What's in a Name?

My given name suffers from Rodney Dangerfield Syndrome—it gets no respect!

Can you think of another name more associated with comical characters? Consider...there was Murray the Dog on Mad About You. Murray the Cop on The Odd Couple. Murray the Robot in something called The Haunted World of El Superbeasto, a 2009 movie based on a comic book series by Rob Zombie.

According to one reviewer, the animated film “follows the craziness of El Superbeasto (Tom Papa), his one-eyed, slutty sister Suzi-X (Sheri Moon Zombie) and the horny robot that she built named Murray the Robot (Brian Posehn). The three, mostly Suzi-X and Murray the Robot, must battle through hordes of zombie Nazis and stop the evil Dr. Satan (Paul Giamatti) from marrying Velvet Von Black (Rosario Dawson), who is a stripper that El Superbeasto is lusting for and the only woman who can turn Dr. Satan into the powerful monster he wants to be.”

Gee, I always wanted to be in an adventure movie. No comment on the horny aspect of my character. By the way, here’s a link to the actor who voices Murray the Robot. You’ll recognize him from Just Shoot Me or The Sarah Silverman Show. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brian_Posehn.

I was reading the Sunday NY Times Arts & Leisure section today, an interview with Mel Brooks and Carl Reiner on their 2000-year-old man shtick, when I came across this bit of interplay:

REINER: (He notices that Mr. Brooks is twiddling his thumbs.) Now watch this. Who was the first one to twiddle his thumbs?

BROOKS: Murray.

REINER: Murray? (He laughs)

BROOKS: Murray, the cave man.

REINER: What made him twiddle his thumbs?

BROOKS: He couldn’t go on the hunt. He had hurt his foot very badly the day before, a musk oxen had hurt his foot the day before, so he was in the thumb—he was in the cave, twiddling his thumbs. He was the first one to betray this nervous disorder, thumb twiddling. And when we all came back, we noticed it. We said, “Murray, kung voo roch mush?” We talked in a different language.

REINER: Yes, I see.

BROOKS: Cave talk (for) “Why the hell are you twiddling your thumbs.”

It’s an honor to be part of Mel Brooks’ and Carl Reiner’s zaniness (here’s a link to the full interview, http://www.nytimes.com/2009/11/15/arts/television/15karp.html?scp=1&sq=karpel&st=cse), but did you notice that Reiner laughed at the mere mention of my name?

Perhaps, forget perhaps...positively, the most tenacious Murray tormentors are the creative people behind the Muppets and Sesame Street. They have no less than eight Murray characters: Murray, a member of the All Monster and a Guy Named Murray Chorus; Murray Monster; Murray the Minstrel from Fraggle Rock; Murray the Mediocre (magician); Little Murray Sparkles; Murray Beethoven, the honker; Murray Matisse; and just plain Murray, a furry blue monster from We All Sing Together. Check them out, http://muppet.wikia.com/wiki/Murray.

They’re not even apologetic. Here’s what Sesame Street puppeteer and head writer Joey Mazzarino had to say about using the name Murray:

“We were trying to figure out a name and I think a crew guy or a producer said he looks furry, how about Furry Murray? My grandpa’s name was Murray, and I was always naming characters Murray, like Little Murray Sparkles, there’s a Murray in the Halloween video. And I was like great, it’s my grandpa’s name, so I’m going to use it. And then the Word on the Street thing came about, and there was a marketing campaign behind it as a promo for the show, and we were trying to figure out who to use, and they said they really liked those Murray and kid videos, and we took a chance. People saw it and recognized it as Sesame Street right away, so it turned out to be really great. And then we did those Murray Has a Little Lamb pieces, and those were the greatest shoots ever.”

My father wanted to name me Max, after a brother who died in the Holocaust. My mother thought Max was too much of an Old World name. They settled on Murray. Max went to my cousin, Uncle Willy’s son. He was constantly teased when growing up, called Maxie the Taxi after an Eddie Cantor diddy. Here’s a link, http://www.kidsaudiobooks.co.uk/books_audio/Maxie-the-Taxi.htm.

You be the judge...would I have been better off as a Murray or a Max?

Murraya Imparts Glory But No End to Murray Madness

Perhaps, in lieu of Zailia Avant-garde’s victory in the Scripps National Spelling Bee last week, it is time to retire all the jokes about people, animals, robots and Muppets named Murray.

The precocious 14-year-old from Louisiana captured the Spelling Bee title by correctly spelling Murraya. Like Zaila, I thought it had some link to the name Murray, of Scottish Gaelic origin, meaning “lord and master.” I could live with that. 

Zaila inquired if it had any link to a comedian named Murray (as in Bill Murray). 

Not quite. As Newsweek reported, according to “JSTOR, a digital library of academic journals, books and other sources, Murraya was named for Johan Andreas Murray, a Swedish physician and botanist from Stockholm who studied under Carl Linnaeus, the Swedish botanist and taxonomist who created binomial nomenclature, the formal system of naming organisms.” 

Murraya, Zaila was told, is a genus of tropical Asiatic and Australian trees having pinnate leaves with imbricated petals (whatever that means). 

Unfazed, after being told its language origin, Zaila rattled off in order the correct letters (https://www.nytimes.com/2021/07/09/us/zaila-avant-garde-spelling-bee-winner.html?smid=em-share).

So, has Zaila and Murraya expunged the comedy behind the name Murray? Don’t count on it.

Perhaps for his recently celebrated 95th birthday Mel Brooks will release me and all Murrays from a half-century assault on our fair name. Without a scrupulously rigorous onomatological investigation of the anti-Murrayism phenomena and when it began, I ascribe to Brooks and his partner in crime, the late beloved comic tour-de-force Carl Reiner, the onus as the originators and perpetrators of Murray defamation. 

Through their 2,000-year-old man comedy routines originated in the early 1950s during their time working for Sid Caesar’s television show, Brooks and Reiner perpetuated the idea that Murray was a comical name. To be exact and honest, it was the brainchild of Brooks who ad-libbed responses to setups from Reiner, as in this bit of repartee: 

REINER: (He notices that Mr. Brooks is twiddling his thumbs.) Now watch this. Who was the first one to twiddle his thumbs?

