Category Archives: Personal Experience

FROM THE SPORTS DESK

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This is the time of year where every major sports league has something exciting either taking place or about to. A kaleidoscope of starting times, match-ups, rival networks, and television stations bursting into sports bloom.

For me, it just doesn’t get any better.

We’re hours away from discovering who will be this year’s men’s and women’s college basketball champions. It’s exciting even though I have no dog in the games. Actually, I might be the dog myself, salivating at the excitement of a final contest. Like my cousin Hank says, we’d watch any final of any championship including sports we know nothing about. Badminton, anyone?

Football’s free agency has slowed to a crawl, but when it was hot there was a great deal of player movement, something that fans love. Trades in any sport often remind me of slavery—only these slaves usually end up with millions in their pockets after the musical chair game is finished. The team owners always end up with more, but hey, that’s capitalism for you.

And here come the N.B.A. playoffs where I do have a dog. A real underdog. The Boston Celtics are limping (literally our two stars, Paul Pierce and Kevin Garnett on ankle injuries) into the final regular season games hoping to cling to the seventh spot so they don’t see the Miami Heat in the first round. Although the Celts have been amazingly resilient throughout the course of this injury-plagued season, losing eight out of your last eleven games with nine to go doesn’t bode well for playoff momentum. (But the games won’t be decided before there are the jump balls so the Celts still have a chance for another banner. Just don’t bet the rent. I sure ain’t.

I’m not much of a hockey fan until their playoffs, which, in this strike-shortened season, is almost upon us. I follow the Bruins enough to know a couple of trades brought the eventual Hall of Famer who is on the downside of his career, Jaomir Jager, to the team. Since I really don’t know too much about the sport I’ll have to watch some games just to see what he looks like. Of course, those games will be in the Championship Series.

Now, the absolute best! Baseball season has begun. Yeah, April is the cruelest month and playing ball with knit facemasks leaves a lot to be desired. But opening day (this year ESPN jumped the gun and turned it into opening night) is always the harbinger of spring and the hope that comes with it.

I know, I know, the Red Sox aren’t supposed to be very good this season. After a huge salary dump to the Los Angeles Dodgers at the end of last year, the Sox bought themselves a few second tier dirt-dog players in the hope of a better clubhouse attitude and a bridge to potential star minor league players. Not exactly a catbird seat situation. But virtually all 162 games have yet to be played so forgive me for not quitting on my team. I like our starting pitching despite potentially losing one to an injury during the first game he pitched (John Lackey). Love our bullpen big time, and one of our budding stars, (would be two except the Sox spent 9.5 million for a one year shortstop so Jose Iglesias will be sent down as soon as nine and a half is ready to play), Jackie Bradley Jr., a twenty year old outfielder, has started every game and held his own—especially in the field. I don’t know if they’ll keep him in the majors all season or send him down for more seasoning, but he sure looks like the real deal.

I’m certain that in every major league city, fans are doing what I do—thinking, hoping to find rationales for why their team will be in the race. You know what? That’s what spring is for—no matter the temperature. The thought makes me smile.

But it’s not just the rooting that grabs my chops when baseball season begins. It is, as I’ve written in other posts, the game itself. Which is why, when people rightfully complain about ticket prices, ballpark signage, refreshment costs, parking, and steroids, I frankly don’t give a shit. Truth is, I’ve been priced out of Fenway for a decade. Which is why for a buck twenty I buy MLB.com, which allows me to watch every team outside my home area for the entire season.

What I care about is how the catcher calls the game, how the pitcher is spotting the ball, the small adjustments the defense makes batter to batter. The game as a whole and the games within the game. I just love it.

So that’s it from this spring’s sports desk. I understand that what I’ve written isn’t for everyone—hell, Sue’s out there in the yard looking for a hint of green and searching for buds. But if Detroit plays in the World Series (her home town), she’ll be watching.

Heywood Broun: “The tragedy of life is not that man loses but that he almost wins.”

