Letting Go of Jerry Lewis

I was sorry to hear about the passing of Jerry Lewis. In the 50’s and early 60's, we little kids waited for the next Jerry Lewis movie like nerds today wait for the next Star Wars movie

I feel like a bit of my childhood died with Jerry Lewis. And I’m not ready to let my childhood – or Jerry – go!

  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Good Mohrrning, Bwandon!"

“Dad, why are you talking so funny?”

“Tawking funny? I’m not tawking funny!  WooOOAAAHH!"

“Are you trying to talk like Jerry Lewis?”

“You’re eating fweezer waffles, Bwandon? The fweezer waffles are good because the goodness is in the waffles, and there’s no badness with the goodness…”

“You are trying to talk like Jerry Lewis.”

“I miss Jerry. I have to keep him alive.”

“But wasn’t he kind of an obnoxious jerk?”

“Yes, but he was my obnoxious jerk! Oh, LayDEEEESSS!!!”

“I don’t even like his movies that much.”

“Brandon, the Nutty Professor is a classic! Actually Miss Purdy… Mr. Buddy Love … I’ll pay attentshun! I’ll pay attentshun!”

"This is terrible! How am I going to get you out of this?”

“Bwandon, let’s do the Jerry Lewis Memory Test!”

“Oh no, you’ve been boring me with that since I was four.”

“One hen. One hen, two ducks. One hen, two ducks, three squawking geese … c'mon, do it with me!”

“Dad, cut it out! We’ve got a lot of problems in the world, with our terrible president, North Korean nuclear threat, and hurricanes bashing Florida.”

“You’re right, Brandon.  It’s time to get serious …”’

“Good, Dad, good.”

“About my kids! When you walk through a storm, keep your head up high …”

 “Hell, I don’t know which of the two Jerrys is worse!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thank you, Jerry Lewis, the King of Comedy, for all the laughs all my life. 

The Last Milestone

This past spring Brandon Block graduated college, having broadened and enhanced his interests in film making and journalism.

Quite a milestone in the life of any young man.

That young man in this instance is me.

It’s a milestone for me because it’s probably the last milestone in Brandon's life that I'll be sharing directly with him. Future milestones like promotions, awards, or starring in the road company version of Hamilton will be more diffuse and remote because they won’t be happening under my watch, under my roof, or under the Tuscan sun.

About the only closely shared milestone ahead is the one that happens when I breathe my last.  And that’s one about which I’m not about to spring for a celebratory dinner.

I put in a call to Brandon.

“How are things going?  Have any major achievements lately?”

“Well … I graduated from college.  I think you were there.”

"Say, have you made any feature films lately? Any Oscar buzz?  Maybe I ought to give out the award to you since John Travolta will probably butcher your name!”

"I'd hold up on renting a tuxedo. But I did make a five minute movie about trash. Hasn't opened yet in selected cities."

“Brandon, have you had any big promotions yet writing for the alternative newspaper in Baltimore? They haven't given you the key to the executive washroom, have they?"

"Dad, that only happens in movies from the 40’s. And I’ve only been working at this job for a couple of weeks."

"How about political activism? Stopped any pipelines lately? Found anybody to run against Trump?"

"Dad, what is this all about?" 

"I just don’t want to miss any milestones in your life, Brandon."

"Why would you?"  

“Since you won't be living at home or school any more. I'm worried I'll miss stuff.”

"Well, Dad, things may be a bit different than when I lived home, but you'll always be my dad and I'll always keep you posted."

"You promise?"

"You’ll be the first to know!  Or no worse than the 18^th.”

“I guess that’s okay then."

"I have to go now, Dad, I've got a meeting."

"Sure. Who with?"

"The Rabbi. I'm getting married."

"You're what?!!

"I'm kidding, Dad."

"I knew that." 

“Good night, Dad.”

“See you soon, Bran.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Brandon Block IS the Graduate

My son Brandon Block is The Graduate.  

This spring he's graduated from Johns Hopkins University where he has done quite well and is now back home for a time over the summer.  I'm a little concerned, however, that he may be taking his role as The Graduate just a bit too much to heart.

Lately the kid's been kind of listless, mostly just lying around the pool and drinking beer.

"Brandon," I said, "what's going on?  It's perfectly understandable that a young man who's done excellent work might want to relax a bit, but you're taking this to extremes."

"I'm a little concerned about my future, Dad," said Brandon.

"I am, too," I replied, "especially considering we don't have a pool."

"Some guy at the graduation party suggested I go into plastics."

"Plastics!  This isn't 1967. You’ll lose your shirt!"