BROOKS: Murray.

REINER: Murray? (He laughs)

BROOKS: Murray, the cave man.

REINER: What made him twiddle his thumbs?

BROOKS: He couldn’t go on the hunt. He had hurt his foot very badly the day before, a musk oxen had hurt his foot the day before, so he was in the thumb—he was in the cave, twiddling his thumbs. He was the first one to betray this nervous disorder, thumb twiddling. And when we all came back, we noticed it. We said, “Murray, kung voo roch mush?” We talked in a different language.

REINER: Yes, I see.

BROOKS: Cave talk (for) “Why the hell are you twiddling your thumbs.”  

Perhaps with his straight man no longer able to feed him lines there will be no additional Brooks’ Murrayisms to torment me (for a more complete compilation of 2000-year-old man mania, query “Reiner” in the search panel of my blog). 

Alas, having opened the door to Murray mockery, Brooks spawned devoted disciples. One of the poker players in Neil Simon’s hit “The Odd Couple” was a policeman named Murray. Did I mention that Neil Simon honed his writing craft alongside Brooks and Reiner on the Sid Caesar show?

In the classic TV sitcom “Mad About You” starring Paul Reiser and Helen Hunt, the married Paul and Jamie Buchman have a dog named Murray, whose real name was Maui. 

“Twice voted the most popular dog by the readers of TV Guide, Murray is loyal and endearing while being very laid back and a bit thick-skulled,” according to Wikipedia. He had to be thick skulled because part of his appeal was chasing a presumed imaginary mouse, often eventually crashing into a bedroom wall. 

What’s the link to Mel Brooks? For the record, Brooks played Paul Buchman’s uncle for four episodes. It should be noted that Carl Reiner and Sid Caesar appeared one time in separate episodes. 

“Mad About You” ran for seven seasons from 1992 to 1999. It was revived for a limited 12 episode run on Spectrum Originals. The 2019 announcement about the revival came out on March 6, my birthday. Murray was replaced by a dog named Walter, though Murray’s back story made it into the script. 

“In the two-part series finale, The Final Frontier, adult Mabel (the Buchmans’ daughter) says that Murray died when she was six, but she was not told until she was twelve,” says Wikipedia. 

As I wrote back in 2009 (https://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2009/11/whats-in-name.html), “Perhaps, forget perhaps...positively, the most tenacious Murray tormentors are the creative people behind the Muppets and Sesame Street. They have no less than eight Murray characters: Murray, a member of the All Monster and a Guy Named Murray Chorus; Murray Monster; Murray the Minstrel from Fraggle Rock; Murray the Mediocre (magician); Little Murray Sparkles; Murray Beethoven, the honker; Murray Matisse; and just plain Murray, a furry blue monster from We All Sing Together. Check them out, http://muppet.wikia.com/wiki/Murray.”

My given name may have attained some of the respect it deserves with its association with Zaila, but I’m not expecting any reduction in comedic abuse.  

Mel Brooks Strikes Again

Mel Brooks victimized me again.

Not just me, directly, but rather any and all of my namesakes. Anyone with the name Murray.

In the latest homage to the incomparable comedian, this time an interview with the BBC’s Alan Yentob (Mel Brooks Strikes Back, aired for the first time on HBO Monday night), a video clip was shown of Brooks and Carl Reiner performing their 2000 Year Old Man routine before a live audience in the early to mid 1960’s. Reiner asked Brooks, playing the ancient yet dapperly-dressed man, how clapping one’s hands as an expression of applause began. 

“Murray the Coward” was responsible, Brooks responded. It seems back in olden days, people would show their approval by slapping their cheeks with their palms. But Murray the Coward didn’t want to hurt himself so he pulled his face back at the last second, allowing his hands to hit. When everyone else heard the sound and saw Murray was not in pain, they followed suit. Thus, clapping was created.

Now, I take great pride in bearing the name of such an innovator as Murray the Coward, but I find it rather amusing the 2000 Year Old Man had so many friends with the name Murray. Three years ago, in an interview with The NY Times, the 2000 Year Old Man attributed to Murray the invention of thumb twiddling: 

REINER: Who was the first one to twiddle his thumbs?

BROOKS: Murray.

REINER: Murray? 

BROOKS: Murray, the cave man.

REINER: What made him twiddle his thumbs?

BROOKS: He couldn’t go on the hunt. He had hurt his foot very badly the day before, a musk oxen had hurt his foot the day before, so he was in the thumb—he was in the cave, twiddling his thumbs. He was the first one to betray this nervous disorder, thumb twiddling. And when we all came back, we noticed it. We said, “Murray, kung voo roch mush?” We talked in a different language.

REINER: Yes, I see.

BROOKS: Cave talk (for) “Why the hell are you twiddling your thumbs.”

There aren’t too many Murrays roaming the earth these days, so I guess my brethren-in-name and I should be happy Mel Brooks is keeping our moniker alive. 

Of course, sometimes having an uncommon name can prove useful, especially if your wife has an equally distinctive name. To wit—when an acquaintance a few weeks ago was speaking to a professional colleague about our daughter’s singing, and she mentioned our first names, the other woman perked up. From the deep recesses of her mind she remembered a Gilda and Murray from her time living in the New Haven area 38 years ago. Could these be the same couple? Indeed we were. Our mutual acquaintance set up a reunion dinner two weeks ago. 

Murray and Gilda. Gilda and Murray. Vive la différence!

Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner? Uncle Murray

It’s a week before Thanksgiving. I’m still waiting for my invitation to your turkey chomp. What? You can’t recall adding me to your guest list? Apparently you’re not on Minnesota U.S. Senator Al Franken’s email list (neither am I, but my sister is even though she lives in Los Angeles), for he wrote: 

“This time of year I always look forward to the usual Thanksgiving things: turkey, Franni’s famous pies, stuffing, friends, family, and football.

“And of course, Uncle Murray.”

