"Maybe It's True"

Mr. Rosen had two fingers missing on his right hand.

He covered it – “it” meaning the place you don’t want to look but your eyes are drawn to it anyway – with a black leather glove, which he always wore when he was driving us to school. Mr. Rosen was called a taxi driver, but what he was was a man who picked up little Jewish children from their suburban Toronto homes and shuttled them to and from the Toronto Hebrew Day School, which was downtown. (The school itself? That’s for another time.)

You knew Mr. Rosen was missing fingers because two fingers on his black glove just flopped around. And because my older brother said so.

Okay, so I’m six years old, and Mr. Rosen’s escorting me personally to my front door, which is not generally his habit. I’m holding Mr. Rosen’s hand. The other hand. Mr. Rosen delivers me to my mother, but not without comment, which is the reason for the personal delivery. Mr. Rosen’s comment is this:

“Your son is a chronic complainer.”

Six years old, and I’m a “chronic complainer.” Come on! I’ve been around for six years. Am I really old enough to be a chronic anything?

Where’s the line? I say, ten. Ten years, you can be a chronic something. But six years, especially your first six years of existence? That’s outrageous.

And what of the charge itself? Was I, indeed, a “chronic complainer” as Mr. Rosen had proclaimed? Let’s leave out “chronic”; I’ve expressed my position on the ten-year cut-off. “Chronic” aside, was the six year-old Early Raymond Pomerantz indisputably a complainer?

Absolutely.

Although I wouldn’t call it a “complainer.” I’d call it a “noticer.” I’d notice things that other people apparently ignored, and then I’d say something about them. I wasn’t aware at the time that people’s ignoring certain realities – some might call it “taking things in stride” – was an encouraging sign of mental stability. I just thought they were lousy noticers.

I noticed things, and gave voice to those noticings. To Mr. Rosen, that made me a “chronic complainer.”

Here’s the thing, and I think you’ll agree. People who are labeled “complainers”, or even “chronic” complainers, never complain about nothing. They’re not idiots. A situation is awry, and they’re compelled to complain about it. People who never complain about anything, at least from my perspective, there’s something wrong with them. Those people are asleep!

The question is: Is the situation which I’m about to relate to you worth complaining about? If it isn’t, then yes, I’m a complainer. If, however, it is worth complaining about, then I’m not a complainer but am, instead, a person who noticed the unacceptable and spoke out boldly for its remedy, an action, which could seriously be described as heroic.

You see how I turned that around? Well, hold your judgment. There could be something to it.

The decision I will leave in your hands.

Here are the facts:

Mr. Rosen regularly chauffeured nine children in his “taxi.” Seven sat in the back seat, and two sat in the front, beside Mr. Rosen and his missing fingers. That was the trade-off. You could sit in the front seat with the fingers, or you could be penned up in the back. Most of us opted to be penned up.

No seat belts. Seven children, crammed in the back seat – two stacks of two kids, one stack of three. Not safe, but that’s how it was. The kid on the bottom was the safest, because the kids on top of them were holding them in place. If the car stopped abruptly, they’d be the least likely to go flying through the window. The kids on top would be flying out before them, and by then, the car would probably be stopped. On the “down-side”, with a child of indeterminate weight wedged in on top of you, if was very difficult to breathe.

Being one of the first “pick-ups” on the route, I was inevitably consigned to the bottom tier, where I stood a two-out-of three chance of having only one kid – invariably a larger kid, as I was small for my age – planted on top of me. There were comments, I admit, utterances of discomfort, but no actual complaints. And certainly, no “chronic” ones.

Then things got worse.

At the age of sixteen, a Canadian long-distance swimmer named Marilyn Bell became the first person to swim across Lake Ontario. After her heroic accomplishment, for reasons never explained to us children, Mr. Rosen started picking up Marilyn Bell and driving her to school, a private high school not far from the Toronto Hebrew Day School.

Marilyn Bell always sat in the front. Alone. If you don’t count Mr. Rosen.

What that meant, of course, was that, now, nine children had to somehow fit themselves in the back seat – the “somehow” being three piles of three. I was invariably be found at the bottom of one of these piles. The children weighing down my lap were heavy. And I could not breathe at all.

So I complained.

What was Marilyn Bell doing in our taxi? Why was I consistently designated to the bottom of the pile? And at the very least, could somebody please open a window so I could breathe?

