ER ANTICS

Have you ever been rushed to the emergency room, feeling like you were on death’s door and, suddenly had your attention redirected to the lady behind the curtain in the bed next to yours? It can truly be an entertaining experience. I felt sorry for the woman. She was 82 years old and had, apparently, had an episode of very low blood sugar and had fallen getting out of a car. She had a huge gash in the back of her head that had to be stitched up and had broken her neck. It was a fracture in a spot where it had broken before. I heard them talking about how she was hit by a trolley car when she was a teenager and how her leg had never been the same, but, she hobbled through life and faced one challenge after another. She was told that she would have to wear another “halo” to allow her neck to mend, but she was having none of it. The doctors said that if she didn’t wear it, she could be permanently paralyzed. This was obviously not the entertainment portion of the show. That came when she would doze off, reacting to the morphine they had given her for the pain. That’s when her daughter and her daughter’s best friend would start to chat and it always seemed to be about booze. Every conversation involved who could hold what liquor, how to mix drinks that wouldn’t give them a headache, how many bottles of wine it would take before they became totally useless and, in one particularly enjoyable segment, how a guy had given one of them a gift of a wooden box with 2 bottles of Sutter’s Home Wine, which she perceived as the ultimate insult. She said she yelled at the guy and never saw him again. Sheeeesh…whatever happened to “it’s the thought that counts?” I guess she “thought” she was worth a more expensive wine. It was about then that the daughter left the emergency room and her friend started to call other members of the older woman’s family to tell them what had happened. She would begin by apologizing for the fact that the woman’s daughter wasn’t calling her apparent siblings, but, she would add, she needed to get some rest for the ensuing days, which were going to be kind of rough. I suspect, from the conversation during sleep cycles, that what she needed, more than rest, was to sober up. When the old lady was awake, she was very funny and would joke with the doctors. This was completely contrary to the things the two younger women, who, seemed to be in their 60’s, were saying when she was in la-la land. They were pretty brutal. Pretty soon, they found her a room and off she went, with the duo of drunken divas not far behind. As for me, they finally found me a room as well and ran a battery of tests to find out why my blood pressure was plummeting and I was turning blue and having trouble breathing. The tests gave us the same results as the last two times this has happened…... nothing, but, I have to say this was the most enjoyable trip to the emergency room yet. I may have been blue, I may have been clammy, I may have been short of breath, but, the one thing I wasn’t…was bored.

CELEBRITY TALES AS I REMEMBER THEM: FRANK SINATRA

Frank Sinatra turned 77 in December of 1992 and they threw him a huge bash in his kind of town, Las Vegas. It was invitation only and the guest list read like a “who's who” of show biz royalty at the time. Don Rickles, Steve and Eydie, Debbie Reynolds, Barbara Eden, Tom Dreeson, Jane Russell, and, I suppose for the thrill of stepping out of context, former Vice President Spiro Agnew were among the celebs expected to be in attendance to fete “'Ol Blue Eyes.” A number of invitations were also sent to select members of the media and, for some reason, I got one. I was working for ABC and had signed an agreement that I wouldn't accept gifts that were worth more than $50 (thanks a lot Alan Freed). The company construed this particular invitation as a gift so it immediately became null and void when I opened the envelope. However, as fate would have it, I was dating a woman who happened to be a reporter for the Chicago Tribune and she had also been sent a +1 invitation to the bash. The Tribune Company saw this as an opportunity to cover the story, unlike the wisdom that prevailed at ABC that told them it was some verboten gift. We got to Vegas on the Saturday of the party which was, appropriately, at the Desert Inn, where Frank had been performing since 1951, and settled into the room to prepare for the pre-concert cocktail party where we would have a chance to rub elbows with the glitterati. As we rode the elevator down to the area where a private limo was going to take us to “the ball,” (I know...right?) I noticed Leslie Nielsen riding with us. We made small talk and I found him to be down to earth and very real. It was refreshing. We walked into the room and were ushered to round tables that held about 8 to 10 people. I saw that I was sitting next to Barbara Eden, so, honestly, I couldn't tell you who else was at that table. I remember later telling my dad that I chatted with Spiro Agnew and my dad responded in his almost stereotypical Brooklyn accent, “Oh yeah? Did you tell that goddamned son of a bitch that I can't stand him?” “No, Dad,” I answered, “It never really came up.” We had a lovely time having cocktails and a “nosh” and then it was time for the big event. Francis Albert was going to give a private musical audience to a “close circle of friends” and I was walking the Red Carpet with them. It was, without question, one of the most surreal experiences of my life. We walked into the theater and were again escorted to tables. Our table was in the front.....right at the stage. The orchestra, led by Frank Jr. was flawless and Frank was uncharacteristically humble as he thanked the crowd for spending his 77th with him. He had a little trouble getting to some of the places he used to be able to venture vocally and forgot a lyric here and there, but nobody cared. The crowd was loving every minute of the show and was mesmerized by the mere fact that this was Sinatra crooning up there. There are a handful of “must see” performers that come along in ones life time. In mine, there are some that I've made it to and some I've missed. I saw James Brown perform live twice, at his peak, in the 60's. I never saw Elvis live nor did I see the Beatles, but I got to see George Harrison with Bob Dylan at MSG. One and a ¼ birds with one stone.....not bad. I suppose a Liberace show might have been quite an experience too, but, on this particular Saturday night in December of 1992, I got to cross off the #1 on my must see bucket list – I got to experience Frank Sinatra.