Long-time readers of No Socks Needed Anymore may recall my being less than enamored with the pleasure comedians have in casting my given name for misanthropic characters or dogs in their films and TV shows (i.e., Murray the policeman in The Odd Couple, or Murray the dog in Mad About You, or the numerous stories about Murray told by Mel Brooks and Carl Reiner in their 2,000-year-old man skits). 

So it wasn’t too surprising that Saturday Night Live alumnus-cum-politician Franken jumped on the make-fun-of-Murray bandwagon. He did, however, redeem my namesake in the rest of his email:   

“Uncle Murray isn’t a real person. Uncle Murray represents the family member at the dinner table who inevitably brings up politics, every single year.

“Now, some people get annoyed by Uncle Murray. But I think at least some of the things Uncle Murray talks about at the table are important. After all, Senators like me are supposed to know what concerns families share with each other at dinner. Those are actually the issues that matter -- they are experienced by real people -- and they are the ones we need to focus on.

“So I want you to tell me what your “Uncle Murray” (or you) will be talking about at the Thanksgiving table this year. It can be as simple as corporations aren’t people or that women deserve equal pay for equal work. It could be that LGBT friends and family deserve equal rights. It could be that climate change is real and happening and a serious risk to the future of the planet.

“What issues are you and your family most likely to discuss this year? What problems are affecting your family the most? (Franken asked that responses be sent to http://minnesota.alfranken.com/e51118m

“Can’t wait to read your responses.

“Al”

As long as we’re on the subject of politics, let’s stick with an item culled from the newspaper:

I’ve fashioned myself into a slow, careful reader. You might say slow reading is an occupational hazard of being an editor—if you are going to review other people’s writing you best do it carefully. Without haste. 

My snail-like pace reading all things from books to newspapers might explain why I find so many anomalies, mistakes and interesting items in the stories I read. I’m often disappointed when I fail to uncover a miscue. On the other hand, I exult in discovering a mistake or contradiction. Take, for instance, the Talk interview of David Brat in last Sunday’s New York Times magazine.

A 51-year-old Tea Party Republican congressman from Glen Allen, Va., Brat is a former college professor who took over Eric Cantor’s seat. Asked what he has learned in Washington, Brat said, “It’s hard. I like Plato’s maxim to start politics at 50 because you’re near death and the appetites are —whatever. You’re past the wine, women and song.”

Oh, really? Perhaps a visit to Wikipedia’s page entitled “List of federal political sex scandals in the United States” is in order for the ol’ professor. From 2000 through 2015, there have been 22 sex scandals, of which 14 involved politicos 50 years or older!

Seems to me the evidence is overwhelming that age is no barrier to a male politician seeking sex with women or men, and, in some cases, even boys.

My First Job Story

This is the season of graduations and oratory about pursuing one’s dream and first full-time job. For the fortunate, those two objectives merge. For most of the rest of humanity...

Countless commencement addresses and articles are exhorting the newly liberated from the halls of academia to be persistent. Katherine Brooks, director of liberal arts career services at the University of Texas in Austin and author of a career guide called ‘You Majored in What?”, was quoted in the NY Times last Sunday advising, “That means you can’t be casual about your job search, and your résumé, cover letter and interviewing skills must be top notch.” (http://www.nytimes.com/2010/05/23/jobs/23search.html?scp=2&sq=korkki&st=cse)

It also doesn’t hurt to have a little bit of luck, fortuitous timing and shared background with the person who hires you. Take my first job, for example. Murray Farber, managing editor administration of The New Haven Register, hired me. Murray grew up in Brooklyn, as I did. Though he attended BTA High School, rival of my alma mater, Flatbush, Murray didn’t hold that against me. Much as blood is thicker than water, Murraydom trumps any reservations.

Yet, if it weren’t for Donna Doherty I would never have met Murray Farber.

Donna Doherty was the quintessential shiksa (Gentile woman) of every Jewish man’s dreams. Tall, lithe, beautiful and blonde—really blonde—, Donna Doherty (woman like her should always be referred to by their full names) entered my life as a fellow graduate student at Syracuse University. My friend Steve Kreinberg and I drooled over her, from afar mind you, considering that Steve was married and I was engaged. Donna Doherty hardly knew we existed. She left Syracuse before graduation in 1972 and headed back home to Branford, Conn., just east of New Haven.

A few months later, armed with a master’s degree in newspaper journalism, I started visiting newspapers in search of that first job. I’d cold call managing editors of papers from northern Virginia through northern Massachusetts. They lauded my moxie. They all told me they had no job openings.

July 14, 1972, I arranged a day trip from Brooklyn to five papers in southwest Connecticut. At each stop the same result—the managing editor was away attending a publishing conference in Arizona. Around noon I found myself in Ansonia, at the proverbial fork in the road. Right headed toward Bridgeport, left toward New Haven. Ah, New Haven. Wasn’t that close to Donna Doherty’s home town?, I thought. It would mean a longer ride home, but there was no question in my mind which direction I’d head.

Thirty minutes later I was inside the Register building at 367 Orange Street. Depressed with my earlier failures to meet any managing editors, I sheepishly allowed the receptionist to steer me to the head of personnel without even trying to see if the ME was present. Robert E. Lee (yes, that really was his name) gave me the standard response. No, there weren’t any openings. Yes, I’ll take your résumé just in case something happens. After all, you never know.

And then his phone rang. Yes, I have someone sitting across my desk this very moment, he said into the handset. I perked up. He sent me up to the third floor newsroom. Just my luck, the Register had two managing editors, one for news, one for administration. The ME-News was in Arizona, but the ME-Administration, Murray Farber, was in New Haven looking after the business and having to deal with a sudden resignation. I started the job two months later, September 14, 1972, thanks in no small measure to persistence, luck, timing, Donna Doherty and Murray Farber.

(PS: Two years later Donna Doherty joined the Register’s sister publication, the Journal-Courier, as a sports reporter. She eventually left to become editor of Tennis magazine. I believe she currently is arts editor of the New Haven Register.