MY COUSIN’S COMMENT

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We were back at my mother’s house after her funeral sitting around talking and eating for hour after hour as you do. After the number of people around the dining room table dwindled to a precious few, the conversation bounced between memories, travels, the difference between pizza and a tomato pie. And more serious things, at which point a cousin remarked, “This sure isn’t the country or world I wanted to bring my kids into.”

Despite my own privileged life I understood exactly what he meant and felt my anger and disappointment rise at what I then thought were the truth of his words.

On the drive back to the hotel, I repeated his remarks to Sue and again felt my mad.

So I planned to use this week’s post to expand, enumerate, and rant about all the shitty things we have going on in the US and around the world.

But a funny thing happened on my way to this post. Days later I no longer feel the same hot rage despite the horrors that beset *most* of the world’s population and our insane politics and violence. John Coltrane’s rendition of My Favorite Things (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0I6xkVRWzCY) started to rattle around inside my head and just wouldn’t let go. Wouldn’t let go until I realized what he was trying to tell me, which had nothing to do with teardrops and roses.

Coltrane was telling me to look a little deeper. Or at least ask myself the question: What would our children have missed had they not been brought into this world even with all its horrors?

Obviously you can’t miss an existence you were never introduced to, but what about these losses?

A parent’s love, caring and tenderness–whatever culture, however offered, touches, looks, and warmth, those early moments, years–even in the most dire of circumstances. And maybe even more mindboggling, the opportunity to feel that love and caring for a child.

Friendships. I know that my life would feel close to nonexistent without them. Might even have preferred the nothingness. Again there is the pleasure of seeing this richness in my kids’ lives. I watched how they and their friends played, comforted, helped, and were there for each other. And still are. There’s beauty in sharing your life with others. A beauty which I expect will continue throughout my life and theirs.

No, love is not all anyone needs. We know that. But it really is something that nothingness never delivers.

Learning, of all kinds. The opportunity to learn about people different from ourselves, cultures different than our own, clothes, styles, faces that we find unusual and exotic. The opportunity to realize again and again that the world is wildly diverse and yet people are also the same. These pleasures have no geographical, or even language limitations.

Learning new ideas. Discovering what we didn’t and don’t know. Meeting people who expand our thinking and vision. Trying to keep a sliver of your mind open so you can change it and let it grow. What a loss if all there were was nothingness.

And of course, the arts. Nothing would include no music, no books, no movies, no plays, no poetry, no dance, no paintings, no Monday posts, (though that might please a number of you). The entire world donates to this grand mosaic and nothingness makes all that vanish. Not a trade I’d make for myself or my children.

I could continue. Science, the give and take in discussions between people, the arguments that shed light as well as darkness, the sun, moon, sky and stars. But enough already. You get my point.

I have no doubt that I’ll be ranting and railing against the cruelty and injustice between people and countries soon enough, maybe even next Monday–all of those throughout these Mondays. But I also have no doubt that I am glad to have brought children into the world—even this one. I only hope they make a dent in it.

DECONSTRUCTION OF A POST

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I’d been having such a blast writing my INTERVIEWS WITH THE DEAD that I had begun considering using this space almost exclusively to develop and extend the form. Problem is, if I go by the number of readers who view Mondays’ posts, too many interviews too often, get boring. And the idea of boring is a writer’s worst nightmare. So I couldn’t put an interview on the docket for this week’s column.

Then what? This question usually pops up about twenty minutes after I’ve published my last post. I’m used to it and push the anxiety aside. I need the mind space to work on the fourth Matt Jacob book, TIES THAT BLIND. Also, if Mondays are publishing days, Tuesdays are music days. It takes me a fair amount of time to practice the sax, and prepare for my lesson and ensemble hours at MusicMakerStudios. That “performance” comes fully equipped with its own anxiety; what I lack in talent I try to make up for with work—which often isn’t terribly successful.

But Tuesdays are always fun days and nights, which is very much the calm before the storm. Wednesday morning, my Monday worries are in full bloom. This past week I struggled to engage, to find myself interested enough in a topic to write about. I thought about reviewing Hugo Chavez’s legacy, but everywhere I looked interesting articles about him–pro or con–were everywhere. I couldn’t imagine writing anything that could conceivably change anyone’s mind, so why bother? Felt like I’d be talking to myself.

