Summer (really, all season ) Talk Shows

This being summer camp season it was inevitable someone would write about “care package wars,” the one-upsmanship parents engage in to be recognized as the best providers of treats and tech products to little Johnnie or Janie to make their stay more comfortable at sleep-away camp. They're also engaged in spy worthy subterfuge to get around camp restrictions on sending care packages to their little loved one (http://www.nytimes.com/2013/07/21/fashion/the-care-package-wars.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0).

I had low expectations during my nine camper years. My parents were not the type to indulge their kiddies with goodies beyond what they brought with them when they visited camp. I settled for letters or post cards as visible evidence they missed and cared about me. Truth is, my parents weren't big writers, either. They did, however, trek to the Poconos more often than the two visiting days sanctioned by Camp Massad Aleph. They’d spend several weekends during my first five years at summer camp soaking up the culture and heritage of our Zionist camp, enjoying the singing Friday night and the leisurely pace of each Saturday. 

Our son Dan went off to Camp Laurelwood when he was nine. I don’t recall if it was his second or third year there that we copied an ingenious plan to overcome our loneliness at not hearing his voice and possibly his sadness at not hearing ours. We sent him to camp with a tape recorder with instructions to mail back eyewitness audio reports on what was happening in camp. We, in turn, would ship tapes to him of our daily activities. 

A quarter of a century later we updated this idea for our grandson Finley. Browsing through the Hallmark store one day I came across a book of nursery rhymes, each page of which could be recorded by the reader. Gilda and I took turns reading and recording the ditties. Finley has independently taken the book off the shelf to listen to our voices, Allison has told us. 

On the subject of summer camps, I found it quite incredulous to believe this next item, that a Massachusetts camp expelled a teenage girl for kissing her boyfriend. Her parents at first sued the camp and then withdrew the suit. The story has made headlines and newscasts over the last two days. I am sure there is more to this story, but the idea that camp romances could result in expulsion (she was led out of camp by a police officer) besmirches most of my summer memories. 

More From Mel: Here are two more assaults on my given name by Mel Brooks. 

During a February 13, 1975, broadcast of The Tonight Show starring Johnny Carson, Brooks was talking about his movie Young Frankenstein. He said it was an homage to James Whale who directed “all those wonderful Frankenstein movies: Frankenstein, The Bride of Frankenstein, The Son of Frankenstein, The House of Frankenstein, Frankenstein’s Friend, Murray ...”

During one of his 2,000-Year-Old Man routines with Carl Reiner, Brooks recounted how he knew Shakespeare. After insisting Shakespeare was a lousy writer (because of his poor penmanship), Brooks disputed Reiner’s assertion Shakespeare wrote 37 plays. 

Thirty-eight, Brooks insisted. The additional play was titled “Queen Alexandra and Murray.” It bombed. “It closed in Egypt,” said Brooks.

Playing Catch-up

Turns out my personal swimming instructor/friend Ken (aka Don Quixote and Sancho Panza) actually was a swimming instructor at a summer camp in his youth. Since he’s older than I, take it from me it was a loooong time ago. But we got through the first lesson without either us losing anything, Ken his cool, me my life. Weather permitting, we’re scheduled for another frolic in his pool on Friday.


Gee-Ka: That’s the way grandson Finley pronounces grandpa, so I guess Gee-Ka will be my nickname going forward. Finley had it much easier saying Gee-Gee for Grandma Gilda.

Finley & Co. (Allison and Dan) visited last weekend so his parents could attend their first game at the new Yankee Stadium on his mother’s birthday (Yanks won). Hard to find a better age to babysit than a 20-month-old who eats well, lays down to nap without fuss, laughs a lot, doesn’t poop too much, always startles you with new words he can vocalize, and pretty much understands everything you say to him. Even when I mistakenly shortened his nap time it afforded us one of the more pleasurable experiences of the weekend—cuddling in our bed with him for about 20 minutes.


Credit Rating Fake-out? The NY Times implied Wednesday it would be no big deal if the credit rating of the United States dipped from AAA to AA, or even lower. Noting that most corporations long ago abandoned the quest for triple-A ratings with hardly a misstep, the article suggested only national pride and a possible blow to consumer confidence would be at risk (http://www.nytimes.com/2011/08/03/business/aaa-rating-is-a-rarity-in-business.html?scp=2&sq=eric%20dash&st=cse).