After posting an entry on Passover Wonders in early April (http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2010/04/passover-wonders.html), I received this short email, “I loved your Passover blog. Did all Jewish mothers come out of the same mold?” It came from a Murray Farber. Email exchanges confirmed it was my Murray Farber, who somehow found my musings on the Internet. Murray is now retired after a career that included stints as managing editor of the news department of WTNH-TV, the New Haven television station, and as head of PR of Fairfield University.)

31 Days to Fresh Start: Neighborhood Wildlife

Another Murray moved into the neighborhood. Of course, this Murray ambles along on four legs, has a bushy tail and speaks in single syllables—arf, ruff, bow wow.

Murray is a big dog. A cross, I believe, of a Saint Bernard and a Newfoundland known as a Saint Bernewfie. 

I usually encounter the black and white Murray curled up on his front lawn as I walk around the neighborhood. He rarely gives me more than a baleful glance. Mostly he ignores me. He never barks, unless a dog in a nearby house sets him off.

So far he hasn’t shown any inclination toward wanting to engage in a relationship.

With one exception 48 years ago, I have not met any Murray younger than me. Murray is not the kind of old time name enjoying a modern revival, like Max or Leo. 

Murray has generally been confined to the names of dogs or policemen in comedies and to variations of Mel Brooks-Carl Reiner 2,000 Year Old Man routines (https://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2009/11/whats-in-name.html).

It’s a mixed blessing. It is not a source of pride, but at least my given name remains in contemporary usage.

Deer Me: Just as we were getting ready to say Friday night sabbath prayers before dinner the security lights of our side yard went on. Caught in their glare was a young buck, his antlers in early stage of growth.

As our neighborhood is a block from Saxon Woods Park and abuts the rear of a nursery/landscaping business, deer sightings are quite common, as are other wild beasts. A coyote several years ago. A trio of wild turkeys, including one that chose to plop on top of one of our cars idle in our driveway. Skunks. Hawks, even a turkey vulture with an impressive wing span. Woodchucks and raccoons, of course.

Deer tracks often can be found on our lawn. But we’ve never witnessed their presence until Friday night.

Bambi, as I immediately started calling it, gazed in at Gilda and me as we watched him through our full length windows. He was about 18 feet from our home, standing next to a fence. When he realized we were no threat to him he began his supper—ivy covering the fence. Bambi munched away, occasionally stopping to look across at us and, to his displeasure, to listen to the high pitched yapping of a neighbor’s small dog that probably had picked up his scent.

After about 10 minutes Bambi had enough of our hospitality and wandered back into the nearby woods, leaving footprints in the snow and plenty of ivy for what I suspected would be a return engagement.

Yup, Bambi returned Saturday morning. Or maybe he never left, shielding himself from observation behind pine trees in our yard. He was back there again as I began to write this. 

I zipped up my snow boots for a closer look. I ventured within 10 feet of him, shielded by pine tree branches. Neither of us seemed eager for a closer encounter. 

Shortly after I started raking snow off the solar panels atop the garage, Bambi wandered off. 

He did not return Saturday night, nor Sunday morning. The only evidence of his presence, apart from tracks in the melting snow, are bald spots on our fence where he chewed away the ivy. 

For wildlife visitors I’ll have to content myself with the cardinals, blue jays, chickadees, goldfinches, nuthatches, morning doves, starlings, sparrows and woodpeckers that frequent our yard when I restock fresh seed and suet in our bird feeders.  

Given coronavirus restrictions, they’ll have to suffice for visitors during these pandemic times.

Murray-Go-Round

I met another Murray the other day. Of course, he’s older than I am. We met at the senior citizens center in the Free Synagogue of Mt. Vernon where I picked up food to be delivered as part of the kosher Meals on Wheels program.

We chatted a few minutes about the “joys” of having a name rarely conferred onto any newborns these days, or for the last five or more decades, for that matter. I told him I wrote a blog about the lack of respect our name generates (http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2009/11/whats-in-name.html).

I can think of only one Murray I ever met who was my younger.

Gilda and I were traveling by train from Florence to Venice. It was the summer of 1976. Our first trip to Venice. We were not aware that only the first two cars of the train would be uncoupled for the journey onto the island city. When the conductor eventually made this known to us in the fourth car, we hurriedly assembled our overpacked luggage and jostled our way forward.

I kept hearing my name; Gilda kept denying she was calling me. We finally made it to the second car, Gilda standing next to me. “Murray, wait for me” rang in both our ears. The dulcimer sound came from an attractive blonde. Sure, I’ll wait for you, I thought. Only, she wasn’t talking to me. She was attaching herself to a young gent standing next to me.

Naturally, we introduced ourselves. (Murrays have a certain bond, like Masons or Elks who meet in strange lands. No secret handshake, just a bond. More about that magical bond in another posting next week.) They were on their honeymoon, having married right after graduating from Queens College. His aunt, a travel agent, had gifted them a six-week honeymoon. They were booked into Excelsior hotels throughout Europe. Everything had been pre-planned and pre-paid. All they had to do was show up at their hotels and their respective city tours. They even had the time of their gondola ride scheduled—8 pm that evening.

It was already four weeks into their extensive tour. They were clearly exhausted but couldn’t take the time to rest. Pre-paid hotel reservations could not be changed, so they trekked on.

I asked how they liked Rome. They did. I asked what they thought of the Vatican. They sheepishly said they hadn’t seen it. Huh? Explain yourselves, Murray.

Seems his aunt did not book that tour. Before they realized the Vatican was in Rome they were in Florence. And they couldn’t go back!

My confidence that the exalted name of Murray was bestowed only on the intelligent vanished that instant.

Not all was lost, however. They realized they would not be able to use their passes to the Lido Beach across the channel before having to leave Venice, so they generously gave them to us. That way, at least, the Lido would not go Murrayless. We enjoyed a beautiful day at the beach.

A Career Based on Talent and Good Fortune

I turned the car radio to ESPN Wednesday afternoon just as Michael Kay and his sidekicks were discussing the impact of talent and luck on their respective successful careers.

One day I turned left instead of right, was the way Kay, the play-by-play television announcer of the New York Yankees, rationalized his good fortune. I readily identified with that explanation of how luck, just plain dumb luck, can differentiate equally skilled job applicants. 

