world of rule breaking. But, I was 13 and cocky and, as with most new teenagers, I knew absolutely everything. I left for school, as usual, and cut through the yard across the street, crossed to the actual school building and kept going, past the school, to David's house. His parents both worked and we knew we were, essentially, home free. A developing 13 year old brain doesn't have enough wiring to be too logical, so, the fact that David and Tommy seemed, to school officials, to have dropped off the face of the earth until they showed up on the playground after school each day never occurred to me. It also never entered our minds that someone may pick up a phone and try to locate them. For all authorities knew, I was out sick and didn't even know David and Tommy. The phone rang. David, in a valiant attempt at deflecting any obstacles to our extra “play day,” deepened his voice as much as a 13 year old can. “Hello,” he said, trying to sound like a parent. I realized that the “jig was up” when I heard his next words, “This is my father.” The folks at the school picked up on that as well, which showed us why they were in charge and we weren't. They sent, what was then known as the Truant Officer. His name was Mr. Digan and we were all intimidated by him. The one person you never wanted to encounter during the school day was Mr. Digan. Within 20 minutes of the phone call, which, by the way, still didn't clue us in to the fact that we had just been busted, the doorbell rang. It was Mr. Digan and his minions and they were out for some 7th grade blood. David and Tommy had been out for weeks between them and knew the good hiding places in David's house. I did not. I glanced around the room and saw a ping pong table. Using all of the reasoning I could possibly muster up at that age, I sat under the table, which, of course, was wide open on all 4 sides. Stevie Wonder could have found me. Mr. Digan did. They brought me home and, in their ultimate wisdom, my parents told me that I was not to hang out with David and/or Tommy ever again. The punishment lasted about a day. Both David and Tommy were in my Boy Scout troop and on my baseball team. We had a game that day and a Scout meeting the next. I suppose their efforts were valiant at best. I learned a couple of very important lessons that day. I never skipped school, ever again and the next time I tried to hide from authorities, it would be anywhere but under ping pong table.....in plain sight.

9/11/2001

Remember where YOU were on 9-11-2001? Of course you do. We always remember where we were and what we were doing during what seem, at the time, to be earth shattering events. Catastrophic weather, space shuttle disasters, assassinations and the like. I am very clear about days of note during my life time. The assassinations of JFK, MLK, RFK and John Lennon, the Challenger explosion, the deaths of Elvis and Michael Jackson. Times in history that are etched in our memories in their magnitude and scope. 9-11, however, stands out for me as the all time worst day of my career. I have been on the air during a number of “bad days” and always made it through them with fairly little effort, and, so it appeared on that fateful day on 2001. The morning started normally. My partner at the time, Lori and I met in one of the production rooms an hour before the show to share the “prep” we had individually done and map out our “breaks” for that day. We didn't always follow the map, in fact, we rarely did, but, it was always nice to have a plan and we did this every morning. The show was going well that morning. We had done a couple of silly, preproduced “bits” and were preparing for a hearty game “Stump the Chumps” while “Today's Hits and Yesterday's Favorites” graced the virtual turntables and permeated the airwaves, when Lori went to the room we all referred to as the “Dead Break Lounge” for another cup of coffee. She never made it to that end of the hall. There was a TV between the beak room and the studio and she saw a plane hit a building. She ran back into the room to tell me what she had just seen and we went on the air with it. “It looks like a small plane has accidentally flown into one of the World Trade Center towers,” we reported, adding, “As soon as we have more information, we'll bring it to you.” Next song. And then............it all hit the fan. Once second plane hit the WTC, everyone began to realize what was happening. We were watching chaos unfold in front of our eyes and we weren't sure what to do. Obviously, the first thing was to suspend all the music and try to explain something that we didn't understand any more than those listening. We became a “clearing house” for all the info we were getting from other sources and as we attempted to disseminate what were seeing on the TV in the hall, people began to call in droves. We were inundated with emotion and opinion and realized that, perhaps we should try to, at least, serve as the voice of some semblance of reason. We tried to calm fears and explain, to the best of our ability, what we knew. It wasn't very much. At one point, I said, “I have been doing radio for many years and for the first time in my career, I can't think of anything to say.” I was at a complete loss for words. It was pretty unprofessional, but, it was also a very real moment. Shortly before our shift ended, the decision was made to switch all programming over to our parent company, ABC, whose capable news team took over the task of explaining the unexplainable to listeners who wanted answers. Our shows for the remainder of the week were music free and we continued taking phone calls, giving the listeners an outlet to vent and discuss. Each morning, for 5 hours, we handled call after call after call while, as I stated earlier, trying to be the best “voice of reason” we could possibly be. I went home after our show on Friday, proud of the way we had handled a very intense and tough week. I was proud of our professionalism in the face of disaster and I held my head high. Until I got into bed to take my daily nap. That's when the magnitude of what had happened over the prior week hit my like a brick. We had been in the same position as every other American. We were angry and confused and had been a sounding board for all of our listeners for days, absorbing all their anxiety and emotion. I curled up into the fetal position and began to sob. And that's where and how I spent the entire weekend. I finally stopped crying on Sunday night and was able to return to the air on Monday, but, by that point, the world as we knew it had changed forever.