The Sunday Memory Drawer - My First Summer Job

This nondescript street corner in Mount Vernon was the site of a monumental moment in my history. So, read on, folks...
It's that time of year. Teenagers running around to find some sort of gainful employment for the summer months. And I ask now a very rhetorical question: is there still such a concept as "working papers?"

I remember when I was in my teen years that you couldn't even attempt to work without them. I completely forget the process of how you got them, except I'm pretty sure an application for a Social Security Card was part of the deal. Nevertheless, as soon as I was sixteen, I wanted to hit the bricks and find a job. Well, actually, it was really my dad's idea who told me very explicitly "hit the bricks and find a job."

My first employment ever was literally around the corner. In the winter before my neighborhood chums and I all hit the 16 digit in age, we were excited to see a huge job opportunity start to get erected within a block of our homes. A Carvel Ice Cream store was going up on the property of the local car wash. As a matter of fact, it was a business expansion for the car wash's owner, some ugly creep named Jerry Rattner (he's got to be long dead, so I have no worries using his name). Jerry had the physical appearance of Frankenstein's monster with a personality to match. He probably fancied himself as this big business tycoon. And perhaps he was if you considered that one city block to be the entire universe.

Despite the ultra scary nature of Jerry, the local kids, including my good friend Leo and I, started to stalk him about when the store would be open. Jerry would always grunt the same reply.

"This summer. Come back then."

We chased this dude like showgirls would pursue Flo Ziegfeld. And, always the same garbled answer from the guy with bolts in his neck.

"This summer. Come back then."

Gotcha, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Gruesome.

Eventually, summer on schedule came. And most of us got hired to be the store's staff. I remember the very hot July night when the store first opened. We were decked out in Carvel whites with those stupid paper hats. And the place was packed to the seams as if nobody had ever seen before a two-scoop ice cream cone. One customer blended into another and we were all dizzy by the end. All the while, we had our Incredible Hulk of an employer standing nearby to critique our work. And concentrate on our mistakes.

"Whoa, that's too much whipped cream on there!"

"Whoa, cut the banana in quarters!"

"Whoa, stop giving all the pretty girls extra stuff!"

I wanted to say, whoa, fuck off, you bastard.

Amid all this hubbub, I developed a very real fear in working up one item for sale. It ultimately became a phobia that I needed to conquer and fast.

I was absolutely petrified if anybody ordered a Brown Bonnet.

You might remember that particular treat. A soft ice cream cone which is covered in this chocolate sauce that hardens on contact. You can actually buy the junk now in supermarkets under the brand name "Magic Shell." Well, Brown Bonnets were a very tricky thing to make. First, you swirl the soft ice cream onto a cone. And then you quickly dunk it in the sauce. Except I would always lose the ice cream in the mix. The cone came out without the custard. And this pretty much screwed up the sauce as there was now this glob of ice cream in the can.

"Whoa, that stuff is expensive. You're killing me here!"

Whoa, if only I could kill you right here...
The whole experience for me was torturous. Hours before the store would open to the public each day, you were on duty making all the "fresh" products that were sold in the freezer case. Parfaits, Flying Saucers, the 32 or so flavors of ice cream that were in vats displayed to customers. You'd stand with a tub in front of one of the custard machines. As vanilla ice cream dripped into the vat, you would periodically spoon something else in to create all the wonderful Carvel variations. Spooning in cherries. Voila, Cherry Vanilla. Spooning in chocolate syrup. Voila, Vanilla Fudge Swirl. Spooning in chocolate chips. Voila, Chocolate Chip.
"Whoa, that's way too many chocolate chips in there!"
Fuck off, shithead.
You'd go home at the end of the day, smelling like chocolate. You'd lay in bed at night and dream of the repetitive motion needed to make a cone. Over and over and over. And, throughout your sleep, you'd hear Jerry's voice telling you how you just screwed up one more time.
I lasted only the summer and no more. While my friend Leo actually thrived there as a manager and essentially funded his college education right through grad school, I realized that I was much better off on the other side of the counter. Licking the cone and wondering why there weren't more chocolate chips in the ice cream.
The following year, I moved onto another summer job. But, you will simply have to wait one week to hear all about it.
Dinner last night: Picnic snacks at the first Hollywood Bowl concert of the summer.

Classic Movie Trailer of the Month - June 2009

How do you not see Peyton Place? Especially since EVERYBODY'S WAITING TO SEE IT!