As I wrote five years ago, it also doesn’t hurt to have fortuitous timing and shared background with the person who hires you. Take my first job, for example. Murray Farber, managing editor administration of The New Haven Register, hired me. Murray grew up in Brooklyn, as I did. Though he attended BTA High School, rival of my alma mater, Flatbush, Murray didn’t hold that against me. Much as blood is thicker than water, “Murraydom” trumps any reservations.

Yet, if it weren’t for Donna Doherty I would never have met Murray Farber.

Donna Doherty was the quintessential shiksa (Gentile woman) of every Jewish man’s dreams. Tall, lithe, beautiful and blonde—really blonde—, Donna Doherty entered my life as a fellow graduate student at Syracuse University. My friend Steve Kreinberg and I drooled over her, from afar mind you, considering that Steve was married and I was engaged. Donna Doherty hardly knew we existed. She left Syracuse before graduation in 1972 and headed back home to Branford, Conn., just east of New Haven.

A few months later, armed with a master’s degree in newspaper journalism, I started visiting newspapers in search of that first job. I’d cold call managing editors of papers from northern Virginia through northern Massachusetts. They lauded my moxie. They all told me they had no job openings.

July 14, 1972, I arranged a day trip from Brooklyn to five papers in southwest Connecticut. At each stop the same result—the managing editor was away attending a publishing conference in Arizona. Around noon I found myself in Ansonia, at the proverbial fork in the road. Right headed toward Bridgeport, left toward New Haven. Ah, New Haven. Wasn’t that close to Donna Doherty’s home town?, I thought. It would mean a longer ride home, but there was no question in my mind which direction I’d head.

Thirty minutes later I was inside The Register building at 367 Orange Street. Depressed with my earlier failures to meet any managing editors, I sheepishly allowed the receptionist to steer me to the head of personnel without even trying to see if the ME was present. Robert E. Lee (yes, that really was his name) gave me the standard response. No, there weren’t any openings. Yes, I’ll take your résumé just in case something happens. After all, you never know.

And then his phone rang. Yes, I have someone sitting across my desk this very moment, he said into the handset. I perked up. He sent me up to the third floor newsroom. Just my luck, The Register had two managing editors, one for news, one for administration. The ME-News was in Arizona, but the ME-Administration, Murray Farber, was in New Haven looking after the business and having to deal with a sudden resignation. I started the job two months later, September 14, 1972, thanks in no small measure to persistence, luck, timing, Donna Doherty and Murray Farber.

I left The Register four years later to be a press secretary in an unsuccessful congressional campaign. From November to early March 1977 I was jobless, unable to secure a newspaper position. Gilda said she’d move anywhere but back to New York. 

As luck would have it, a copy of the Sunday New York Times I bought in a Cumberland Farms store included Classified ads, a section not usually distributed in New Haven back then. I knew the job ads were for Manhattan-based companies, and were for trade publications, not traditional newspapers, but our bank account dictated some compromise. I answered two ads, both, it turned out, for the same spot, that of field editor on Nation’s Restaurant News. I got the job and we moved back to New York.

Luck played a part even when I didn’t get a job. A year later I was one of two candidates under consideration to be the top editor of the magazine of the Automotive After Parts Association in Washington, DC. A local candidate was chosen, but six months later the association called to say it made a mistake. I thanked them for their belated offer but in those same six months I told them I had received two promotions and was now the editorial head of Chain Store Age, a title I would not relinquish for the next 30 years. 

Lest you get the impression my success came solely from the proper alignment of the stars, let me assure you talent played a significant role, as well. Within two years I became one of six bureau chiefs on The Register’s staff of 100 reporters. 

I earned numerous accolades on Nation’s Restaurant News and Chain Store Age, including a Jesse H. Neal Award, considered the Pulitzer Prize of business to business journalism. 

Talent, however, can get you only so far. It’s far better to combine talent with a measure of luck. 

The Domestication of Murray and Other Meshugas

When asked over the years if I cooked, Gilda usually replied, nine times out of ten I could boil water—maybe. I would respond, Gilda and I had a mutual-partition-of-domestic-labor-pact: she would cook, we’d both enjoy the gourmet meals she prepared, I would be in charge of setting the table and cleaning up the dishes and pots and pans. 

The arrangement worked fairly well from my perspective for 40 years, but change is afoot. Given Gilda’s work schedule which includes waking up at 5:18 am, I have been conscripted into the meal preparation corps. Tuesday night was our first dinner at Maison Murray, Cucina Murray, Bistro Murray or just plain Murray’s Kitchen. We dined on broiled salmon, baked potatoes garnished with butter and sour cream, and steamed broccoli. We don’t eat dessert, as a rule, unless you count after-dinner pills as a treat. 

Tonight’s pre-tennis menu includes cheese blintzes and salad. 

Don’t think my cooking exploits know no bounds. I’m very much the neophyte chef in the kitchen, though I’ve put together a list of some dozen meals to rotate into our Monday through Thursday repasts. I’m writing down detailed instructions for each dish, making sure we have a balance of protein, starch and vegetable. 

This is a brave step for me, though not entirely a new world as I cooked for myself while in graduate school at Syracuse University. In my garret of an apartment in an old Victorian-style house on East Genesee Street, I would cook tuna casserole, meat loaf and anything else that would fit into a toaster oven. I also learned to drink beer, really drink beer. My friend and classmate Steve Kreinberg introduced me to Lum’s, a chain of family restaurants whose signature dish was hot dogs cooked in beer. I preferred their basket of fried shrimp, but what made a visit to Lum’s special was the frosted mugs used to serve the beer. To commemorate those days I keep a few mugs frosting away in the freezer. 

This Is Crazy: I'm always amused when gentiles try to speak Yiddish. They never get the intonation right. For example, instead of a guttural, growly “chutzpah” that conveys the indignant reproach of the speaker, it usually comes out as a soft “hutzpah,” a kind of “oh, really” quality to the put down.