I return to the newspaper and go through three days of ink but nothing jumps so I reconsider another interview. Desperation move, I think. Like I said, too much repetition makes for a drag. I tell myself I have plenty of time and that worrying won’t help my subconscious churn something out. After all, if an idea doesn’t come from current events, the arts, or other externals, it’s got to rise up from the deep. I’ve always believed that consciousness is the last stop for information, not the first—let’s hope it’s true this week.

Another two days pass and it’s Friday. The Northeast gets whacked with yet another snowstorm, while I pour over my copy of Baseball Prospectus, hungry for the season to begin. Ahh, an idea, perhaps? PLAY BALL!! A review of my Arizona trips to Spring Training? An analysis of the Red Sox? Uhh, I think not. Can’t imagine anyone interested in baseball after shoveling their cars out from another foot of snow. Even if the post is three days away. Around here, three days just means you’re no longer allowed to save your parking space with chairs or trash barrels.

Not a good idea to eliminate all my northeast readership. I just can’t count on Wyoming to flesh out the numbers.

Late Friday afternoon and head-banging time. The walls are moving closer and closer together and I’m scrambling to find a way out. I got to find a way to chill.

Break out the bourbon.

I’d like to say that one swallow opened the door but it didn’t. Two swallows though, cleared my mind enough to begin thinking. I considered a piece on Benedict’s abdication and the upcoming conclave. But we all know why Benedict really resigned and can only suspect which definition of damage control and conserving Empire the conclave will send up along with their white smoke.

It’s Saturday morning and too early for more alcohol.

Okay, Klein, you’ve been doing this for a couple of years now. You’re either all dried up or you ain’t thinking. I prefer the latter so I’m gonna either stare at a blank computer screen or beat this horse into talking. (Before animal advocates get too angry, the horse I’m talking about is me.)

The horse finally talked. “Write about the struggle you’re having this week with the column, but make it interesting!”

Damn horse sounded like Captain Pickard: “Make it so!” But in truth, the idea caught my fancy. Why shouldn’t you share my tsouris? Or, more writerly put, why not share my weekly process? This was an idea I could get behind. Just recount the truth. Write about the mishigas I go through every time I sit down to write my post. On top of which, this week was perfect since it was an “I got nothing” five days, a day of writing, then Sunday to turn this into a coherent article.

So here it is, my friends. A look inside my past week of writing—or nonwriting, as it were. I suppose I could finish by reciting various “Win one for the Gipper” homilies, but truth is, I’m left with only one head-scratcher: People want to know why writers drink?

You’re not drunk if you can lie on the floor without holding on.— Dean Martin

LOOKING FOR MR. O

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  I’m not a detective, though I have made one up. But this week I’ve been re-reading the Oscar tweets and Matt Jacob (http://zacharykleinonline.com/matt-jacob-ebooks/) invaded my head. Who the hell was this Oscar fellow?  Was there a real man behind the little gold? Since this year was the Awards’ 85th birthday, Oscar Sr. would no longer be with us, but that’s no problem for the man who interviews the dead. Or so I thought.

My first call went to Louis B. Mayer who initiated the awards in 1927.

Me:  “Mr. Mayer? My name is Zachary Klein and I have a series…”

Mayer:  “You think I’m stupid? Word gets around. You interview the dead—and it’s about damn time that you finally fucking called.”

Me:  “I’m sorry but I didn’t call to interview you—today, that is. Of course you are on my list.”

If I had a list.

Mayer:  “Then why the hell you bothering me? You think I got gornisht to do?  Down here, we’ve always got deals to make and people to fire!”

Me:  “I’m looking for the person the Oscar was named after and thought you would know.”

Mayer:  “You dug me up to ask that?”

Me:  “Mr. Mayer, I haven’t dug you up. It’s a telephone call.”