Dinner last night: Bratwurst and garlic fries at the Dodger game.

The Death of Two Icons and How The Hell Do I Get Home From Work

All of Hollywood stopped dead in its tracks yesterday because two of its own did exactly the same thing. And the resulting feeding frenzy was indeed Hollywood at its very best and worst.

The news yesterday morning about Farrah Fawcett was not unexpected. When we saw her several weeks ago in that documentary film on NBC, you could tell it wasn't going to be long. The condo she lived in is very near my home and I'd think of her each time I drove by. I also was astounded that the ever present papparazzi were not camped out in front. Finally, she was being left alone.

But Farrah passes on yesterday morning and the tributes start pouring in. God asks Charlie for an angel. Yada yada. So, I sit at work and think that this will be the major news of my evening of TV viewing.

Little did we all know.
And now I think of Farrah Fawcett looking down at all this and saying, "Fuck me. I'm wiped off the front page in just four hours."
The Michael Jackson news buzzed around our office so quickly it was as if he was in an open limousine going past the Texas School Book Depository. And the rumors were fast and furious. Cardiac arrest. Coma. He's seen shopping for a new mattress at Sit N'Sleep. Who knew what the heck was going on? TMZ reports he is dead and I wonder when they became journalists, since all they usually do is sit on a curb and wait for Lindsay Lohan's next fender bender.
But, ultimately and sadly, we learn that the king of pop is truly dead and now Farrah is standing alongside him at the pearly gates and she is pissed. And there probably hasn't been such a blatant case of mortal one-up-manship since Groucho croaked three days after Elvis Presley.
The LA radio dial immediately goes into "Thriller" mode and we learn about the mass hysteria at UCLA Hospital as well as at the mansion in Bel Air. An even more horrific thought came to me.
How the hell do I drive home? You see, the UCLA route is my usual path. But, when I want to duck freeway traffic, I go by way of Beverly Glen, which just happens to be right near the house of death. Meanwhile, one of my routes also goes past Farrah's condo and I'm hoping there already isn't a dumpster outside as Ryan goes through her things. What to do, what to do?
I ended up driving a route that took me about five miles out of my way. But it allowed me to think about these two legends, one that signified the 70s and one that dominated the 80s. A musical superstar whose record albums could be found in my collection, although I was always more partial to the Jackson Five, relics of my Black-infused Mount Vernon, New York youth. And, yes, I do confess to trying Wella Balsam shampoo at least once.
The music on the radio was vintage Michael. And I thought about the guy. A true talent who was a complete Amtrak collision in all other aspects of his life. One woman interviewed on the radio was shocked by his death at the early age of 50. Frankly, I'm surprised he got that far. After all, he was legendary for mainlining painkillers (I am betting this will be the final verdict of the autopsy---Judy Garland all the way).
Meanwhile, Michael was psychotic. Anorexic with a body shape that looked like a stick figure in one of those Tim Burton stop action movies. Swallowed daily by the entourage from Hell, who took the last drop of normalcy from his life so that they could make their monthly lease payments on a Porsche. Dangling babies out windows and marrying women he had no interest in. He buys the bones of the Elephant Man and I wonder how I can compete souvenir-wise with a Casey Blake bobblehead.
I remember that Michael once hung with Tatum O'Neal and she is now Thursday's big winner in Six Degrees of Lethal Separation. The guy who was a revered idol for the entire Black population, yet he strove desperately to be White. Meanwhile, who knows what kind of Clorox made his skin look like he was Casper the Friendly Ghost. I recall the day his nose fell off and I wonder how I would have survived that nasal injustice. Add to that the infatuation with small boys and llamas and monkeys and Elizabeth Taylor.
A shocking death at the age of 50? I would have picked 42 in the office pool.
But, still the music through the radio speakers wiped all that out. I was a fan. And always will be. Another radio host tells me that Michael had a musical style that you could not put in a box. I can't resist the silent joke. Now you can, I chuckled to myself.
In the distance, I see helicopters hovering over West LA and realize that this has been a devastating loss for many people. The tradition here is for fans to bring flowers to the dead celebrity's star on Hollywood Boulevard. Except, in their haste, grief, and latent stupidity, most place bouquets on the star of the other Michael Jackson, the local radio talk host who has been in this market for years. But, I guess it didn't make a difference. Not for them. It was their way of connecting to Michael Jackson, any Michael Jackson.
And I'm sure there were flowers adorning the star of Farrah Fawcett who had her own goofiness in life but certainly saved her best and most courageous performance for the third act of life.
In show business, the adage is that stars leave this world in threes and, this week, we got them in short order. Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, and Michael Jackson. I think this has the makings of a great Carnac joke. But, I still have not been able to make the gag work.
With Michael now locked in sudden death with Elvis, I understand that his memory and image will linger for years just like the king of rock and roll who went buns up in 1977. And how long will it be until, as is the case with Elvis, there will be Michael Jackson sightings.
"Gee, I swear I saw him working at a 76 gas station on the way to Vegas."
"He's manning the drive-up window at Arby's."
"He's not dead. Diana Ross is hiding him in her basement."
This will all happen. But, in the meanwhile, he long ride home had made me think. In thirty minutes, I had made an amazing journey. From sardonic to squishy.
Maybe we never can say goodbye.
Dinner last night: Risotto with chicken and mushrooms.

