I guess this is how news travels in 2013. I was at the Yankee-Dodger game in the new Bronx ball yard last Wednesday night. Sometime in the first inning, my friend was looking at his phone and suddenly exclaimed. "Oh, my God, James Gandolfini died!" The people around us heard him. They, too, started to look at their own lifelines or whatever device they use to connect to the world. I did the same. I already had two e-mails with the news. This was happening all over Yankee Stadium. You could feel it. You could see almost 41,000 folks suddenly looking at their mobile connections. I learn later that, in a luxury box downstairs, actor Stephen R. Schirripa, who played Bobby Baccaleri on "The Sopranos" was doing the same thing. He was getting texts from the likes of Lorraine Bracco and other cast members from the HBO show. Close friends with their fallen comrade, they were getting the news like the rest of us. And you could hear the wave cascade across the arena. Murmur, murmur, murmur, murmur. This was news traveling at the speed of light. Or 4G smart phones. It became all anybody could talk about for several innings. It's the closest I have felt to other breaking and shocking news that has whacked us all behind the knees over the years. The explosion of the Challenger. The shooting of President Reagan. 9/11. History buffs will likely recall similar feelings. The Dallas motorcade. The shooting of Lee Harvey Oswald. The deaths of Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert Kennedy. The somewhat sudden death of President Franklin Roosevelt. In all those cases, it was radio and television breaking in with the details. You had to be tuned to one of those media to be part of that information thread. Today, it's almost instantaneous. It is truly a different world. And, from what I could see, hear, and feel, it consumed all into a sense of palpable grief. Here was a guy who was just on TV last week. Well, not really. But I just finished re-watching the entire Sopranos series on HBO. There was a New York connection to the guy as I sat in the warm summer night air that wafted through Yankee Stadium. He was one of them. Us. The memories of this guy were still very fresh. And, now at the untimely age of 51, he was gone. And Yankee Stadium, as well as lots of other public places, was feeling it all at once. A sudden and gripping shock, unexpected as all get out. I mean, there would be no such crowd murmuring if our phone had told us that Nelson Mandela had just croaked. That guy's been a favorite bets on death pools for the past ten years. But, Gandolfini? He was just here. Now he's gone. I was a fan of his work on the Sopranos. Having just seen the series again, I now was viewing it not for the stories, but the acting choices by the cast. They were all remarkable, but heads above them all was Gandolfini. He enveloped the role like it was a tailor-made Hugo Boss suit. The scenes he did with his two female co-stars, Edie Falco as Carmella and Lorraine Bracco as Dr. Melfi, were acting clinics. Realistic and organic. Lives spread out before us. The news coverage of James Gandolfini's death eventually and almost predictably went over-the-top in our worlds now governed by TMZ cameras. For Pete's sake, CNN devoted almost all of their on-air time to his passing on Thursday. New Jersey Governor Chris "Krispy Kreme" Christie announced that the state's flags would fly half-mast. A bit of an extreme honor, especially since he did the same for drug-addled Whitney Houston and the notoriously adulterer Clarence Clemons. It was almost as if a President had died. We get a little too crazy over celebrity in America these days. Isolated in our own worlds, we develop uneasy and way-too-close alliances with movie stars, musical icons, and TV characters. We fail to put them all into their most proper perspective. But, fittingly, a shock to our systems can transcend all logic. And, for about an hour last Wednesday night, our unified grief for a guy who was simply a terrific working actor made total sense. Dinner last night: Lots of liquid. It's colonoscopy time.