Brandon's odd behavior continued.  One day soon after, he walked into the kitchen with a startling announcement.

"I hope you won't be too shocked, Dad, but I'm having an affair with Mrs. Robinson, the wife of your business partner."

"Frankly, Brandon, I am shocked.  Because I don't know anybody named Mrs. Robinson, and I don't have a business partner!"

"Nevertheless, I'm having an affair with Mrs. Robinson.  It began one night in a hotel where I also had an amusing interaction with a desk clerk played by actor/writer Buck Henry."

Now I was really concerned!  I was so concerned I discussed the situation with my psychiatrist, Dr. Kropotkin, but what he said was not all that reassuring, especially when he asked me if I could get him Buck Henry's autograph.

Then came the bombshell.

"Dad, I'm going to marry Elaine Robinson."

"Isn't that kind of a half-baked idea, son?"

"No, it's completely baked."

"No, Brandon, I mean it's half-baked in that  She's a fictional character! None of these people are real, they're characters in a movie!!! 

"Nevertheless, I am going to marry Elaine Robinson."

Two days later, I received a phone call that was the final straw.

"Who is this?  Dustin who?  I don’t know anybody named Dustin; nobody Jewish was ever named Dustin!”

Brandon did what?!  Disrupted Elaine Robinson's wedding and ran off with her?!!  He wants me to meet him where?!!!"

I sped to the address the man had given me, ran into the house, and incredibly there they all were: the late Anne Bancroft as Mrs. Robinson, the late Murray Hamilton as Mr. Robinson, the young Katherine Ross as Elaine Robinson, and even Buck Henry!

"Brandon, how is this possible?!" I exclaimed. "How can you actually be The Graduate?"

"Everybody's The Graduate at some time or other, Dad.   Life's like that.  And then we move on to another movie."

"I think I get it," I said.  "And this is your time to be the Graduate. What movie's next for you?"

"Who knows? That's all part of the deal."

"Hey, Bran, if it turns out to be Casablanca?"

"Yeah, Dad?"

"Can you get me Bogey's autograph?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Brandon & older brother Brian, also a recent graduate from Fordham University with an MBA. Hard to believe I have such smart kids when I literally kept the Cliff's Notes company in business from years 1968 - 1972.
  

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If you liked this post, you may also like The Cosmic Case of Role Reversal,  He's Leaving Home, Bye-Bye,  and Riding in Cars with Boys.  If you hated this post,  I hope you never get Buck Henry's autograph!

Be HIM!

Be HIM!

As of April 25th of this year, my son Brandon is 21 years old. I'm proud that he is turning into a happy, healthy, and intelligent young man with a wide variety of interests and a well-adjusted and positive outlook on life and the future.

Just one thing.

Why can't he still be eleven?!

Though I do miss the days gone by, as a hardcore realist I must accept the fact that children grow up and move on and that life is a constantly changing enterprise. Also I must accept the fact that I don’t for a minute believe that nonsense I just wrote in the last sentence.

“Happy Birthday, Brandon!” I said via Facetime on the special day.

“Thanks, Dad,” Brandon replied.  “I was just on my way out.”

“Bet I know what you’re going,” I said with a knowing grin.  “Now that you’re 21 years old, you’re headed out to try drinking alcohol for the first time.”

“Umm … yeah … yeah, Dad.  That’s exactly it.”

“I knew it! I was just the same way when I turned 16 … I mean, turned 21!”

“Sorry I can’t talk longer, Dad. I’ve got some people waiting for me.”

“Sure, sure, go be with your little friends. But let me make a suggestion: Start your drinking experiences with something simple and basic, like the drink they call beer.  Do you want me to spell it for you?”

“Is it b-i-e-r, Dad?”

“No, it’s not,” I laughed.  “I’ll text you the proper spelling.  In six months or so we’ll step up to vodka. That’s spelled v-o-d…”

“Thanks, Dad.  I’ll look forward to it. Gotta go!”

“One more thing, Bran.  Though it's over a year away, I’d like to talk to you about where you’re going to live when college is over.”

“Oh, I don’t know yet.  I’ll have a job of some kind and a place of my own, I guess.”

“That’s just it.  A place of your own is very expensive. I know of a place that’s very inexpensive.  In fact, it’s free.”

“What kind of a place is free?”

“Our basement!  And utilities are included too.”

“Dad, a basement is a last resort if a kid doesn’t have a job.”

“Well, I’m going to encourage you to think of it as your first resort! With pool table, vintage TV that works if you kick it, and close proximity to a laundromat that doesn’t require coinage.”