CYBER BULLIES

One of the saddest news stories I've heard in a long time is the tragic tale of the 14 year old girl who committed suicide after being constantly bullied by two other girls on line. I was sort of a skinny, runty little kid. I had my small group of friends, but, being my size, not to mention ethnically different from the other kids in my school, I got picked on and, yes, occasionally bullied. One of my most vivid memories is of playing in a tree in the schoolyard as a bunch of kids threw rocks and apples at me because they didn't want us living in “their neighborhood.” I think Eric E. Rofes put it best in his critical essay “Making our Schools Safe for Sissies” when he wrote, "When I was a young boy, the bully called me names, stole my bicycle, forced me off the playground. He made fun of me in front of other children, forced me to turn over my lunch money each day, threatened to give me a black eye. At different times I was subject to a wide range of degradation and abuse -- de-pantsing, spit in my face, forced to eat the playground dirt....To this day, their handprints, like a slap on the face, remain stark and defined on my soul." This particular article was addressing growing up gay or lesbian, but anyone who grew up different or just plain small in stature can relate. I suppose there are any number of reasons bullies can find to justify their actions. They feel scared, they were bullied themselves, they have a need to feel power. All very poor reasoning when you are the one being bullied. OK, so the big guy is scared, that's no reason for him to push, kick and smack me. Bullies have always been the bane of playgrounds everywhere, but, there was always refuge. You could run home, stay in the classroom in the guise of helping the teacher clean erasers, stay home sick from school or just plain flee into any woods you might find nearby. As a rule, bullies are bigger and, I don't know about you, but the one thing I was, besides small, was fast. I could make a quick getaway with the best of them. Here is where the problem arises in today's world. Bullies can now get their kicks, less literally, yet possibly more powerfully on the internet. The Internet provides the perfect forum for cyber bullies. These are people whose aim is to get gratification from provoking and tormenting others. The anonymity, ease of provocation, and almost infinite source of targets means the Internet is full of serial bullies targeting ... anybody. Cyber bullies get a perverse sense of gratification from sending people flame mail and hate mail. Flame mail is an email whose contents are designed to inflame and enrage. Hate mail is just plain hatred including prejudice, racism, sexism or even skinnyism, in an email. And, to complicate matters even further, we have text messaging. A bully can be relentless with the touch of a few keys. You may never even know who they are. When my kids were growing up, it was easier to teach them to deal with bullies. I made sure they knew to walk away from these clowns. Or run or talk their way out of the situation. I also made sure they were well versed enough in a number of self-defense methods that, in the worst case scenario, they could hurt their tormentor and, perhaps, insure that they would, from that moment on, be left alone. Years ago, my oldest daughter was at the same party as an ex boyfriend who refused to leave her alone. The more relentless he got, the more determined she was to get get him out of her face. He didn't go away, so, she broke his nose. Now, with all of the latest technology, it's almost back to square one. All the boxing and Tai Kwon Do in the world is helpless against a text message. I guess rather than teaching my kids how to break someone's nose, I'll have to show them how to break their phone.