You tell me. Was that unjustified?

Smothered under a pile of humanity and seriously lacking in oxygen, I speak out. And now, I’m a “chronic complainer.”

The question is, “Is that the label correct?” Frankly, there are signs that it might be. Writers, generically, are complainers. Take fiction writers. Their stories may be based on personal experience, but unhappy with the facts they lived them, they change things in their fictional depictions, altering events and outcomes, so they’re more to their liking, or at least more compelling.

What’s their complaint? Reality isn’t good enough.

Writers like me, honest chroniclers of actual experience, we change stuff all the time, sometimes consciously, sometimes not. Finding the real truth, somehow, unsatisfying, we remember the truth as we choose to remember it, a truth which, not surprisingly, makes us look better.

It’s all complaining, in one way or another. The world is not how we want it to be. And in our writing, we’re fixing it. Other people smile and whistle, accepting life as it comes to them. Their writing output isn’t much, but the complaining, to the relief of the people around them, is at a minimum.

Last night, I watched a woman on C-SPAN lecture on a book she wrote called, Evil Genes. Her view is that many behaviors we think we control, we really don't. Instead, our behavior is largely the result or our individualized genetic programming.

If she’s right, then there could be something in our DNA that compels certain people to be complainers. (And, not coincidentally, to be writers.) If this predisposition is a permanent fixture of their make-up, the complaining can’t help but be chronic.

Okay, then. Confession:

I may be a chronic complainer.

And Mr. Rosen – wherever you are – who complained about my being a chronic complainer?

You may be one too.

"Why?"

It’s a fascinating question. Sensible in every way. Why, after suffering rejection after rejection after rejection, are people in show business willing to continue coming back to the marketplace to try again?

The answer lies in this story. (You may already have heard it, but the answer lies there anyway.)

There’s this agent, who has one client, an unknown opera singer who sings magnificently. The agent brings him to the La Scala Opera House, where tenacious persistence, he procures an audition for his client.

The agent and the La Scala theater manager sit side by side in the empty opera house, as the newcomer, alone onstage, begins to sing. His voice is a revelation. Despite his many years in the opera racket, the theater manager has never heard anyone sing so purely, so powerfully, so beautifully, so evocatively.

“Did I tell you?” crows the agent, following the unbridled enthusiasm of the theater manager’s applause?

“This man is the greatest opera singer I have ever heard!” effuses the theater manager. “I want to book him immediately to perform at La Scala!”

“That’s wonderful!’ cries the agent.

The theater manager then asks,

"What is your asking price for your client to perform in my opera house?”

“A million dollars a performance,” the agent replies.

“A million dollars a performance!”

“That’s our price. Take it or leave it.”

“But it’s insane. Be reasonable, Man. How many bookings do you expect to get at a million dollars a performance?”

The agent replies, confidently,

“We only need one.”

"The Formula For Success"

The formula for success.

What about it?

What do you think it is?

I don't know.

How about "thinking big"?

Okay. Let’s look at “thinking big.”

Lorne Michaels is a tremendous success. As long as I’ve known him, which goes back to the sixties, Lorne Michaels was always “thinking big.” (I’m grateful for that. I have no capacity for “thinking big” myself. Announcing to people that I have plans, with no certainty of their ever coming to fruition, seems embarrassing to me, not to mention a dangerous tempting to the Fates. Fortunately, Lorne Michaels was a natural at ”thinking big”, and by including me in his plans, his “thinking big” lifted my career as well. The lesson here? If you can’t “think big” yourself, hang around with somebody who can.)

Logic Time: Lorne Michaels “thinks big.” Lorne Michaels is a tremendous success.
“Thinking big” makes you a tremendous success.

The formula for success? “Thinking Big.”

Correct?

Ehhhhhh…..(meaning, not so fast.)

There’s another guy who, for as a long as I’ve known him, has also had the capacity for “thinking big.” Big plans. Ambitious projects. Although his career has been steady, you could hardly claim, judging by his success level, that “thinking big” made him, in any way, big, because it didn’t.

Conclusion?

“Thinking big” does not guarantee you’ll be big.

(“Thinking small”, however, unless you hang around with someone who “thinks big”– seems to guarantee that you won’t.)

The formula for success?

We’ll have to keep looking. *


* There may not actually be one.

"A Special Treat"

Today, I deliver my blog into the capable hands of my daughter, Anna.

