It was around this time of year. Many, many moons ago. This is odd to say, since it's coming from somebody who has opened up his life on this daily blog for the past eight years. But I really hate to have any attention directed at me. I've been lucky in my life. Or maybe unlucky since I haven't had a wedding day. Or a baptism of a child. Indeed, in both those cases, the attention wouldn't be on me. Nobody remembers what the groom was wearing on his wedding day. And a cute baby being christened. Well, the parents don't get the spotlight on that occasion either. I once was given a surprise birthday party, Hated it. I barely exist during surprise office gatherings on that same birthday. Okay, listen to the song. Blow out the candles. Have a piece of cake. Back to work. I'm not sure why I am the way I am. But, in reality, there was really only one day in my life where everybody was looking at me. I was thirteen and already suitably embarrassed. It was my confirmation day. Back when, it was a big deal when Protestants got confirmed. And the whole process before hand was ramped up in importance. To get confirmed, you had to endure two years of Saturdays at the church with the other confirmees. Two-hour sessions of Bible study. My personal experience was made palatable by the fact that I had a super crush on one of the other classmates. I've written several times about her. Still, this confirmation process at St. Peter's Lutheran Church in the Bronx was no walk in the park. As the big day of the actual ceremony approached, I started to fill up with trepidation. Mostly at the thought of the actual receiving of the bread and the wine. Or the cardboard wafer and the red stuff in the common chalice. I wasn't that sure I wanted any part of this. Most of my buddies in my all Italian neighborhood had already gone this route with their first Holy Communions. I heard one horror story after another. "It tastes like paper." "It made me puke." "I got sick because I got the germs from the girl next to me." "The kid next to me choked and died." Gulp. I went to a higher source of information. My mother. "Oh, it's nothing. It melts right in your mouth." Really? You mean like a handful of M and Ms? "Just take it and the wine is just a quick sip." I asked my mom about her experience with the whole thing. "Well..." I was obviously getting first-hand information from somebody who had never undergone the process in the first place. Thanks. Beyond thinking about choking on an altar endlessly, the news about that day's celebration started to trickle down to me. "Such-and-such is coming." "Such-and-such wants to bring what's her name." "Who should we get to cater?" Cater? WTF. Or whatever abbreviation applied when I was 13. When I got more information, I realized this was going to be a huge family event. And then some. Just how many people are coming to this shindig? "Not counting the four of us (me, Mom, Dad, Grandma), about 85." 85???????!!!!!! Moreover, this would be held in our own basement and backyard. A complete traffic jam and bottle neck on South 15th Avenue in Mount Vernon, New York. Now if only I would choke on the wafer and die... Making matters even worse? I realized that the Mets were playing a doubleheader at home that afternoon. I never missed watching one of those on television. I would on this day. Well, I didn't gag on the wafer. I didn't get germs from drinking wine from a common chalice. I had carefully positioned myself on the altar to be next to that girl I liked. If I was going to get diseased, it might as well be compliments of her. And then, the party. A complete blur. Cars were parked all over the driveway with relatives I knew and a lot of people I didn't. "Hey, there, you've gotten big." Who are you? "I haven't seen you since you were in a crib." So where the hell you been? "Do you feel any different today?" Incredibly annoyed and embarrassed, if that's the answer you're looking for. I wanted to crawl behind a rock and die. Or hide up in my bedroom with the Met doubleheader lulling me to sweet sleep. Mom, can I go up and watch...? "Absolutely not." So, as the uncomfortable afternoon dragged into night, I did start to realize a part of this whole confirmation business that I hadn't counted on. As unknown people came up to greet me, they all handed me envelopes. What the heck are these, Dad? "Cards with money inside. Don't lose them." Oh, so, I'm being paid to be humiliated today? Hmmm. The cash helped. But, to this day, I don't ever relish being the center of attention. Unless, of course, there's some money involved. Dinner last night: Spicy noodles with chicken and shrimp at Wokcano.
I thought this was it. My last look at the trusted old friend of a 2012 Toyota Highlander as I walked away from it on April 30. My three-year lease was over just as the previous six or seven leases ended. With me saying goodbye to a vehicle that I loved. Or sometimes just like. Or, in the case of a 2009 Toyota Highlander Hybrid, didn't like at all. This photo was bittersweet. I loved this car. I was never going to see it again.
Think again.