"Well, Dad, we’ll see."

"Okay. I'll throw in a Jacuzzi. I'll call the contractor right now.”

“I hope he shows up before I'm married with children.”

“One more thing, Bran.  I’m looking at a picture of you when you were about 5, the one where you’re sitting in the green chair. Here I’ll show it to you.”

“Sure, I remember that one. So?”

"Be HIM!"

"Excuse me?"

"Be HIM!  The Brandon in the picture."  

"Oh, I see.  You asked me that once before."

"Be HIM again! I miss him." 

“I’m sorry, Dad. I don’t think I can actually become him again." 

“I didn’t really think you could. No harm asking."  

"Talk to you soon, Dad.”

"Yep. Enjoy the bier!”

My son Brandon is now 21 years old. I must accept the fact that children grow up and move on and life is a constantly changing enterprise.

And frankly, it’s enough to drive me to drink!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If you liked this post, you may also like Bedtime Story,  Why Can't He Be Seven?, and Brandon Block IS The Graduate.

If you hated this post, I hope whenever you order a beer they always serve you bier!

Star Wars: The Force Ages

Glass of warm buttermilk, Mr. Ford?

I don't go to the movies much anymore, but my son Brandon was back from study abroad in Amsterdam and home on winter break, so we decided to go see Star Wars: The Force Awakens.

"That will be two adults for the Star Wars movie," I said. 

"Two adults?" said the young woman behind the counter quizzically.

"I know what you're thinking," I replied. "But my son is in college so I believe he is over the age for the child rate." 

"Sir, your son is over the age for the child rate in human years, dog years, and light years. What I mean is, it's one adult and one senior!"

"Senior?!" I  scoffed, "There has to be a mistake.  To be a senior you have to be practically..."

"65 years old and up, sir, which I believe you are."

Damn that accursed word "senior!"  I've avoided it as long as I could, but now that I'm 65 I qualify for the senior discount in even the most johnny-come-lately-to-give-a-senior discount establishments. Some of them start as early as 55, some at 62, but nobody later than 65.  

There's just no escaping it now. I've sunk to senior status even at my friendly neighborhood movie house!

I accepted my discount, we entered the theater and settled into our seats, and the movie began. And no sooner had I read 

"A long time ago in a galaxy far far away" 

than I heard a voice anything but far, far away whispering at my side.

"Excuse me, sir, would you like something from the snack bar?"

"Well, yes, I was going to get some popcorn in a little while."

"No need for that sir. This is a special service for seniors. I can also take you to the bathroom when you're ready and wait for you in the adjoining stall."

"Thanks, but I don't need this," I spat out.  "I'm not infirm or anything."

"I know that, sir, but you may want to conserve energy for checkers tomorrow."

"Checkers?!! I don't play .... okay, okay, bring me a coke!" .

"Are you sure you want a coke?  We serve warm buttermilk now."

Two hours passed.  The First Order and the Republic were locked in fierce and furious space-born battle,  and  I learned I really hate warm buttermilk.

Again there was a voice at my side.

"Sir, this movie gets kind of violent the rest of the way. Would you like to go in the lobby, I'll tell you the ending, and our senior shuttle can take you home?"

"Why ... why ... why," I barked hoarsely, "do you know that two major actors in this movie are so-called seniors and another one is close behind, and that's not counting Max von Sydow?!"

"Well, you don't see them watching the movie, do you?"

You know that kind of made sense. And to be honest, although I like Star Wars I think seven of these movies may be three or four too many. The shuttle turned out to be kind of comfortable, and the ending wasn't half bad as recited dramatically to me by 17 year old Rodney Thistle from Broomall PA.  

As a senior, maybe the Force is no longer with me. 

But I'll sure be pumped for checkers tomorrow!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tattoo Breakthrough

I like that one! See, I can evolve.

My son Brandon and I were in the local Starbucks.

As the young woman barista rendered our coffee to us on that day, my eyes were drawn to a tattoo of a butterfly on the underside of her left arm and before I could control myself, by God, it was out of mouth!

"That's a pretty tattoo," I said.

"Thank you," she replied.

"Dad!" exclaimed Brandon, "That's a major breakthrough!"

"I guess it is," I said. "I actually did like her tattoo, but I’m not sure why.”

I've never understood the allure of tattoos. Back in the sixties and early seventies, tattoos were usually worn by the shorter haired folks we called greasers, sworn enemies of we freaks and pseudo-freaks. The standard tattoo was a skull and crossbones, crude rendering of Jesus, or a heart emblazoned through the middle with the name of a likely long replaced girlfriend.