Incorporating Yiddish in one’s writing isn't easy, either. Take Maureen Dowd’s attempt in her column last Sunday for The NY Times. Analyzing Hillary Clinton's 2016 presidential prospects, Dowd wrote, “Her challenge is to get into the future and stay there, adding fresh people and perspectives and leaving the Clinton mishegoss (italics added) and cheesiness in the past.”

When I first read this I chuckled. I wondered how many non-Jews would realize she meant to say “meshugas,” the Yiddish word for craziness. I was all set to lambaste her for failing to correctly spell meshugas when I decided to do some checking and came across the following 2009 article from The Jewish Daily Forward (http://forward.com/articles/116716/clearing-up-the-meshugas-for-maureen-dowd-and-will/). 

For those not willing to jump on the link, here’s a precis: It seems Dowd had previously used the meshugas spelling but was chastened by Times columnist and wordsmith William Safire that the correct spelling was mishegoss. Safire might have been the only one to believe that, but his stature was sufficient for Dowd to follow his example. 

The lesson to be learned from this—before criticizing, it’s a good idea to check as many facts as possible. Thank you Google and the Internet.

Mr. Lucky: I consider myself fortunate not to be in school these days, not when technology enables teachers to monitor a student’s reading and study habits (http://www.nytimes.com/2013/04/09/technology/coursesmart-e-textbooks-track-students-progress-for-teachers.html?ref=education&_r=0). From high school on, I was a lousy student. I received good grades in subjects I was interested in, but not because I read the course material. I was just hard-wired, or lucky enough, to know the answers in subjects ranging from history to English to elementary sciences. 

I’d be in real trouble if my grades depended on whether I was reading the assignments. 

For Shame: There’s no doubt Margaret Thatcher was a polarizing figure, not just in British politics but throughout the world, as well. I find it shameful, however, that while media baron Rupert Murdoch praised the former prime minister for being "undoubtedly one of the most important figures in the 20th century. I found her attitude an inspiration in my business life,” he allowed his British tabloid paper, The Sun, to trumpet her passing with the following headline: “Maggie Dead In Bed At Ritz.” 

How tawdry. How lacking in respect. How shameful.

New Year's Thoughts, Some Old, Some New

Nothing says the start of a new year like…a reprise of a previous blog posting! I was inspired to repeat myself by an article in the New Year’s Day New York Times (“Grand Arcade Is Once Again a Sight All Can See”) about public tours of the magnificent lobby of the Woolworth Building at 233 Broadway (http://www.nytimes.com/2015/01/01/nyregion/off-limits-for-over-a-decade-lobby-of-woolworth-building-is-open-for-tours.html?module=Search&mabReward=relbias%3Ar%2C{%221%22%3A%22RI%3A5%22}&_r=0). Thanks to my enterprising wife, I didn’t have to wait for a most fascinating tour of the lobby. She arranged a captivating 90 minute group viewing for three couples last April. 

So, without further ado, here’s what I wrote in August 2012, followed by some new thoughts as we embark on 2015:

WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 8, 2012

An Empire Built on Nickels and Dimes  

Ever been inside the Woolworth Building at 233 Broadway in lower Manhattan? During my early days reporting on the retail industry, I went there often to meet with executives of what at the time was one of the most diversified international retailers, though not one of the most successful. Today, all that remains of that empire are memories, folklore and just one enterprise, Foot Locker.

Today’s nostalgia is prompted by reports the top 30 floors of the 57-story, Cass Gilbert-designed landmark building have been bought, to be turned into high-priced condominiums (http://www.nytimes.com/2012/08/08/realestate/top-floors-of-woolworth-building-to-be-remade-as-luxury-apartments.html?_r=1&hpw). How ironic these multi-million dollar residences will sit atop a building paid for from the proceeds of a nickel and dime store chain. Frank W. Woolworth paid for his edifice in cash, $13.5 million, what today would be the equivalent of nearly $300 million. 

The neo-Gothic structure, tallest in the world when it opened in 1913, was never meant to be solely the province of the Woolworth Corporation. Its headquarters staff used just a few of the floors, 44, 45 and 46, as I faintly recall. Some of its divisions, including Kinney Shoe Corp. from which Foot Locker sprang, had offices elsewhere in Manhattan. 

I first entered the Woolworth Building in late 1978, as part of research for a January 1979 feature on the company’s 100th anniversary. The building was nicknamed the “cathedral of commerce” the day it opened. Like the Gothic churches of Europe, the lobby’s vaulted ceilings, mosaics and stained glass made one feel insignificant. See for yourself: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:WTM3_PAT_M_IN_NYC_0021.jpg  

It inspired awe. And wonder, not the wonder of reverence, but rather the wonder of consternation. How could any company that produced such magnificence sink to a level of mediocrity and even insignificance? How could its executives fail to recognize changes within the retail industry? 

To be sure, the variety-store oriented Woolworth brain trust had diversified, investing in discount stores (Woolco), specialty stores (Susie’s Casuals, Anderson-Little, Richman Bros., Kinney), off-price stores (*J. Brannam), and international divisions (Canada, Mexico, Germany, Spain, Great Britain). Without going into an exhaustive explanation of what went wrong with each, the short story is they all underachieved. They were either closed down or sold off, save Foot Locker. (After shuttering the variety stores, Woolworth changed its name to Venator Group, then Foot Locker.)

Here’s one example that encapsulates the mentality of what went wrong. As they had for decades during the heyday of the five and dime store era, everyone took their 30-minute lunch break at 12 noon sharp. Executives and secretaries. It was impossible to reach anyone there by phone during that half hour. Nor was it possible to reach anyone after 4:30 pm., even if you were calling from the West Coast. They all went home. 

Modern day retailing needs found no home at 233 Broadway. No doubt, the new homeowners atop the Woolworth tower can expect to have all their modern day housing needs fulfilled. 

New Year Thoughts: Now that the holiday gift-giving season is over, we have about 30 days of silence before we hear again one of the most obnoxious radio commercials ever transmitted, the voice of Rocky Moselle pitching the Star Register “gift that lasts a lifetime” for just $34.99. Next time he’ll be hawking his star-naming scheme as an eternally loving Valentine’s Day gift.