So was this whole debt ceiling pas-de-deux debate (okay, a pas-de-trois, if you count the Tea Party) really a sham, just political posturing? Could be, except the deal struck is not good news for those in need of government support, people like the long-term unemployed.

What’s also exasperating in this whole scenario is the three major credit rating agencies—Fitch, Standard & Poors and Moody’s—are the very same organizations that green-lighted all those hazardous derivative bonds that contributed to the financial failures of the last few years, precipitating the recession which shuttered businesses, reduced employment and cut tax revenues causing our national debt to skyrocket. These rating agencies did not suffer. How ironic that today they pass judgment on U.S. credit worthiness.


Jewish Humor: We might not be exposed to it frequently, but Arabs have a keen sense of humor, I’ve heard. They’re even developing stand-up comedians, according to a recent NPR segment.

Strangely, some of the comedians choose to compare themselves to American comics. One calls himself the Jon Stewart of the Middle East. Another refers to himself as the Jerry Seinfeld of the Middle East.

How comforting to know the Arab world appreciates American humorists. But do they also realize these comedians are Jewish?


Burned by Burnett: The NY Yankees should end the charade of contemplating a six-man pitching rotation by dumping A.J. Burnett. Add him to the scrapheap of failed free agent pitcher signings. He’ll fit snugly alongside Kevin Brown, Kenny Rogers, Carl Pavano, Jaret Wright, Javier Vazquez, Ed Whitson, Hideki Irabu and Kei Igawa.

Time to concentrate on developing Ivan Nova and Phil Hughes and other prospects. After last night’s outing in Chicago against the light-hitting White Sox, when the Yanks scored 13 runs in the first four innings, only to see him give up seven before being relieved with one out in the fourth, Burnett continues to show he is unreliable.

Though his stuff (for those non baseball-literate readers, “stuff” is a term used to connote the quality of a pitcher’s pitches) can be electric, more often than not since becoming a Yankee he has shocked his team and its fan base with inconsistency and disappointment. He hasn’t won a game since June 29.

Better to admit Burnett can’t pitch for New York and work a deal to dispatch him to another team, even if the Yankees have to pay his bloated salary.

Sink or Swim

I have a new name for my friend Ken. It’s Don, as in Don Quixote.

Ken, er Don, has a romantic notion he can teach me to swim. Fool that he is—a combination of the knight errant with an uncanny resemblance to his loyal squire, Sancho Panza—Don has issued a challenge, that this summer of my 62nd year he will teach me in his pool to overcome my tendency to sink rather than swim.

It is a gentlemanly and kind offer. Worthy of a quest that in times of yore would have received royal support. I hope I am worthy of his trust and effort. I will do my part, as long as he keeps the water temperature above 90 degrees. Usually his pool is a few degrees shy of my comfort level. Perhaps he’ll indulge me by turning up the heat.

It’s impossible to explain the basis of my fear of water. Some of my earliest childhood photos show me cringing in the water while being held by relatives or friends. I clearly was not enjoying myself. I was not a happy camper in those photos.

I failed to learn how to swim despite 14 years of summer camp. My brother can swim; my sister passed the Red Cross instructor course. I made sure Dan and Ellie learned. Dan even became a lifeguard. Gilda can swim.

I couldn’t ride a two-wheeler until Gilda forced me to learn when I was 40 so we could go on family bicycle trips.

If I learn to swim, I don’t anticipate taking up water skiing, scuba diving or some other exotic activity. But I might shed my fear of water and antipathy to pool parties.

While I’m learning to swim this summer, Finley also is taking his first swimming lessons (http://www.findingfinley.blogspot.com/ Read the July 8 "Little Fish in a Big Pond, er, Pool" entry, though I'm biased and think you'll enjoy all of the stories about Finley.)

What are the odds my 20-month-old grandson will learn before I do?

Return of the Blogger

If you’re wondering why your inbox has been a little lighter this last week it’s because I decided to take some time off for the Passover holiday and, more importantly, a six day visit by our 17-month-old grandson, Finley (okay, his parents, Dan and Allison, as well).