Last weekend, I got a letter from Metro Express Lanes. The folks that run the toll roads out in California and yes, there is apparently a West Coast version of EZ-Pass. I had allegedly sped right through a toll on the 605 Freeway. And attached to the violation was a black-and-white photo of my 2012 Toyota Highlander. Complete with my old license plate.
Huh?
The date of the infraction was Friday, May 15. Er, I had a completely different car on that date. With completely different plates. And, besides, I have never been on the 605 Freeway in my life. I actually had to look it up on Google Maps to see where it was.
So, thanks to stupidity, several hours of concentration on more positive things in my life lost out to my need to get this fixed. A letter went back to Metro Express Lanes. Folks, not my car. Not my road of choice. Nothing even remotely connected to my life.
But, as I rightly figured, the real fault here was with Longo Toyota, the dealership that obviously had not removed my license plates. My guess is that my poor old friend was still languishing around the lot. Maybe somebody from Parts and Service needed a ride home. My car became the loaner. And, obviously, the dude was in a hurry to get home.
Of course, it's all a simple explanation. Which means this will require several letters, a bunch of phone calls, and maybe even a rifle to get this corrected.
Another day in America. Dinner last night: Sausage pizza at CPK.
On this date, the poem "Casey at the Bat" was first published. From the picture, I wish we knew the date Casey started to take steroids.
350: THE ROMAN USURPER, NEPOTIANUS, OF THE CONSTANTINIAN DYNASTY, PROCLAIMS HIMSELF ROMAN EMPEROR.
Ne-potty-anus? Now there's a name they need to rethink.
713: THE BYZANTINE EMPEROR PHILIPPICUS IS BLINDED, DEPOSED, AND SENT INTO EXILE. BY THE OPSIKION ARMY IN THRACE.
It certainly sucks to be Philippicus.
1539: HERNANDO DE SOTO CLAIMS FLORIDA FOR SPAIN.
His little hideaway. Ole!
1781: JACK JOUETT BEGINS HIS MIDNIGHT RIDE TO WARN THOMAS JEFFERSON AND THE VIRGINIA LEGISLATURE OF AN IMPENDING RAID BY BANASTRE TARLETON.
I guess we never hear of the midnight ride of Jack Jouett.
1861: POLITICIAN STEPHEN A. DOUGLAS DIES.
Jeez, he didn't last long after those debates.
1862: A 3000-STRONG RIOT OCCURRED AT WARDSEND CEMETERY IN ENGLAND, SETTING OFF RUMORS OF BODY SNATCHING.
The Invasion of...
1866: THE FENIANS ARE DRIVEN OUT OF ONTARIO INTO THE UNITED STATES.
Who are they and why are we now stuck with them?
1885: IN THE LAST MILITARY ENGAGEMENT FOUGHT ON CANADIAN SOIL, CREE LEADER BIG BEAR ESCAPES THE NORTH-WEST MOUNTED POLICE. And later opens his own ski resort in California. 1888: THE POEM "CASEY AT THE BAT" BY ERNEST LAWRENCE THAYER IS PUBLISHED IN THE SAN FRANCISCO EXAMINER.
Fitting given his size and that city became the future home of that lummox Barry Bonds.
1889: THE FIRST LONG-DISTANCE ELECTRIC POWER TRANSMISSION LINER IN THE US IS COMPLETED, RUNNING 14 MILES IN OREGON.
Let there be light. And, oh, yeah, air conditioning.
1911: ACTRESS ELLEN CORBY IS BORN.
Grandma Walton!
1916: ACTOR LEO GORCEY IS BORN.
An original Bowery Boy.
1925: ACTOR TONY CURTIS IS BORN.
Bernie Schwartz to you.
1929: TV PRODUCER CHUCK BARRIS IS BORN.
A Happy Birthday Kiss!
1937: THE DUKE OF WINDSOR MARRIES WALLIS SIMPSON.
Homer's sister?
1940: DURING WORLD WAR II, THE LUFTWAFFE BOMBS PARIS.
Mon dieu!
1941: DURING WORLD II THE WEHRMACHT RAZES THE GREEK VILLAGE OF KANDANDOS TO THE GROUND, KILLING 180 OF ITS INHABITANTS.
Wehrmacht? There Macht.
1943: IN LOS ANGELES, WHITE US NAVY SAILORS AND MARINES CLASH WITH LATINO YOUTHS IN THE ZOOT SUIT RUITS.
Glad to see nothing has changed.
1962: AT PARIS ORLY AIRPORT, AN AIR FRANCE BOEING 707 OVERRUNS THE RUNWAY AND EXPLODES WHEN THE CREW ATTEMPTS TO ABOUT TAKEOFF, KILLING 130.