Mayer:  “Not that big a difference when you’re busy or sleeping, dammit!”

My temper got the better of me.

Me:  “Fuck it, I’ll find someone else.”

Mayer:  “Don’t get your shwartz twisted. It was either Bette Davis who said the damn statue looked like her uncle or columnist Sid Skolsky who claims he stole it from an old music hall joke with the tagline, ‘Will you have a cigar, Oscar?’  Frankly, I don’t give a damn and don’t know why you do either.”

I thought about explaining but his attitude continued to piss me off.

Me:  “Well, I appreciate the information and will let you go.”

Mayer:  “You coming back?”

Me:  “If you’ll let me.”

Mayer: “We’ll see.”

I guess what people say about old time movie moguls is true. They are pricks. Still, I had two leads and I didn’t need a weatherman to tell me who I was going to contact first.

No easy do. The administrators at Forest Lawn Cemetery in Hollywood Hills were a tough crew to get past and it took my interview with Richard lll before they accepted my bone fides as an interviewer of the dead. Or maybe they were just impressed that I flew out there despite their repeated refusals. No matter, I was finally sitting on the flat stones in front of her grave-site monument. 

Divas aren’t an easy get either. But if I learned anything writing novels and chasing dead people, I’d learned persistence.

I started off with my usual calling card but nada. Then tried raising my voice. Worse, the afternoon was creeping toward 5 o’clock, when I had agreed to leave. Then I remembered going with my grandmother to her first husband’s grave-site. She’d find a few rocks to tap on his stone. Although I kept a “safe” distance, after a few moments of knocking, Grandma engaged in animated conversations.

Why not? But even finding stones was difficult, given the care the groundskeepers gave these VIPs. Once I finally wedged a couple of pebbles from the ground I began tapping away like a woodpecker. That is, until I heard a throaty voice chuckle, “Not so loud, Darling. You’re waking the dead,!”

Me:  “Is that you, Ms. Davis?”

Davis:  “Who else were you expecting?”

She emerged from the white marble and I caught my breath. Don’t know what I expected—perhaps it was because I had recently interviewed Richard III—but she was drop-dead gorgeous. Tiny, flashing blue eyes, in a striking black and grey dress, black gloves and hat.

Davis:  “Where are we going, Sweetheart?”

Me:  “Actually I promised to leave and have you back inside by five.”

Davis:  “But I began dressing when you first shouted. You do have an awfully loud voice.”

Me:  “Just trying to get your attention.”

Davis:  “Well, you have it—though apparently not for long. What is it you want?”

I knew she was upset about not leaving the grounds so I quickly explained why I’d come and told her what Mayer had recounted.  She burst out laughing.

Davis:  “Louie. What a pip! Was he smoking one of those foul smelling cigars?”

Me:  “We were on the phone.”

Davis:  “He took your call. I’m impressed. You really must have a knack for this line of work.”

Me:  “Not a lot of competition. So, was Mr. Meyer accurate about how Oscar got his name? That you said the statue looked like your uncle?”

Davis:  “Ahh, I guess we’re all growing old. Louie always remembered everything but not anymore. I never had an Uncle Oscar. That comment was made by Margaret Herrick, the Academy librarian. You tell me whether you’ve ever seen a statue named after a librarian’s uncle?

Now, my first husband’s middle name was Oscar, but all I ever said was that the statue’s ass looked like his. Ham was a wonderful musician, but nobody ever named anything after his behind.”

Me:  “What about the Sydney Skolsky story? Do you know whether that was true?”

Davis’s lips curled in obvious contempt.

Davis: “‘Will you have a cigar, Oscar?’  Please. Louie must be losing it cooped up for so long. He probably offered mini-Winchell one of his.”

Me:  “‘mini-Winchell?”

Davis:  “A nasty small minded man who used Schwabb’s for an office once he came out here. He’s nothing but a self-serving liar. Just look at his Times Square Tintypes.”

Me:  “So no cigar, no uncle, and not your husband. His middle name is just a coincidence?”