Last Sunday was Father's Day and I spent the weekend in New York. On that special day, I got wined and dined by my "pseudo" nieces and nephews because, after all, Father's Day does count for "pseudo" uncles as well. Well, we went to a BBQ place on Long Beach, which is still in the middle of rebuilding itself after Hurricane Sandy last October. After we parted company, I headed home under some late afternoon summer clouds. On whatever highway I was on, the traffic was heavy. You go. You stop. You go. You stop. Your foot hits the gas. Your foot hits the brake. Push. Pull. Push. Pull. As I sat there at times motionless and, at other times, a slow creep-along, I suddenly was awash with reminders. Another tsunami of memories from my childhood. The truest sensory perception. When was the last time I had sat in Sunday summer traffic heading out of Long Island? And how many times did this happen when I was a kid? I can't answer the former, but I know the response to the latter. A whole freakin' lot. It seems like that's all my family ever did on Sundays during the summer. Go out to visit somebody in Long Island. Hell, don't we know anybody where a bridge toll isn't involved?? This process killed me all the time. During those days, I wanted to be home for the day. Curled up with a New York Mets doubleheader on the television. I'd put up a stink. Can't I stay home and watch baseball? Either parent came back with the same retort. "You can watch the Mets there." Groan. So we'd pile into the car. My folks and sometimes Grandma and even my beagle Tuffy. We'd head down Baychester Avenue in the Bronx on our way to either the Bronx Whitestone Bridge and the Throgs Neck Bridge. Stopping briefly so I could throw two quarters into the toll basket. (I noted the toll now is $7.50!!) And, once on "the other side," we'd be up for a day of fun and frivolity. Or, as I would often prefer, a fork in the eye. There were a bunch of places we could be headed. Maybe Floral Park where my parents had friends, Joe and Dotty, with three or maybe four awful kids. I've written about this form of waterboarding before. Joe was the guy missing some fingers. Enough said. Or New Hyde Park. My parents had another set of friends there. Mike and....wait for it...Dotty. From what I was told, my folks and those two were like the Ricardos and the Mertzes before I was born. They went everywhere together and I saw the photos for proof. Now they had a daughter, Joanne, who I had zero in common with. And, to make matters worse, Dotty was now in a wheelchair. Another cry for an explanation that always went unanswered. I never found out how she wound up there. Or we could really travel and wind up at Lake Ronkonkoma. I can still spell that correctly to this day. My parents had old neighborhood friends from Mount Vernon who had recently moved there. A couple of Greeks named Nick and Eppie. They had two kids who I had....wait for it...zero in common with. Their names were George and Effie. The names alone killed me in this house. Meanwhile, their old Greek grandmother lived with them. She was always dressed completely in black and hadn't altered this fashion statement since 1943. They called her "Ya Ya." The problem with this set-up was that the old lady had the only television in the house. So, when I attempted to tune into the Mets, I had to ask for her permission. "I don't think we get Channel 9 here." You're in the New York metropolitan area, Granny, not Athens! The fight would always have me losing because everything with Ya Ya was "No No." She'd make another offer. "Don't you want to watch the Ted Mack Amateur Hour? He always puts on a good show." Kill me now. So I'd wind up with the two kids play acting in the yard. George had his own issues. No matter what we were enacting, he wanted me to kill him in our little playlet. "Okay, so now you shoot me dead...." "You come save Effie and stab me in the heart..." "Let's pretend you push me into the BBQ grill and I burn to death..." Even the sunniest days in Lake Ronkonkoma were as dark as night. Of course, our most frequent trips to Long Island were to my mom's loopy sister and that bunch in Deer Park. There, I had two cousins, Patty and Bobby, who were my age. Plus they'd had a backyard pool so there would be endless fun. Eventually, I'd put Tuffy in a plastic boat and push her around the pool until it inevitably tipped over and she would dogpaddle herself out. I'd still want to know what the Mets were doing, but there was no luck in this home either. At