THE BUCKET LIST – A Short Story

He was a brown skinned boy with hair of curl. Smart beyond his years, he was happy with pretty much every aspect of his life. Clay was short for Clayton but most people called him Scooter, a nickname given by his mother who noticed, at a very early age, his proclivity for “scooting” from from one spot to another, no matter the distance. Scooter was the product of a broken household. His mother raised him and his sister with no assistance from from the sperm donor whose tendency to beat the ones he purported to love got him ousted from the home quickly. Mom saw Scooter's potential very early on. Perhaps she was just a loving mother being washed by a wave of wishful thinking or, maybe it was spotting him reading a book by Michael Crighton, on his own accord, at the age of 7 that tipped her off. Scooter was very bight and needed more stimulation than he could get from a public school system that prided itself on the number of students who were able to pass the state assessment test. By 3rd grade, mom had managed to get him into one of the most prestigious private schools in the area. The family didn't have the means to pay the hefty tuition but Scooter had brown skin and these schools gladly opened their doors to people with complexions that satisfied funding obligations. The system was pretty flawless – you give them $10 a month and they put your kid in the front row to showcase the diverse environment of the school. They also give him a quality education in return for being able to use him as a poster child. In the long run, mom figured, it was a pretty small price to pay. For years, things went smoothly as Scooter excelled in a number of sports and maintained a high academic profile. He was challenged scholastically and physically and was really beginning to spread his wings so he could step out and soar into the journey to find himself. He was right on track and he was thriving. It was somewhere in the ballpark of midway through high school that things began to change, as they often do but for Scooter the changes were accompanied by a cultural phenomenon that would alter his entire way of thinking and the timing couldn't have been worse. He was a young man of color in an environment that set him off to the side and, in an attempt to relate more with people he looked more like, he discovered the negative world of Gangsta Rap, which was in it's infancy, and trying to find itself as an art form. The lyrics were destructive and offensive, the beats, however, were infectious and his mind was receptive. He started to dress and talk and act like the proponents of violence and misogyny he had adopted as his own, forsaking his family and his studies and ignoring the ethics, morals and values he had been raised with to that point. He began to walk around with a big, unwarranted chip on his shoulder and he became a bully, intimidating kids he didn't know and isolating those who had been friends, classmates and teammates. It got so bad, that he dropped out of school just before his senior year and left his 5 bedroom house in the suburbs for a more adventurous existence in the inner city. The straw that broke the camel's back for Scooter was the frequency with which he was being racially profiled in his own neighborhood. His journeys took him around the country to a number of cities he had just read about. Because his sensitivity ran deep, he was profoundly pained when his travels took him to the nation's capital where he bemoaned the crack heads and the homeless living in the street in such close proximity to the White House. He called his mom and cried. But this was a private moment where he was able to step out of the persona he was creating and be himself, the Scooter that his family missed and loved, but, who was now in too deep, at least in his own mind, to turn back. He had allowed himself a moment of vulnerability that gave his mom a glimmer of hope that someday, he might realize his true self “come home.” Scooter was now 21 years old and the school of life was giving him an education about hard knocks that he would never have gotten at his private school. But was he finding who he was or who he wasn't? One evening after getting back to the apartment in the projects that he shared with 3 guys he referred to as his “boys,” he made a decision that would change his life forever. There was an armed robbery and Scooter had chosen to take part. In his now completely twisted value system, his mind told him that all of this was not only OK but it was just how things were. This was the new normal. But things didn't go as planned. Someone began shooting wildly and Scooter was hit. Twice. When the police got there, they took him directly to the hospital for treatment and placed an armed guard directly in front of his door. Because shooting victims are admitted to hospitals under assumed names. His mom, who had received the disturbing call and immediately got on a plane, couldn't find him. It didn't matter because Scooter was in a coma and she wouldn't be allowed to see him anyway. He was under arrest. Scooter came through the coma and was eventually tried, convicted and ordered to serve 10 years in prison. It was during that time that his mom, who spoke to him every single week and wrote to him every single day, suggested he make a “bucket list.” She understood the concept of the bucket list and knew this was different but Scooter had almost kicked the proverbial bucket and had been given a second chance at life. Why not use the list as an outline for what he wanted to achieve after he got out at the ripe young age of 31? For nearly 10 years, in every daily letter, he was chided to create his future by way of listing positive outcomes for him to manifest. Early in his sentence he was forced to “prove himself” 3 or 4 times, which made his mother cry. “Don't worry, mama.” he would tell her, “I won. They won't bother me anymore.” He was right. For the rest of his time, he was able to parlay an education. He read voraciously and got a barber's license, which allowed him to work at a paying job while pursuing the education he had walked away from after his junior year of high school. He not only got his GED but his bachelor's degree in business as well. He then went on to pursue his masters. Scooters mom kept the level of support at the highest setting and never waned. The day Scooter walked out of prison, he and his mom hugged, cried and and started to talk. “Did you ever make that bucket list I've been hounding you about for the past 10 years?” she asked “Yes, mama, I did,” he responded, “I wrote it 10 years ago. It only has one thing on it and today I can check it off. Do you want to see it?” She nodded and he reached into his pocked and pulled out an old, folded sheet of paper and handed it to her. She opened it and, although the years had faded the words, she read : “Bucket List - Be free and live a productive life!”