Davis:  “Just a coincidence. Frankly, Darling, nobody really knows why that award is named Oscar and nobody ever will.”

I glanced at my watch and saw it was time. Ms. Davis noticed.

Davis:  “You’re ready to leave, aren’t you?”

I saw Security walking in our direction.

Me:  “I promised and they’re going to hold me to it.”

Davis looked over my shoulder with a half-smile.

Davis:  “I’ve been known to cause a fuss, but today I’ll just go for the dramatic exit.”

I left Forest Lawn and debated hunting for Sydney Skolsky. I asked myself what Matt Jacob would do and a voice crashed through my head. “Some mysteries are better left unsolved! You just heard Bette Davis tell you that a statue’s ass looked like her husband’s. It just doesn’t get any better than that.”

 

“MAKE IT WORK!”

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It’s an understatement to say I’m not a fashionista. It’s an overstatement to suggest that I spend any real time picking my clothes. I may know about Dior and Michael Kors and Lagerfeld, but my real designers are Champion and Fruit Of The Loom. My daily wear consists of sweats and sweatshirts unless I have to leave the house–in jeans and a variation of a t-shirt.

So what’s a schlub doing watching Project Runway for ten years? Certainly not for Heidi Klum’s Auf Wiedersehen as she thins the herd of wannabe clothing designers. Tim Gunn’s warmth has started to feel pro forma and his wardrobe choices bizarre. Worse, I really don’t like Nina Garcia, the longest lasting judge.

There’s more to dislike. The fact that producers have input on who stays and who goes, based, I’m sure, more upon the personality of particular contestants than merit. That’s a big one. Also their decisions about who stays and goes based upon that single week’s showing as opposed to a body of work over time—or so they say.

What draws me to Project Runway is my opportunity to watch the creative process. Sure, I can read a great book and marvel at the author’s creativity. Same with movies, plays, art, and good TV (which is not an oxymoron). But those things are done deals, finished products to admire and analyze from the outside. Following the process of creation—complete with its ideas, false starts, aha moments, adjustments, is endlessly fascinating—be it designing clothes, cooking (The Iron Chef), house renovation (Property Brothers), or even the art of the sale (Selling New York, etc) continues to be one of my greatest pleasures. It makes me feel better struggling with my job of channeling it from within.

Another example: Tuesdays I go to Music Maker Studios (http://musicmakerstudios.com/) for my sax lesson followed by a session playing in an ensemble. There are times when one or the other of our group really gets it going and improvises the hell out of a song. Just listening makes me incredibly happy. It’s as if a muse is in their head. Which it probably is since my best writing occurs when I’m just scribbling down the movie in my mind.

Somewhat similar, I remember watching a YouTube clip of a policeman in the middle of a crazy busy intersection on his box and using his arm signals and body motions as if conducting a world class orchestra. Perhaps he was. What is certain is everyone who passed him by caught at least a glimpse of “performance art.” Call me crazy, but I find moments like that spiritually uplifting.

The point? Exposing myself to others’ creative processes is nourishment for my own. My Tuesday nights will never turn me into a Stan Getz, but I’ve listened and learned to play better. And more importantly, write better.

Years ago, I wrote a post, “Writing From The Heart,” (http://zacharykleinonline.com/personal-experience/writing-from-the-heart/) which was an attempt to identify the place my best writing comes from. That column still holds true, but I’ve learned through music, the cop (and Heidi) that immersing myself in other peoples’ creativity enhances and informs my own.

What’s nice about this realization is its compatibility with my political beliefs. We really don’t stand alone as individuals but are interconnected to others. We build upon and are inspired by people who came before or work beside us in ours and other fields. Seems like a simple idea, but in these Randian times even simple gets blowback.

Sadly, all too many in the arts would vociferously defend their work as theirs. And it is, though from where I sit, never only theirs.

So fellow writers and artists, musicians and policemen, and everybody who gives a shit about being creative—you are not alone. It makes sense to remember that. Makes all the solitude a little easier to take.

“Your chances of success are directly proportional to the degree of pleasure you derive from what you do.” Michael Korda