some point, I'd go into the house where the television was being guarded by my Uncle Bob, who was a huge Yankee fan and might have even slept with Mickey Mantle at one point. I'd ask very politely if I could check for the Mets score. "We don't watch the Mets here. This is a New York Yankee house." Persecuted for my beliefs and I wasn't even ten years old. I'd hang around and wait in the living room because the way Uncle Bob guzzled beer, he'd have to empty the bladder soon enough. While he whizzed away in the bathroom, I'd quickly change the channel and hope that Lindsey Nelson would give the score of the Mets game in the next minute and thirty seconds. As soon as I heard the flush, I'd switch the TV back to Channel 11 and the guys playing in the Bronx. Logistically, the town of Islip was just a short drive from Deer Park and that's often why Grandma came along on these trips. You see, we had some distant relatives there. They even had our same last name but, to this day, I have no clue how they were related to us. There was a couple there that were my parents' age, Ruth and Lenny. Yes, he had the same name as me. Plus his mother lived with them and she also had been dressed in black since the days of Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Grandma liked to go over and spend time with this lady. And I still never understood the connection. I went along when she would drop Grandma off for an afternoon visit. The old lady also had a TV here. Can I watch the Mets game? "Channel 9? Oh, that always comes in with a lot of snow." I would smack my head in disbelief. Now, my namesake in this house was a bit of a screwball. Probably because I never saw him sober. I once saw him run headfirst into a tree trunk. Meanwhile, I would wander into the kitchen where my mother was often seated with a completely frazzled Ruth. And she would always be saying the same thing. "I can't take it anymore. I want to divorce him." Who the hell were these people and why do I care????? So, regardless of where I was in either Nassau or Suffolk County, I could never catch a break. Or find out the score of the Mets game. But, as every summer Sunday on Long Island would wind down, I, at least, had the solace of going home for my weekly television tradition. I could stay up till 11PM and watch my two favorite Sunday night shows. "Candid Camera" and "What's My Line?" The only problem was that the folks liked to linger wherever they were. My shows started at 10PM. We were still in Deer Park at 830PM. Can we go? NOW?????? Because I knew what the rides home would be like. No matter what road you drove on. Northern State. Southern State. Long Island Expressway. They were all clogged with people headed back to New York City. The trips home could often last for two hours. Meanwhile, in the back seat, my grandmother did her usual brand of torture. As soon as we would get into the car for the trip home, Grandma would immediately reach into her pocketbook and take out her back door keys. She was ready to be home. Of course, she would fumble with these keys for the entire ride. Even though I was staring at the back of my mother's head, I could see her eyes rolling in disgust. Dad would stop and start the entire trip. Tuffy would be sound asleep up on the back window of the car. Of course, my father would have to slam on the brakes at some time and this would send the dog flying from the window to the floor of the back seat. It's a wonder she would live to the age of 18. Dad, bored by the traffic, would start fiddling with the radio. He'd stop on a news station. My ears would perk up. "And, today, in the sports world...." My father would hit another button and suddenly it was Vic Damone on WNEW-AM. The disc jockey would give the time. 9:42PM. Damn, no Mets score and now maybe no "Candid Camera." I'd be lucky to salvage "What's My Line." It seemed like a weekly eternity before we would be safely across whichever Bronx bridge we used that Sunday. Heck, I might make it home in time. And, then, my mother, silent for the whole trip except for some loud "tsks" about Grandma's door key twirling, would make the dreaded announcement. "We better stop at the candy store. I'm down to my last pack." And I'm down to my last nerve. Another summer Sunday on Long Island. Final score? Universe, one million. Len, nothing. I'd get home just in time to hear... "And this is John Charles Daly saying goodnight for 'What's My Line'......" Dinner last night: Proscuitto and arugula pizza at Gio Cucina.