Frequent flyer miles achieved: 0.
1963: POPE JOHN XXIII DIES.
And so begins the six months of funeral proceedings.
1965: THE LAUNCH OF GEMINI 4. ASTRONAUT ED WHITE PERFORMS THE FIRST AMERICAN SPACEWALK.
Just in case you thought this was first done by Michael Jackson.
1968: VALERIE SOLANAS, THE AUTHOR OF SCUM MANIFESTO, ATTEMPTS TO ASSASSINATE ANDY WARHOL BY SHOOTING HIM THREE TIMES.
That piece of scum!
1975: ACTOR OZZIE NELSON DIES.
The last adventure of Ozzie.
1980: THE 1980 GRAND ISLAND, NEBRASKA TORNADO - $300 MILLION DOLLARS IN DAMAGE.
You ever wonder if Home Depot secretly prays for these storms?
1992: ACTOR ROBERT MORLEY DIES.
A distinguished career, but everybody remembers him for those darn British Airways commercials.
1997: TV HOST DENNIS JAMES DIES.
But he did receive this nice consolation prize.
2001: ACTOR ANTHONY QUINN DIES.
You just know he was a creep in real life.
2009: ACTOR DAVID CARRADINE DIES.
Kung Fu this.
2010: ACTRESS RUE MCCLANAHAN DIES.
She was in the same scene with me in the only sitcom camera appearance I ever made.
2011: ACTOR JAMES ARNESS DIES.
Gunsmoked.
2011: SINGER ANDREW GOLD DIES.
How fitting that the writer of "Thank You for Being A Friend" should die one year to the day that Golden Girl Rue passed on.
Well, actually it is. At least for Caroll Spinney, who has been inside the Big Bird suit for almost 50 years. Now, at the ripe old age of 80, he's still in there and clomping around Sesame Street with no end in sight. That's the total gist of this pleasant documentary now in theaters and On Demand, the latter being how I caught the story. "I Am Big Bird" is truly, as the subtitle states, "The Caroll Spinney Story." It's nothing deep or provocative or juicy. For instance, you don't learn that the Cookie Monster and Kermit the Frog secretly hated each other. All you are exposed to here is a man and his craft. Oddly, as far as this documentary is concerned, that's more than enough. Truth be told, I'm one of those who was not raised on the Street of Sesame and its denizens. But, millions of children were and one of the most iconic characters there was the Bird of Big. Created solely by puppeteer Caroll Spinney, whose chance meeting with Jim Henson changed his life forever and ever. Before that, Spinney was a supporting character on the Boston edition of the Bozo Show and there's probably a Teddy Kennedy joke there some place. After Spinney hooks up with Henson, he's off to the races and provides the personality for Big Bird and also Oscar the Grouch. Sure, Spinney had some tough times. His first marriage ends in divorce and he was so depressed that he longed for a window to jump out of. Good thing he didn't because I doubt Big Bird could fly a lick. But, for the most part, life was good for Caroll and you see just that in this film. What's most fascinating is the process that happens when he suits up as Big Bird. Yep, he's actually inside there. With one hand, he controls Big Bird's left arm. With the other outstretched over his head, he makes Big Bird's mouth move. Apparently, Big Bird doesn't move his right arm. Just like Bob Dole. You see excerpts of the Big Bird movie and his trip to China cavorting on the Great Wall with Bob Hope. You see Big Bird singing a sad song to Jim Henson at the latter's funeral. It's all Big Bird all the time. And I guess that's not so bad. In the "new information to me" department, I learned that NASA, at one point, wanted to send a positive message to kids and invited Spinney into space aboard the Challenger. For some reason, Caroll nixed the idea. He was replaced by teacher Krista McAuliffe and you all know how that turned out. A shock like that would have been more than Elmo could bear. Actually, you hear that the move to Tickle Me has reduced Big Bird and other characters to secondary status. Yes, there's a bit of jealousy. And, oh, yeah, there is a succession plan for a new Big Bird comes the day when Spinney turns in his feathers. Plus you meet a bunch of Muppet wranglers and I'm dying to read that job description when it becomes available. But there's nothing terribly gossipy about this film. Like Spinney, it's just nice. And, maybe, for once, you can watch a documentary that's not presenting us with world problems. Indeed, this is one that actually, in a small way, has tried to alleviate them. LEN'S RATING: Three stars. Dinner last night: Sausage and peppers.