Enjoy.

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Last month my dad asked me to be a guest blogger on Halloween. Halloween is by far my favorite holiday and boy, do I have some good stories to tell. Sadly my October 31st this year was hijacked by the Target Christmas campaign, when I decided to take a two-week assignment as the assistant wardrobe stylist.

So maybe next year, he will give me a second chance to tell you my stories of failed homemade costumes, the neighbors whose decorations made kids come from other neighborhoods just to see their creations, and which types of candy I prefer (and its not Tootsie Rolls).

So here I am on my dad’s blog, on Thanksgiving week, guest blogging about my second favorite holiday. Why do I love Thanksgiving? First reason is stuffing. The best food there is. And this holiday guarantees that I will be eating it.

Second reason, pie. Unlike the first reason, I like pie because I get to make it, and I am good at it. Ever since I can remember, I was helping my mom bake the pies on Thanksgiving. When mom was the reigning pie baker of the kitchen, we would make pumpkin pie and apple pie. We’d make the crust from scratch and those who have made piecrust know that it requires a certain touch.

When I took over the task of making the pies on my own, I discovered I had this touch. I used the tricks I learned from my then hero, Martha Stewart, to master the art of moving the crust from the table into the pie pan without the crust cracking. The thing about crust is it seems easy. Its just flour, a pinch of sugar, butter, and water (some may dispute this and say there is an egg involved, but not in my pies).

The reality of making piecrust is that one wrong move, and it all falls apart. Too much flour, its too dry; too much water, and it turns into paste; the butter has to be chilled or else it won’t sick together, you overwork it and its ruined.

As the pie baker, I also got to choose which types I made. I replaced the apple pie with chocolate pecan, sorry dad. And the rest was history. Every year I make my Pomerantz award winning pies. That’s a title I gave myself, there has never been a contest involved.

Third reason I look forward to Thanksgiving is the company. There are only four “regulars” at our Thanksgiving table: My mom, dad, sister, and me. The rest of the chairs are filled with a revolving door of guests who have either come there to try my award winning pies they have heard so much about, or they’ve got no other place to go. As I said before, the title was self-proclaimed, so the latter reason stands to be the truest.

We have tried to establish traditions at our Thanksgiving table but none of them have ever stuck, except for the big papier-mache turkey in the middle of the table. (I used to ride it when I was little.)

The past few years, the Tellers have been our Thanksgiving companions. Morgan-Jo Teller is my best friend from Sarah Lawrence College. Her posse consists of her dad, 2 brothers, and her older brother’s girlfriend who happens to work as a clown at parties.

Their tradition is that they preorder the collectable Jones’ Cola Thanksgiving Edition, and bring them as an offering to our Thanksgiving feast. You might not be familiar with Jones’ Cola, but this special collection of beverages contains flavors like “Mashed Potato Ale” and “Turkey.” I have never before or after seen my dad make the face that he did after sampling the “Gravy Soda.”

Unfortunately the Teller’s have moved back to New York and we are left alone at our table again.

Or so we thought...

Cousin Michael called and asked if he, his wife and their 2 kids could come out from New York and spend Thanksgiving with us. Yes! Not only is Michael one of my favorite cousins, but this means more people to admire my pie-baking skills. Also my 97-year-old grandmother recently moved here from Chicago, so she will be joining us as well. This incited my uncle Shelly and his wife Pamela, to fly in from Chicago and also be in attendance.

Then, my boyfriend Colby decided he wouldn’t be heading back to Ohio for this holiday season. So we invited his family here. Adding his mom Deanna, dad Jim, sister Aliceson, her husband Chris, Colby’s brother Chad, and his fiancé Jessica to our extendable table. My sister’s friend, Kelly, although Canadian and not a patriotic participant in this American holiday, will be there too. And so will my friends Conor and Kate, not to mention my roommate, Darren.

22 people! Our table’s not that big! So we’re renting two more. Brave “Dr. M” will be doing all the cooking, and my sister will be making a supplementary apple pie. Maybe my dad will tell you how it goes in his next post, but no promises.

Thanks everyone for reading and thanks dad for letting me be the first ever guest blogger! Happy Thanksgiving! Hopefully you will see me next Oct 31st with some spooky stories.