Awkwardville, Next Stop

More f-ed up photos of some f-ed up people.

Why is Dad looking so sheepish? I'm guessing Witness Protection Program. Also, can we have a party so Junior's pants can come down and meet his shoes?

Nancy Pelosi's first baby picture.

The youngest ambulance chasers in America.

The true mystery of the Sphinx is how the hell does this bunch get through the day.

Nothing says "Merry Christmas" more than a card showing some good ole' holiday anal sex.

As far as I'm concerned, there's only one real dog in this picture.

Dinner last night: Hawaiian turkey burger at Islands.

Wednesdays Are Contagious

Do you take this carrier of swine flu as your lawful, wedded...?

---That's a bad break. You spend months planning your wedding and then there's a swine flu pandemic. They don't tell you about that in "Modern Bride."

---Well, I'm guessing these two are worried about disease spreading. Or it could simply be a best man with lousy hygiene.

---Gee, the bride's a lot prettier this way.

---Writing this from 35,000 feet and I can tell you that America doesn't look so stupid from this altitude.

---Except, of course, some of them are around me.

---It's not even an hour into the flight and already there are paper towels thrown into the toilet.

---Just below the sign that says "Do not throw paper towels into toilet."

---American Airline business class does make it all easier. The best thing they do, food-wise, is the antipasto cold plate for lunch.

---And, of course, the warm chocolate chip cookie and milk just before landing.

---But there are slobs up here, too. The dumbbell across the row just threw his butter on the floor. And then stepped in it an hour later when he went to the bathroom.

---Without his shoes on.

---The guy sitting next to me was trying to use a video camera on his computer. Over and over and over for twenty minutes, it was...

---"Hi, William, can you hear me? William, are you there? Can you hear?"

---William is still MIA.

---Dial flipping on a rainy Sunday in NY, I came across a commercial for Cialis, one of those erectile dysfunction pills.

---Okay, the on-screen warning shows you all the medical conditions that you can't take this with.

---One of them is HIV Positive.

---Huh? Hello, McFly, anybody there?

---If you're HIV Positive, what the hell are you doing swapping body fluids with anybody???

---The ad should say, "If you're HIV Positive, stay the hell away from anybody's body parts, except your own."

---With the push for equality, I'm waiting to see one of these commercials with two men scampering down the hall to the bedroom.

---What a lucrative business model for Cialis. They could sell twice as many pills.

---At what point does the fawning press and media tell us that Obama is taking this stuff? And we get to watch the FLOTUS hanging by her ankles from a ceiling fan in the Lincoln Bedroom.

---On the TV screen of my mind, I can see this image.

---Dial flipping some more, I ran into a NY State Lottery commercial with the announcer from Jeopardy and Ed McMahon sitting in a diner. I note that Ed looks ready to croak.

---Bingo, we have a winner. Please come forward to claim your prize.

---Ed was in his eighties. So I guess that means lots of liquor and Budweiser doesn't automatically kill you.

---Hi ho!!!!!

---And William is still MIA.

Dinner last night: Roast beef sandwich back in LA.

Citi Field Redux

This is not a recent picture I took of Citi Field and what was Shea Stadium. It couldn't be. The sun is out in the photo and that hasn't been the case here in New York for about three weeks.

It was that usual dreariness that found me headed to another Saturday Met game on June 20. Fitting place to be on what was my dad's birthday. As I squinted through the windshield wipers in a driving rain storm and traversed the usual route to Shea, I could hear my father's voice echoing as always.

"It's pouring. They'll never play. What do you wanna drive all the way out there for?"