Of course I’m biased, but Finley is adorable. He smiles at everyone. He’s at the cusp of verbalization, mixing in some words with incessantly cute babbling. When he wakes up in the morning or from his afternoon nap, it’s not with a scream or cry but rather with minutes of active, babbling shrieks. He goes to sleep the same way, nary a cry, babbling himself to slumber.

This is his age of wonder and amazement, bewilderment turned to comprehension, exploration fashioned into discovery, rote repetition to learning. I taught him to say “Grandma GG” for when Gilda came into the room; couldn’t get him to say “Grandpa GP.” Maybe next time. He knows more words than he can say. He’ll follow directions, to get a favorite book or toy, for example. He’ll surprise you by walking passed his coat and saying, “Jacket.” He’ll wave and say “goodbye” to cashiers.

We took him for his first haircut, to the same woman, Rosie, who gave Dan his first haircut some 30 years ago and who still cuts my hair. Three generations of Forseter men have sat in her chair.

Allison and Dan don’t let Finley watch TV really, but while they were out one afternoon Gilda and I enjoyed the perks of grandparenthood and put on Nickelodeon and Looney Tunes. He ignored the cartoons, preferring instead to entertain himself with a toy kitchen. Once or twice he looked up when a commercial ran, but rarely for more than a few seconds.

My mother used to say my poor eating drove her back to work. As an infant I would throw peas off the high chair. Finley’s a human vacuum cleaner. He eats everything, especially fruit and vegetables, just as Dan did. For Dan it was a matter of survival. He was allergic to milk products. Finley loves eating, but retains a slim physique. Aside from saying “more,” he also hand-signals the sign for more food.

Finley went home Saturday. There’s hardly anything more melancholy than when your grandchild, whom you hadn’t seen in two months, goes home with an uncertain date as to when you’ll see him again. With his development changing almost daily, he’ll almost be another person when we reconnect. I can hardly wait.

TV of the 60s

Mad Men, the AMC TV series centered around an early 1960s Madison Avenue advertising agency, is widely praised for its spot-on depiction of the era’s mores, current and changing. The show’s attention to detail, at least for those of us who lived through that time, is uncanny. Aside from being old enough to enjoy that perspective, I can personally validate the sartorial eye of costume designer Janie Bryant’s selections, at least for the male cast members.

It went by in a flash during Sunday night’s episode about the ad agency’s Christmas party. Buxom redhead Joan walked into the party. I immediately hit the pause and rewind buttons. There, unable to take his eyes off her, was the agency’s young art director wearing a burgundy tuxedo jacket with vertical and horizontal black stripes. That was my Bar-Mitzvah jacket!

How did Janie Bryant find that jacket? Did she secretly visit my house and look through my Bar-Mitzvah album? Of course she didn’t. Besides, my album is in black and white. How would she have known the jacket was burgundy?

Just one more reason I am a big fan of Mad Men...


Federal Offense: Mitch Miller died Saturday. He was 99, considered by many a genius of music, and by others an old fogy of music (http://www.nytimes.com/2010/08/03/arts/music/03miller.html?_r=1&hpw). I will always remember him as the cause of one of my biggest arguments with my brother and father.

Sing Along with Mitch aired on NBC between 1961 and 1964. My father and older brother Bernie really enjoyed that show. I, on the other hand, preferred ABC’s counter-programming—The Untouchables. Since we had but one TV in our pre-VCR or DVR home, someone was going to be disappointed each week.

One particular week I was not to be denied. I screamed and yelled and cried (hey, I wasn’t even a teenager at the time of this story, so cut me some slack, willya). I made enough noise to drown out any hopes Bernie and our father had to enjoy the gang singing along with Mitch. Of course, by the time they finally gave in, Eliot Ness was already deep into his crime-fighting episode. Frank Nitti could have already been arrested, or better yet, machine gunned, by the time I was able to switch the TV to Channel 7.

Our confrontations lasted through The Untouchables’ last season in 1963. After that, we all watched the bouncing ball above the words on the screen and sang along with Mitch. Who knew Mitch was training a generation of karaoke singers?


Mom Says It Best: In this case, it’s Finley’s mother, Allison.