I’m amazed that people, real people, actually respond to this shpiel, but I guess the aphorism about a sucker being born every minute is right (FYI, P.T. Barnum did not say it; rather it is widely believed to have been uttered by David Hannum, a contemporary and competitor of Barnum the showman). 

Aside from envy (“why didn’t I think of such a money-making scam?”), the Star Registry has generated its fair share of criticism and, thankfully, some amusing parodies including this one from Derfmagazine.com:

NEW YORK - Rocky Moselle, Spokesman for the international Star Registry, reported this week star names for all of the stars in the universe were sold out during this busy Christmas shopping season. Because experts believed the star inventory in the universe was infinite, the company was shocked by this sudden inventory depletion. In response to this crisis, the International Star Registry has announced plans to launch a new venture entitled, “International Grain of Sand Registry” which will allow the same gullible customer base to purchase and copyright a name for a grain of sand somewhere on earth. Also being market tested is the, “International Blade of Grass Registry”. 

Enough Already: I’ve written about liberties scriptwriters take with my given name, using it for characters as varied as inept, funny policemen to docile family dogs. For my 65th birthday last March my sister sent me a birthday card with a picture of a cat on the front with the following message: “This is Murray. Murray loves to be treated, pampered and be the center of attention.” On the inside it said, “So on your birthday, eat, drink and be Murray.”

I had previously seen this card, as well as a Christmas card that portrayed a Jewish looking Santa Claus shrugging his shoulders and saying “Murray Christmas.” I actually bought hundreds of them and sent them out to business associates many years ago.

The latest “ecumenical” stab at my name came from the animated TV show, “How Murray Saved Christmas,” broadcast in early December. Just so I’d know what I was writing about I taped it and watched a few minutes at the front and back of the show. Ugh. Please, Hollywood, can’t you find another funny name?

Charles III To Sit Upon a Stone

One of the more quaint customs to be witnessed with the investiture of Charles III as king of England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland and the rest of the British Commonwealth will be his sitting on a weathered high-backed wooden chair atop a formidable piece of rock known as the Stone of Scone (pronounced Scoon).

Last used for Elizabeth II’s coronation in 1953, the stone has a history associated with the division and then unity of the British Isles under a single monarch. 

Until nearly 1,000 years ago the Stone of Scone rested on the grounds of what is now known as Scone Palace near Perth, the one-time capital of Scotland.  Perth is 45 miles north of Edinburgh, the current capital. For the golfers among you, it is 34 miles west of St. Andrews. 

Scone is the historic location where 38 kings of Scotland were crowned sitting on the Stone of Scone. Until 1296, when English King Edward I imprinted his subjugation of the Scots by taking the stone to London’s Westminster Abbey. It remained there except for just a scant few months, to be used for coronation ceremonies, until its formal return to Scotland, to Edinburgh Castle, in 1996. For Charles’ coronation the stone will be transported back to London (https://sparkypus.com/2020/05/26/the-coronation-chair-and-stone-of-scone/).

Gilda and I visited Scone Palace in 2019 and saw facsimiles of the famous stone and throne chair. Fore more than 400 years the the location has been the ancestral home of the Murray family, successive Earls of Mansfield since 1776. The palace was built from 1803-1812.

The first Earl of Mansfield, William Murray, was Lord Chief Justice of England. In 1783 he issued a ruling that began the process that led to the end of slavery in Britain.

As important as that action was, Hollywood found the life of his niece, Dido Elizabeth Belle Lindsay, more appealing. It filmed her life story, with liberties, in Belle, released in 2013 (https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Belle_(2013_film)#Plot). 

Dido was the daughter of an enslaved African woman in the West Indies and Captain Sir John Lindsay, a Royal Navy officer. Lindsay entrusted her to Murray and his wife to raise, as they were doing with another great-niece, Lady Elizabeth Murray. When the two cousins matured they sat for an oil portrait by David Martin. The painting is displayed at Scone Palace. 

Speaking of portraits, just days after Joe Biden was elected, I wrote that one of his first orders of business should be the formal unveiling of the portraits of President Barack and First Lady Michelle Obama to be hung in the White House, a  ceremony Obama’s successor failed to honor, no surprise given his boorish behavior. Well, it’s taken almost two years but the slight has been cleansed. 

Cricket, Anyone? One of the more optimistic forecasts my eyes passed over recently was a prediction that cricket would “explode” in popularity in America (https://mol.im/a/11182649).

Gimmeabreak! While I know the British, as well as the Pakistanis, Indians and other countries influenced by English colonialism favor the sport, it is far too tame and longwinded for American tastes (https://www.topendsports.com/world/lists/popular-sport/sports/cricket.htm). 

Cricket is even more sleep-inducing than soccer. Yes, Cricket has more scoring than soccer, baseball, hockey, basketball and football combined, but I cannot conceive the average American will become a fan beyond those who immigrated here from countries where cricket is a passion. 

Coney Island Memory

Murray Handwerker is dead. He was 89.

For one who shares his given name fading into obscurity, except for the occasional comedic or animal character in movies and sitcoms, it’s an occasion to mourn, especially if you grew up in Brooklyn and enjoyed the legacy of Murray Handwerker and his parents, Nathan and Ida. For it was Murray Handwerker who took his parents’ busy Coney Island hot dog stand at the corner of Surf and Stillwell Avenues (and another unit in Oceanside, Long Island) and made it into a national, if not international, sensation. Across the country today there are 234 Nathan’s Famous outlets. The franks are sold in more than 18,000 locations worldwide. Last year, according to the company, Nathan’s sold more than 425 million hot dogs. They no longer sell for a nickel, but they remain among the tastiest you can sink your teeth into. And the crinkly-cut French fries are a meal unto themselves.

Truth be told, I wasn’t a big fan of hot dogs when growing up. I preferred Nathan’s hamburgers smothered in grilled onions. Grease extraordinaire. Delicious!

Any trip to Coney Island, about three miles from my parents’ home, required a stopover at Nathan’s. My most memorable visit came before the one and hopefully only time I would be mugged.