I YAM WHAT I YAM

For his recent birthday, my brother's sons gave him a DNA test (he IS their father), which required him to spit into a cup and then, send said cup to a lab somewhere so they could determine just where he came from. He sent me the results since, as his brother, I have the same DNA (I am NOT the father) and I am fascinated by what I am reading. The tests told me any number of things that I was already fully aware of. I am a 93.8% Ashkenazi Jew who has ancestry in Europe. I've heard the stories my whole life. How Zeide (which means “grandfather” even though he was my maternal great-grandfather) came down from the woods of the Ukraine where he probably chopped down trees, to Yekatrinaslav, which is now known as Dnipropetrovsk in the Ukraine and met his wife, who we only knew as Bubbe, while working at her family's lumber yard. The turn of the century (1800's to 1900's) was not a particularly fun time to be a Jew in that part of the Ukraine. People were beginning to rise up against the Tsar. Many were killed, hundreds were wounded and there were anti-semitic attacks coming from both sides. Between the Cossacks and the Ukrainian people, Jews had to watch their backs and their fronts. It was time to leave and they did. It's the stuff I didn't know that captivated me. The lineage of both of my parents was traced to Eastern Africa. 2% of my DNA traces back to the Near East to people who eventually became Native Americans. Common ancestors left the Near East 50,000 years ago, migrating across Asia. These ancestors of Native Americans began to cross into the Americas 12,000 to 15,000 years ago. My father's line was traced back 18,000 years to the sub-group “J2,” in the regions of Southern Europe, Near East and Northern Africa. My mother's line goes back 35,000 years to the sub group “RO” in the regions of Near East, northern Africa and Western Eurasia. This sub group is populated with Saudi Arabs, Yemeni Jews, Bedouins. I have relatives named Levine, Levy, Horowitz, Greenberg, Goldberg, Cohen, Goldstein, Friedman, Klein, Weinstein and Miller and they are concentrated in New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, Florida (there's a surprise), Russia, Israel and a few holdovers in the Ukraine – in other words, I'm related to Jews. The test also gives me some very valuable information about my health management. It shows me what my risks are for certain diseases, how I will respond to different drugs, my traits and my inherited conditions. For instance, according to this particular test, I have a very low risk of being diabetic, which certainly proves that I've always been a bit of a rebel. I am also at an elevated risk for narcolepsy, so, please forgive me if I nod out mid-sentence. I suppose this one is relatively obvious, but, An estimated 2.8% of my DNA (higher than the average) is from Neanderthals. I guess that explains the eyebrows and the nose. The DNA has informed me that I can taste bitter things, I am lactose tolerant, I have brown eyes and wet ear wax. I really didn't need a test to tell me those things, but, at least now, when I bite into a leaf of chicory and spit it out, I'll know why. I was also informed that the odds of my urine smelling bad when I eat asparagus is “typical” as are my chances to live to be 100. I also am at higher risk to contract tuberculosis, so I suppose I owe a huge debt of gratitude to the French men Albert Calmette and Camille Guérin, who invented the vaccine that, pretty much eradicated the disease. Whew! There is so much information in this report to study and disseminate that I found it would benefit me to stop for a few minutes and grab a bite. It seems that one of my more pronounced traits is that I get hungry around lunchtime. I showed the report to my wife who, when she saw the part about my lineage tracing back to Eastern Africa, responded, “Ahhh, THAT explains it!”