Debbie Reynolds remains, at the age of 81, one of entertainment's dynamos. She has incredible spirit. She is....well...unsinkable. Her latest set of memories, however? It does sink. Like a rock. Or an anchor headed to the bottom of the ocean. Here he goes again. The erstwhile reader Len sinking his teeth into another Hollywood autobiography. With several good history books on his desk. A new novel from John Grisham, a rare venture into fiction but recommended by a good friend, sits two-thirds finished. But what book does Len pack for a flight to NY? You guessed it. He, too, is unsinkable when it comes to reading this junk. Naturally, I managed to finish the book somewhere over Ohio. It is a faster read than a grocery shopping list. Okay, who doesn't like Debbie Reynolds? She always has a smile on her face. She starred in the greatest movie musical of all time, "Singin' In The Rain." Heck, she's taken quite a few very public knocks in life and came out...well...singin'. You figure she's got some nifty tales to tell. I'm thinking that you may not hear much about her past drinking problems, which have been related to me by a good friend who used to witness the ultra-plotzed Debbie dropping daughter Carrie off for school every morning. But, I figure there's going to be some good juice in this fruit. Um, not really. I didn't realize that she had already written a set of memoirs previously that covered her life up to about 1984. So, when "Unsinkable" opens, she picks up where she left off like it's the next episode of "Days of Our Lives." She's about ready to make some sinister businessman Hubby # 3 and, given her track record, you know this won't end well. After all, Hubby # 1 was the dastardly Eddie Fisher who dumped her publicly and forever solidified Debbie's status in my grandmother's eyes as a good girl. "That poor Debbie Reynolds. Married to that stupid, ugly Jew who ran off with that big, fat tramp." Not my words. Grandma's. And then Hubby # 2 was a big shot in the shoe business and he bilked her out of millions. "That poor Debbie Reynolds. Married to that stupid, ugly Jew who ran off with all her money." Again, not my words. Grandma's. So, of course, Debbie falls again at the beginning of "Unsinkable" and yet one more douchebag takes her for a ride to the poor house. How gullible is this woman? Heck, I'm tempted to take a shot at her myself and see how many coins are still left in the cushions of her couch. Debbie tells us every unsettling detail of Union # 3 and that's the big problem with her latest memoirs. This marriage, subsequent divorce, and the inevitable financial ruin covers about two-thirds of the book. You spend most of the time listening to her tell about how she tried to get out of debt. She attempts to do so by starting several museums containing all the Hollywood memorabilia that she has collected over the years. That doesn't work, either, as she tells us in such a clinical manner that you might as well be reading a book about one of Bernie Madoff's Ponzi schemes. Yawn. The last third of "Unsinkable" is what you want. Meaty, little morsels of Hollywood gossip. Debbie takes you through each of her movies and there's a story attached to every one of them. You learn that Gene Kelly did everything he could to sabotage her getting the part in "Singin' In The Rain." You find out somewhat sheepishly that Debbie has seen both Bob Fosse and Tony Randall naked and that...well...they have super huge penises. And you discover that her frequent co-star Tony Curtis took Eddie Fisher's side in the divorce proceedings. Gritty and gossipy, for sure. But that's what you want from a book like this. And, for about 100 pages, that's what you get. Too bad the first two hundred read like the Wall Street Journal. While telling her story, Debbie is plucky, funny, and personable. The sad part is that so much of it can be mistaken for bitterness and constant whining. You like her, but you want to shake some sense into her I can picture my grandmother sitting her down and giving her what-for. "Learn to pick your husbands better." Exactly. Except now I'm wondering how I can get Debbie's e-mail address for myself. Dinner last night: A great beef dip sandwich at Yankee Stadium.
Happy birthday, Kathleen Turner. You were really hot back in the day. 1269: KING LUIS IX OF FRANCE ORDERS ALL JEWS FOUND IN PUBLIC WITHOUT AN IDENTIFYING YELLOW BADGE TO BE FINED TEN LIVRES OF SILVER. That fine was a lot easier to take than the one Hitler invented centuries later. 1586: ENGLISH COLONISTS LEAVE ROANOKE ISLAND, AFTER FAILING TO ESTABLISH ENGLAND'S FIRST PERMANENT SETTLEMENT IN NORTH AMERICA. You snooze, you lose. Here comes the Mayflower. 1770: EMANUEL SWEDENBORG REPORTS THE COMPLETION OF THE SECOND COMING OF CHRIST IN HIS WORK TRUE CHRISTIAN RELIGION. Still waiting. 1816: BATTLE OF SEVEN OAKS BETWEEN NORTH WEST COMPANY AND HUDSON'S BAY COMPANY. One of those historical facts that means absolutely nothing to me. 1846: THE FIRST OFFICIALLY RECORDED, ORGANIZED BASEBALL GAME IS PLAYED IN HOBOKEN. THE NEW YORK BASEBALL CLUB BEATS THE KNICKERBOCKERS, 23-1. Should have taken the Knickerbockers with 23 points. 1862: THE US CONGRESS PROHIBITS SLAVERY IN UNITED STATES TERRITORIES, NULLIFYING DRED SCOTT VS. SANDFORD. And Son? 1865: OVER TWO YEARS AFTER THE EMANCIPATION PROCLAMATION, SLAVES IN GALVESTON, TEXAS ARE FINALLY INFORMED OF THEIR FREEDOM. Good news travels slowly. 1896: SOCIALITE WALLIS SIMPSON IS BORN. Wife of Edward VIII, grandmother of Homer I. 1897: ACTOR MOE HOWARD IS BORN. Why, I oughta..... 1902: BAND LEADER GUY LOMBARDO IS BORN.