A few hippies had tattoos, but they were as small in number as there were un-smoked roaches in my apartment at the end of a Friday evening. Our rock heroes did not have them. The cool people we aspired to be like did not have them. (And the hot chicks I never had the guts to approach that I'm still kicking myself about 45 years later certainly did not have them either.) 

But these days it’s hard to find an athlete or movie star who believes tabula rasa is an acceptable approach to one's epidermis. Brandon doesn't have any tattoos but many of his friends do and none of them are greasers, bikers, or intoxicated sailors waking up after a long weekend’s shore leave.

In fact, Brandon had been telling me to stop dissing tattoos even though I’d been spreading negative vibes about them whenever I’d encounter anyone whose body was marked up like the first draft of one of my college term papers.

But this day something had changed and without my even knowing it.

"So what brought that on, Dad?" said Brandon,

"I don’t know," I answered. "It just slipped out of me naturally as something to say. Like thanks for the coffee, have a nice day, or do you have an attractive mom in my demographic?"

"What that means," said Brandon, “is you now accept tattoos as a legitimate form of self-expression, even if you would never choose that mode of expression yourself.”

And he was right.

I was able at last to see the attractiveness in something that my pre-conceived notions wouldn’t allow me to see before. Now I saw the colors and the artistry that I had never before been able to appreciate.

So it seems I've made a Tattoo Breakthrough. But would I actually get one myself?

Have I made a Tattoo “Break-on-Through to the Other Side?”

Nah, I'm not ready for that. And I still don't like tattoos which envelop someone's body like an etch-a-sketch. 

But if you're a Boomer and you want a simple not too sizeable tattoo, I won't say a discouraging word.

In fact, I'll help you pick it out.

I might even like it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Spring Slake (FF)

PHOTO PROMPT – © Madison Woods

"Say, Brandon, it sure was nice of your dad to spring for a keg of beer for our Annual Finals Time/Spring Bash!"

"Yeah, Kyle, my dad does some nice but weird-ass things sometimes."

"I understand your father is known as The Internet's Least Successful Humor Writer."

"True, I'm afraid he's almost as unfunny as @ShitMyDadSays."

"OMG, I didn't think anything could be that unfunny!"

"Well, let's tap the keg, boys!"

"AUGGHGH!"

"PITOUEY!"

"GBLAHHH!"

"Look, here's a note from my dad:  Hope you guys enjoy this keg of Listerine.  Now gargle, spit, and get back to work!"

"You know what, Brandon?  Now that's funny!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I thought it was time for a post to show off my advanced parenting skills, but unfortunately this isn't it.  Well, maybe it is; we'll see what kind of grades these guys ultimately get. Better yet, we'll see how many cavities.

Now all of you should go study the many other takes on the above picture prompt by the other Friday Fictioneers.  Just tap the keg right here, and drink up!   

Happy Annual Finals Time/Spring Bash!

You Can't Go Home Again or It's Always Smokey in Philadelphia

"By the way," I was telling my son Brandon over the phone yesterday, "Philadelphia is about to decriminalize marijuana. Gonna just be a fine." 

Brandon goes to college in nearby Baltimore.

"Wow, Dad, that's terrific!"  he said.

"Well,  yes, it's a good thing," I replied in measured tones.  "Years ago, I might have been very pleased, but in this day and age ..."

"You know, Dad," said Brandon,  "I've been thinking of coming home for a visit soon."

"Oh, no, no, there's no need for that!  You ... uh ...  have your classes and homework to attend to."

"Sure, but I've got all that pretty much under control.  I'd like to come see you."

"I look exactly the same.  A month or two older."

"Yes, but I miss everybody in Philadelphia.  I have a lot of friends in college there I'd like to visit."

"They're all busy!  Many of them have moved.  I'm afraid, Brandon,  some don't even like you anymore."

"Hey, Dad, what's this all about?  You think I want to come home to do drugs?"

"Of course not!   It's just that your life is in Baltimore now.  Baltimore Maryland.  Where nothing's decriminalized."

"You've told me you did more than your share of weed back in the day." 

"You don't want to turn out like me!"

"Come on, Dad, you have your flaws, but you didn't turn out all that bad."

"Are you kidding?  I have demons!  DEMONS!"  

"Well, I'll certainly come home for the Jewish holidays."

"Umm,  I forgot to tell you.  I'm converting.  Love that Jesus!"

"What about Thanksgiving?"

"I'd hold off 'til Christmas. Maybe President's Day."  

"May I ever come home, Dad?"