"A Family Torn Asunder"

Cousin Michael and his spectacular family are visiting us for Thanksgiving. Michael, one of Dr. M’s Chicago cousins, was, from earliest days, one of my daughter, Anna’s, favorite relatives. Anna liked all her cousins, but for some reason, Michael held a special place in her heart.

There were fond memories of their horsing around in the back seat on car trips to our cabin in Michiana (sixty-five miles from Chicago), with Anna and Michael playfully reenacting the classic “Bart-Lisa” car trip scene from the Simpsons, popularly known as, “Ow! Quit it!” Cousin Michael grew up and became an attorney.

So here we go…

As part of the application process, Anna, wrote her college entrance essay on how much she admired Martha Stewart. Anna had always been a huge fan of Martha’s show, fascinated at the “Queen of Household Know-How’s” talents for cooking and crafts, and, I suspect, intrigued by a woman who was actually at home – although she wasn’t really at home, she was in a studio made up to look like her home. Regardless – the kid has a fantasy, you leave it alone.

Martha Stewart was the closest thing my daughter had to a hero – an accomplished woman who could make crepe paper flowers and decorate a wedding cake in thirteen minutes.

When Martha had her trouble with the law, Anna’s loyalty was put severely to the test. And not just the obvious test – the test of, “How do you feel when a person you admire is accused of a crime?” – that would have been easy, she’d have sided with Martha.

Anna’s challenge, however, was intensified by an ironic twist of fate only life itself could provide. It turned out that, who would be prosecuting Martha Stewart for her questionable insider trading activities?

Cousin Michael.

Yuh.

At the time, Cousin Michael worked in the U.S.Attorney’s office in New York City. It had fallen to him to prove Martha guilty, and put her in the slammer.

At first, Anna’s reaction to this uncomfortable turn of events seemed casual, almost flip. When asked what the appropriate bail would be for Martha Stewart, she immediately replied:

“Ten thousand brownies.”

As the trial date approached, there was an exchange of muted phone calls. Donning his “Attorney Hat”, Cousin Michael explained how it was unacceptable for people to lie to Federal agents. To which Anna plaintively whined,

“But it’s Martha.”

It was a terrible dilemma. Our family was caught in the crosshairs of history. However the world perceived the trial, for Anna it was:

"Martha Stewart versus Cousin Michael."

As a father, I stood helplessly on the sidelines, inwardly wailing, “Why is this happening!” Because of some stock crime that had nothing to do with us, my family had been torn asunder.

I imagined this was akin to what it was like during the Civil War, when one brother fought for the North, and the other for the South, though, in this case, Anna was fighting on both sides. And nobody was getting killed, and no slaves were being freed. But on a fundamental level, where analogies are cut a little slack, it was very much the same.

Anna’s reaction to the final verdict? She said she was proud of her cousin but sad for Martha. But I sensed in her a disquieting feeling of loss. Anna’s “perfect person” has been exposed as being flawed.

A matchless porcelain teacup had revealed a crack, a crack that despite the seven different varieties of “Super Glue” she has stored in her impeccably arranged “Crafter Cupboard”, even Martha Stewart could not mend.


READER ALERT: Tomorrow: My first ever guest blogger. Check it out.

"The Real Truth"

I had this callus on the bottom of my foot, so I went to this foot doctor. Right away, I notice two things: The foot doctor’s waiting room is freezing. Also, every time I’ve had an appointment, I’ve always been the only patient there. He’s a good foot doctor, but I’m not sure he’s doing well. Either that, or his other patients died of pneumonia from the waiting room.

Anyway…

My foot problem reminded me of this play I studied when, after graduating from college, I attended the Bertolt Brecht Summer Theater Workshop at UCLA. I don’t remember the title of the play, or who wrote it – it wasn’t Brecht – but the class I was taking focused on German Expressionism, so it might be in that area. Maybe you can help me with this.

Don’t guess yet. I haven’t told you what the play is about.

The reason I love this play is because of its theme: “Things aren’t always what they seem.” That stuff’s interesting to me. I’m curious about the whole idea of what we know and how we know it. The message of the play is that the real explanation for something may be completely different from the explanation we’ve come to believe.

The play’s story is about Socrates. Its “payoff” has a greater impact if you’re familiar with Socrates’ philosophical M.O, but hopefully, you’ll enjoy the ride regardless.

Okay, so here’s the story:

Socrates, an Athenian, is a soldier, fighting in a war against Athens’ archenemy, Sparta. In this particular battle, Sparta is badly kicking Athens’ butt. The signal is given:

“Athenians – retreat!”