One Saturday afternoon in late spring, when I was 14, my friends Jerry and Stanley talked me into going to Coney Island with them. Jerry and Stanley came from more Orthodox Jewish families. They weren’t supposed to ride on the Sabbath, or spend money. I was supposed to hang around home because my cousin Michael was coming over, but the lure of friendship and the enticement of Coney Island, back then a less than secure venue, trumped blood lines. Besides, Jerry and Stanley said they’d spring for the rides and food.

We took the BMT train from Neck Road a few stops to the end of the line, Stillwell Avenue. After eating at Nathan’s, the 90 degree turns of the Wild Mouse ride almost made us give back our food. Undeterred, we were walking toward Steeplechase Park with our entry fee money in our hands when we were jumped from behind by several ruffians. We didn’t know what hit us, but we quickly realized our $20 was gone with the tussle.

With no more mad money to spend, we headed back home. I caught a lot of flack from my parents for not being around to play with Michael. I fibbed I was playing ball at the schoolyard a few blocks away and had lost track of time.

Years later, in 1977 while a field editor for Nation’s Restaurant News, I interviewed Murray Handwerker. I did not tell him of my escapade that day in 1964.

Newlyweds in Venice Provide Memories

Gilda and I were not invited to the three day wedding extravaganza in Venice ceremoniously linking Jeff Bezos with Lauren Sanchez. 

But we did attend a Venetian wedding 25 years ago that set a standard not easily matched by any nuptials we have since witnessed. 

With about 20 friends from America in attendance, and another 70 or so relatives and friends from Italy, Gianna and Jim exchanged marriage vows in the 15th century Gothic style Church of Santo Stefano. For Jim, a widower, it was his second marriage. 

A Catholic, Gianna had married and divorced her first two husbands. As both men were Jewish, rabbis had officiated the ceremonies. Now, marrying Jim, a fellow Catholic, finally a priest could sanctify her union as, in the church’s eyes, Gianna had never previously married, much less divorced. 

Ironically, the priest was a Jewish convert. Indeed, he had been a rabbi. I have teased Gianna that her three marriages were officiated by rabbis. 

Gianna was born in Venice. Her elderly mother was still living in the canal city. Her brother and his wife lived in nearby Vicenza where he was head of the Italian office of the Gemological Institute of America. 

A co-worker of Gilda’s at Beth Israel and later Mount Sinai Hospital, Gianna orchestrated a near week-long celebration including several group dinners. A visit to the GIA proved educational in precious metal security. 

Upon entering the GIA each visitor and their belongings were weighed. We were weighed upon exiting, as well. Any discrepancy had to be accounted for by the weight of purchases that might have been made. 

We next traveled to downtown Vicenza to Gianna’s brother’s upper floor residence in a stone building easily 400 years old. When we emerged from the elevator, centuries of time evaporated. The apartment was one of the most modern Gilda and I had ever been in. Gilda commented how environmentally conservative Italians and other European countries have been compared to Americans. They preserve the exterior character of their buildings, gutting the inside to retrofit modern conveniences. In America, all too often we knock down heritage structures to build bland, formulaic structures absent character. 

This preservation mentality displayed itself to us a few years later when our family vacationed in Eastern Europe. In Budapest we idled our car as  Gilda went inside the old, very old, Hotel Pest to check on its accommodations. She emerged after 20 minutes giggling in delight. Yes, the exterior was old, but the interior was ultra modern, though the architects did leave a glassed off view of how the building looked hundreds of years ago. 

Back to Venice: Following the late Saturday afternoon ceremony, the wedding entourage boarded gondolas for a circular half mile voyage to the Bauer Hotel for the dinner and party. It was the local custom back then that while the band played during dinner no one danced. Gianna’s and Jim’s American guests had other ideas.

Between courses, we Americans got up to dance. At first the band was nonplussed. But the band soon got into the swing of things and we danced the night away, joined by local Venetians. 

Like Bezos and Sanchez, Gianna and Jim had top line entertainment attend and perform at their wedding. A personal friend, Sean McDermott sang during dinner. McDermott has had lead roles in numerous Broadway musicals including Miss Saigon, Grease and Chicago, and has performed for three presidents at the Kennedy Center in Washington, D.C.  

Murrays in Venice: Gianna’s and Jim’s wedding was not Gilda’s and my only time in Venice. On our first trip there during July 1976, we had a memorable encounter with another Murray, a newlywed younger than I.

We were traveling by train from Florence to Venice. We were not aware that only the first two cars of the train would be uncoupled for the journey onto the island city. When the conductor eventually made this known to us in the fourth car, we hurriedly assembled our overpacked luggage and jostled our way forward.

I kept hearing my name; Gilda kept denying she was calling me. We finally made it to the second car, Gilda standing next to me. “Murray, wait for me” rang in both our ears. The dulcimer sound came from an attractive blonde. Sure, I’ll wait for you, I thought. Only, she wasn’t talking to me. She was attaching herself to a young gent standing next to me.

Naturally, we introduced ourselves. (Murrays have a certain bond, like Masons or Elks who meet in strange lands. No secret handshake, just a bond.) They were on their honeymoon, having married right after graduating from Queens College. His aunt, a travel agent, had gifted them a six-week honeymoon. They were booked into Excelsior hotels throughout Europe. Everything had been pre-planned and pre-paid. All they had to do was show up at their hotels and their respective city tours. They even had the time of their gondola ride scheduled—8 pm that evening.

It was already four weeks into their extensive tour. They were clearly exhausted but couldn’t take the time to rest. Pre-paid hotel reservations could not be changed, so they trekked on.

I asked how they liked Rome. They did. I asked what they thought of the Vatican. They sheepishly said they hadn’t seen it. Huh? Explain yourselves, Murray.

Seems his aunt did not book that tour. Before they realized the Vatican was in Rome they were in Florence. And they couldn’t go back!

My confidence that the exalted name of Murray was bestowed only on the intelligent vanished that instant.

Not all was lost, however. They realized they would not be able to use their passes to the Lido Beach across the channel before having to leave Venice, so they generously gave them to us. That way, at least, the Lido would not go Murrayless. We enjoyed a beautiful day at the beach.