“Fathers, Lock Up Your Daughters, Because Finley’s on the Move,” she reported in a weekend post of her blog, Http://findingfinley.blogspot.com. Our 8-1/2 month old grandson is officially crawling. Here’s proof: http://findingfinley.blogspot.com/2010/08/and-away-he-goes.html.

Questions to be Resolved, and More

When did it become so hard to blow up a beach ball, or a baby pool? Or deflate them, for that matter. When did the science of inflation/deflation go 21st century?

I bought Gilda an inflatable beach ball. She believes resting her feet on it would make long airline flights more tolerable. Trouble was, neither of us could blow up the beach ball. I replaced the “defective” ball with another.

Finley (and parents) came down for the weekend, so I bought an inflatable kiddie pool. Though small, it was not the type you’d blow up without mechanical help. The instructions cautioned against using a motorized pump, but the hand pump I first used proved useless. Cautiously, I inflated the pool with an electric pump. It held firm. After Finley went home Sunday morning, I unplugged the valve to let the air out. Nothing happened. Hours later the pool was as rigid as before. Only by twisting the valve and pressing down on the pool would it deflate. You really have to be a mechanical engineer these days...


Where Did All The Lint Go? It’s several weeks since we installed our new front-loading washing machine and dryer. No complaints. Indeed, we’re raving about them. But we do wonder, how come each wash produces less lint than before? Same clothes, same towels. Yet neither the washer nor dryer extracts any quantifiable measure of lint compared to our discarded machines.

The laundry is coming out cleaner. We’re using less water. Less energy. It’s not a complaint, but I really would like to know what’s the deal with the disappearing lint?


Why Didn’t I Think Of This Before? I spent almost four hours swimming in a pool Saturday. Now, I do not know how to swim. Thus any extended period in water, especially water deeper than five feet, would be highly unusual. But heat will make you do strange things, so there I was doing the backstroke in Benny and Bella’s pool.

I can’t claim sudden aquatic powers. Rather, I took advantage of Benny’s idea to wear a flotation device, in this case, a life preserver vest. Sure, I looked rather dorky (I’m grateful now I don’t include pictures with this blog). But the alternative of sweating on dry land or restricting myself to the shallow end of the pool was easily trumped by buoyancy and the confidence I wouldn’t drown. I’ve almost drowned three times, so trust me, feeling secure in the water is more preferable.

I have my own life vest from the time I took a water aerobics class with Marty several years ago. All I have to do is remember to bring it with me next time one of our pool-friendly friends invites us over. I’ve also got to remember to leave my ego at home that day.


Garden Update: Grass is sprouting where Gilda and I dug, raked and seeded a week ago. Haven’t seen the woodchuck recently, but the mailman did tell me Friday about another neighborhood sighting of a coyote.


Sunday Reading: Two articles in yesterday’s NY Times attracted my attention. The first showed New Yorkers tooling around aboard big three-wheeled tricycles (check out the video with this link as well: http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/07/17/spokes-hauling-cargo-no-car-necessary/?scp=5&sq=sean%20patrick%20farrell&st=cse).

Before I learned to ride a two-wheeler at age 40 (ok, so I grew up not knowing how to swim or ride a bike. Wannamakesumtin’ of it?), I had a tricycle, the type seniors pedal in retirement communities. Who knew I was decades ahead of the curve, which, by the way, you have to negotiate carefully on a trike lest you tip over.

You also need more than a little oomph power to make those babies move. Central to their success, and appeal, is a flat terrain, as in Florida, Arizona and most of New York City. Or you need to attach a low horsepower motor.

The second article, “A Long Jump to Manhood,” captured the excitement of Bronx teenagers jumping 30 feet or higher off cliffs into the Hudson River (http://www.nytimes.com/2010/07/18/nyregion/18ritual.html?_r=1&scp=1&sq=matt%20afon&st=cse).

A fairly innocent story about growing up and the rites of passage in the city, except that Gilda’s orthopedic spine practice had two recent patients who went cliff-diving with less than optimal results. A 21-year-old man broke four vertebrae being a daredevil in New Zealand; a 20-year-old woman required surgery after diving off a cliff in Malta.

As one of the Bronx jumpers said, “There’s no safety net here. It’s your own decision. You’re taking your own risk.” One parent acknowledged the risk but didn’t forbid her son from participating. I guess she has a different set of parenting values, or fears, than I have.