The Athenian army begins to fall back, Socrates along with the rest. Suddenly, Socrates steps on a giant thorn. He’s in agony. He falls to the ground on the spot, as the Athenian army continues to retreat.

The Spartans are advancing. Socrates is just sitting there. He can’t get up, ‘cause there’s a giant thorn stuck in his foot. It would kill him to walk on it.

The Spartan army reaches his position. Facing certain death, the seated Socrates starts hacking at the enemy with his sword, flailing away for all he’s worth.

The Athenians, now safely in retreat, look back onto the battlefield…and there’s Socrates. Fighting like a lunatic from a seated position. And he’s doing pretty well. Facing imminent annihilation, Socrates has become a wild man fighting machine, taking out Spartans left and right.

The Athenian army goes, “Look at that!”

And then goes…

“We can’t let Socrates sit there and take on the entire Spartan army by himself. Let’s go!”

The Athenians charge back onto the field, and with Socrates as their inspiration, they turn the tide of the battle, rout the Spartan army, and send them back where they came from, which, I imagine, was Sparta. Unexpectedly victorious, the Athenians lift Socrates off the ground and carry him away on their shoulders.

Huzzah!

The Next Day.

Speeches and celebration. Athens has vanquished its enemy, it’s time to recognize its heroes. The biggest hero of them all?

Socrates.

The Boss Man Athenian speechifies:

“Socrates – hail, and way to go. For meritorious service to our beloved city-state of Athens, we wish to bestow upon you an honor. Please come onstage and receive your well-deserved medal for courage.”
Socrates is sitting in the first row, the giant thorn still embedded in his foot. Since the battle ended, he’s done no walking. People keep carrying him around on their shoulders.

He now faces a dilemma. To expose his condition would reveal his battlefield heroics to have been less a matter of bravery than of necessity, which is not as good. Some might feel he’d accepted the praise and recognition heaped upon him under false pretenses, and they might not be happy about it.

He couldn’t move and he couldn’t let on why. With this in mind, Socrates, remaining seated, addressed the assemblage.

“Fellow Athenians. I am honored to have been awarded this medal for courage, and am happy to come onstage to receive it. But before I do, allow me to ask you one question:

“What is courage?”

Thus began the technique known as the “Socratic Method”, devised less as a method of philosophic inquiry than to avoid walking on a foot that had a giant thorn stuck in it.

"Uncle Grumpy - On Race"

Here we go, boys and girls. It’s Uncle Grumpy – on race. Please, always remember. It’s Uncle Grumpy talking. Not me.

Uncle Grumpy. Not me.

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My grandmother was left-handed. She told me how, when she was a kid, the teachers would strap her left hand to her side, and force her to write with her right hand.

Why did they do that? Because the culture of that time believed that left-handed people were biologically inferior. Worse than inferior. They were bad. Do you know what the Latin word for “left” is?

Sinister.

Left-handed people were considered to be sinister. Why? It was never explained.

Wherever you looked, the interests of left-handed people were ruthlessly ignored. The world belonged to the right-handed, and everything was tailored to their needs. Scissors. Can openers. Notebooks. (The coiled wire rubbed on the lefty’s arm.)

Negative messages insinuated themselves into the language. You’ve heard of a “left-handed” compliment? That is not a good compliment. “Southpaw?” I don’t know its derivation, but just the sound of it – “southpaw” – it doesn’t make you wish you’d been born one. In the reactionary culture of baseball, left-handed pitchers were viewed as unstable, bordering on crazy.

Left-handed children were stamped as a lower category of humanity, suffering treatment consistent with their status. Throughout in the culture, the message was crystal clear:

Right-handed. Good.

Left-handed. Bad.

At some point, maybe science had something to do with it, maybe folks just came to their senses, there was a liberating change. The “handedness” issue became irrelevant. It was as if a light had been turned on. “That stuff is all wrong!” People thought back on the demonization of the left-handed and it was like,

“What were we thinking?”

Finally they had realized the obvious: “Handedness” was something you were born with. Valuing one hand as being superior to the other hand was ridiculous.

After centuries of misbehavior resulting from a mistaken belief, the concept of “handedness” came to be seen as what it had always been:

A meaningless distinction.

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I thought you were talking about race, Uncle Grumpy.

Uncle Grumpy?