Happy New Birth.
1903: BASEBALL STAR LOU GEHRIG IS BORN.
Guten tag.
1910: THE FIRST FATHER'S DAY IS CELEBRATED IN SPOKANE, WASHINGTON.
Who knew that Spokane was such a trendsetter?
1914: MUSICIAN LESTER FLATT IS BORN.
Come and listen to a story...
1915: ACTOR PAT BUTTRAM IS BORN.
Mr. Haney from "Green Acres."!!
1919: FILM CRITIC PAULINE KAEL IS BORN.
I wonder if she liked this.
1921: ACTOR LOUIS JOURDAN IS BORN.
Still alive. I guess it's true what they say about red wine and the French.
1928: ACTRESS NANCY MARCHAND IS BORN.
What an acting range. The stately Mrs. Pynchon on "Lou Grant" and then the grizzled Livia on "The Sopranos."
1932: ACTRESS PIER ANGELI IS BORN.
Later screwed by James Dean....and then really screwed by Vic Damone.
1934: THE FEDERAL COMMUNICATIONS COMMISSION IS STARTED.
And those seven dirty words are?
1937: AUTHOR J.M. BARRIE DIES.
From Never Never Land to Really Never Never Land.
1953: JULIUS AND ETHEL ROSENBERG ARE EXECUTED AT SING SING.
Bye, spy.
1954: ACTRESS KATHLEEN TURNER IS BORN.
Now she's ice cold. And just plain fat.
1961: KUWAIT DECLARES INDEPENDENCE FROM THE UNITED KINGDOM. Yet another historical fact that means absolutely nothing to me. 1964: THE CIVIL RIGHTS ACT OF 1964 IS APPROVED AFTER SURVIVING AN 83-DAY SENATE FILIBUSTER. Why do I think the filibuster was started by some Southern Democrat? 1966: ACTOR ED WYNN DIES. Not laughing any more. 1975: MOBSTER SAM GIANCANA DIES. Dies? Ha. 1978: GARFIELD THE COMIC STRIP MAKES ITS DEBUT. The only thing on the funny pages that I'm allergic to. 1982: THE BODY OF GOD'S BANKER, ROBERTO CALVI, IS FOUND HANGING IN LONDON. Forcing God to go to the ATM himself. 1986: BASKETBALL PLAYER LEN BIAS DIES. Fifth technical. 1990: THE COMMUNIST PART OF THE RUSSIAN SOVIET FEDERATIVE SOCIALIST REPUBLIC IS FOUND IN MOSCOW. Calling the Marketing department for suggestions on a shorter name. 1991: ACTRESS JEAN ARTHUR DIES. Shane didn't come back. Neither will she. 1998: ACTOR ATTICUS SHAFFER IS BORN. The wonderful young actor who plays Brick on "The Middle." 2009: MASS RIOTS INVOLVING 10,000 PEOPLE AND 10,000 POLICE OFFICERS BREAK OUT IN SHISHOU, CHINA. Well, at least, the sides are even. 2010: BASKETBALL PLAYER MANUTE BOL DIES. A tough day to be tall. Dinner last night: Leftover sausage and peppers.