"Sure."

"When's that?"

"Whenever they decriminalize marijuana in Baltimore!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Snow Day

I Love Snow

Last night we had a heavy snow in Philadelphia.  Not exactly a blizzard, but a swirling, twirling profusion of soft wintry white covering and transforming everything familiar and mundane into a snug pristine blanket of snow up to a foot or more deep.

I love the snow.  

snow ... snow ... snow ... SNOW... SNOW!

Memories of wonderful times past ...

A 1950's style blizzard, must be two feet if it's an inch ... school closings on the radio ... All Lower Merion schools closed for at least for two days .... Hurray!!! ....Cream of Wheat for breakfast, then bundled up like the kid in A Christmas Story and out for sledding ...  watch out for that tree! ... now that's what I call a fort; got you! ... "in the meadow we can build a snowman, and pretend that he is Rabbi Brownstein"...  tired but exhilarated ... ruddy faced too ... how about some hot cocoa?... and butter cookies right out of the oven! ...   Gee, I love the snow!

Thirty some years later ... this is what we call "snow," Brian and Brandon! ... "Wow, Daddy!"  ... and all over again.

snow ... snow ... snow ... SNOW... SNOW!

This morning I had to shovel myself  out from under a snug pristine blanket of snow up to a foot or more deep. 

I hate the fucking snow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Riding in Cars with Boys

Yes, there I was in riding in a car with boys, all of us on our way to a late night performance of an obscure rock band at an small out-of-the-way music venue in a misbegotten but vaguely hip neighborhood of the big city I called home.

It felt familiar.  It felt like many a night I'd spent before eager with anticipation for the music, the fellowship, the likely accompanying drug experience, and whatever else I hoped might lie ahead, but which usually didn't.

There was only one difference.

It was last year, and it was me driving a car of five 17-18 year old boys, one of whom was my son Brandon, to a concert in a slightly off downtown neighborhood of Philadelphia. 

"Thank you for the ride, Mr. Block," said each one of guys as they in turn climbed into the car. 

I never wanted to be a "Mr. Block" at any juncture in my life, but now it seemed odd to be anything other.  "Call me Perry" would have sounded as forced and phony under the circumstances as "gather round, dudes, and let me tell you about the Sixties!"

"So why do I have to drive?"  I'd asked Brandon while being pressed into emergency transportation service earlier in the evening. "What about Tim's dad?"

"Tim's dad works a day job," he answered.

"So I've been selected based on diminished job status and perceived fecklessness?"

"No, Dad. Just availability."

The truth is I didn't really mind.  But once the car was loaded with millennials and we were on our way, I realized I'd been thrust into a situation in which I had a difficult choice to make.

Do I join in the guys' conversation? Brandon and his friends were talking school, college, majors, summer jobs, and all things so far under age 60, I’d have to bungee jump to reach them. Still there were a few opportunities to offer an opinion, a dollop of alleged wisdom, and even a cross generational joke or two. 

But how would they respond? Would they think ... 

"That was funny!  I like Mr. Block. He's a cool  guy unlike my dad with his knock-knock jokes!" 

or would they think ... 

What is Mr. Block jabbering about?!  Who's Jack Benny?  Doesn't he realize he's here only as a means to an end?"

Or perhaps I should just keep silent, pretend I'm not listening, focus on the driving.  In which case, would they think ...

"Mr. Block really has it together! Stays out of our way unlike my mom always boring my friends about the time she rode in an elevator with David Crosby!"  

or would they think ...

"God, Mr. Block has nothing to say about anything.   Poor Brandon, his dad's a moron!"

"What do your friends prefer?" I asked Brandon as he exited the car at the club. "That I join in the conversation or keep it to myself?"

"Dad, you're over thinking it. Do what comes naturally." 

"Well,  tell me what it is that comes naturally!"

I chose to judiciously join in the talk on the way home.  It seemed to go fine.

Some of Bran’s friends were quite friendly and talkative, others a bit more quiet.

Just like any group of folks anywhere at any age.  

(FYI, my impression of Humphrey Bogart simply killed, although I think most of them thought it was Joe Pesci.)  

As I dropped each one of the guys off, "Thank you for the ride, Mr. Block" reverberated throughout the car.

Riding in cars with boys ---  yep, I wish I could be one of the boys again. The gap between me and Brandon and his friends seems as wide as the gap between the Sixties and the Tweenies, or whatever this current decade is called.

But it's the stage of life I'm at, and I'm going to relish it. Too bad for Tim's dad, who works a day job.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Note: Despite the nose, that is not me in the picture.