There are times when Dad was logical. There are a lot more times when I am not. And this was one of them. I had to see Citi Field again and understand whether my disconnect was still valid.

You may recall that my first visit there in April was lackluster. I found the place too quirky, too busy, too too. It had gotten to the point where I told some selected friends as late as Saturday morning that I doubted whether I would re-up for another year as a partial plan holder in the non-sexual Mile High Club that is Section 509 in the Promenade Level. I guess I wanted one more gander just to be sure.

Gander taken. I'm a little less sure. As a matter of fact, I hated the park a lot less.

Don't get me wrong. There's still a major emphasis on the selling and eating of food. And the layout still has way too many nooks and crannies---the Thomas' Muffin of baseball stadia. But, perhaps due to the wetness of the day, there was a lot less milling around, like people in a new mall trying to figure out where Target is. On Saturday afternoon, we got the proverbial weather window and the game got underway as scheduled. And it actually appeared that folks were there to watch a baseball game. Praise the Lord and God bless Casey Stengel.

Some of the misgivings I had two months ago washed away with the afternoon drizzle. You could move around the place quicker. We had parked in our old lot near the World's Fair Marina, which was unattended on Saturday and therefore a savings of 19 bucks. Approaching Citi Field from a different direction, we entered not via the cloying Jackie Robinson Rotunda but a regular old entrance gate near left field. And, to our happy surprise, we found what we missed in April. Exit ramps! Lots of them. I had previously thought that stairwells were the only way down from the Citi heavens. Wrong. I wanted to hug the sloping concrete. A hosanna to Shea.

We ambled around the field level again and saw all the nonsense. A forty-deep line for pulled BBQ pork sandwiches. The dunk tank and kiddie baseball field. But, people were less involved in them because, perhaps, the novelty has worn off already. And I saw more folks on line for more conventional ballpark fare. Hot dogs, grilled sausages, burgers. I joined them and thanked the Mets for finally doing what the Dodgers have done for years: fresh condiment dispensers.

We ran into our old Shea neighbors and current Citi neighbors, Craig and Debbie, and they seemed to be growing into the ballpark as well. Like a bad haircut, it doesn't look so bad when the hair grows in. The same can be said for Citi Field.

Of course, it's still an adjustment scaling Mount Fuji to get to your seats. And, when you stand up quickly at your seat, there is a quick shot of vertigo not experienced since Kim Novak fell out of the church tower. But, I actually discovered that the ultra-high vantage point is probably the best in the park. While I can't see the Met dugout (these days, that's a good thing), the whole field is plainly visible and I understand that it is not the case in some of the more expensive levels. But, there are still some other hiccups up in our rarified air.

---There are neat metal bannisters up the steep stairs. But they are problematic when wet. I saw so many slips and slides that I thought I was watching a Mr. Bean rerun.

---There are very few places for shelter from the elements, which is unlike Shea. If you want to wait out a rain delay (which we endured the first ever at Citi Field for an hour and thirteen minutes on Saturday) by getting a hot dog or a soda, the line for said snack is out in the rainy open.

---When I was first there in April, I was proud to know that my seats, five rows from the top of the stadium, were covered by what little overhang there is at Citi Field. During the eighth inning deluge, the roof didn't work. There are leaks around the beams, which prompted me to yell out, "Who was the construction crew here? The Three Stooges??!!!"

---There is not an usher to be found anywhere on our level. Essentially, you have to find your seat on your own. And wipe it off yourself if it's dirty.

---I don't care what the Wilpons told us. The leg room in rows, at least on the non-elite levels, is not increased. And, since the seat ahead of you is much lower, it's a little unnerving when you have to stand up. You feel like you are on the wing of an airplane with no visible support.

---Obviously, there are people still pissed about the place. Twice, I ran into irate Met fans arguing with a security, perhaps because they couldn't find ushers either. One of the fans was screaming, "You can tell the Wilpons to take this fucking place and shove it up their asses!"

Hmmmm, that didn't sound like a clogged mustard pump to me.

As for me, by the end of the day, I seemed to be in a better place with this worse place called Citi Field. Still, it's not my park and not my lifelong seats. But, after talking with our neighbors, there might be some renewable ticket life in me yet.

God, I can be such a wimp.

Dinner last night: Virginia ham sandwich.

Monday Morning Video Laugh - June 22, 2009

June is the month for beautiful, blushing brides. Uh huh.

Dinner last night: Roast bee sandwich, German potato salad, and cucumber salad.