My latest story (see the link below) addresses the personal toll of child abuse. Were you hit? Do you hit your kids? Please take a look at my story, called “Getting Hit”, and post your comments below. Share it if you like it.
Jerry Stiller, classically trained actor, successful stand-up comedy partner with his wife, the late Anne Meara, beloved sitcom actor renowned for his unhinged anger, and father of showbiz’s Ben Stiller and Amy Stiller, has died at 92.
I remember seeing him on Broadway and 84th Street, waiting for the downtown bus, in the late 70s. Back then, I worked at a newsletter publishing company on the third floor of 2315 Broadway. I’d see him there at lunchtime, smile, and give him his space, as Real New Yorkers do with bold-faced names.
As a kid, I marveled at his easy repartee with Anne Meara, as they — daringly for the early 60s — introduced Ed Sullivan Show viewers to the love and tension of a mixed-religion marriage. I remember thinking: these guys are GREAT. They make it look so easy.
As a young father and grown son of a man with major anger issues, I again marveled at Stiller’s portrayal of George Costanza’s dad, creator of the manziere and Festivus. “The airing of grievances” was a key component of the Festivus celebration he devised. Talk about something that resonated.
It was his character’s anger eruptions that most-captured my attention. “You wanna piece of me! YOU WANNA PIECE OF ME!!!!!!!! YOU GOT IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” he snarled, with a vicious lunge at the equally-feisty, five-foot nothing Elaine. NOTE: YOU MUST CLICK ON THIS LINK NOW!!!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3DuAF4KOnQM
Jerry grew up in Brooklyn, as did his wife Anne, who died in 2015 at 85. He went to Seward Park H.S., fought in WWII, went to college on the G.I. Bill. He was a Real New Yorker.
I’ll miss you, Jerry. You were like part of the family.
Serenity now.
I miss the noise.
I remember, as a kid, leaving hot, sweaty NYC for summers in the Catskills and not being able to fall asleep, because it was so freaky quiet. No police sirens. No breaking glass. No rumble from the elevated IRT. Just the croak of frogs and the cacophony of crickets.
It scared the wee out of me.
Now, ostensibly an adult, I live in the city all year round. And the quiet of these last months is unnerving. No rumble of trucks on metal plates over roadwork. No jackhammers. No school kids shrieking at recess — little perpetual motion machines that they are.
Night time is worse. Just the occasional sound of auto tires over the road. And ambulance sirens. They pierce the solitude.
It scares the wee out of me.
Some days during this pandemic, I am in mental free-fall.
It is all I can do to focus on my work, my family needs, my writing, my music, my own health. I toggle maniacally from The New York Times, to the Washington Post, to FaceBook, to texts, to What’s App.
What’s the latest? What’s the latest? What’s the latest? I’m mentally breathless but fortunately not literally breathless.
Which brings me to my emails. Work related emails have slowed considerably. The good news is that online vendors continue to pelt me with offers.
And, for that, I am grateful.
Thank you Shepler’s for telling me all about the great cowboy boots that are now on-sale. Thank you, Allysia, of PianoTV for posting another lesson I probably will never get to.
Thank you, Tiffany & Co., for reminding me that Mother’s Day is coming up. It would be nice to get my wife a dandy new ring, but that is financially impossible at the moment. But keep those offers coming.
Thank you Fjord Vineyards for your wine offerings, Chess.com for challenging me weekly, for Music Villa, the Bozeman-based guitar store, for the cool videos of new Martins.
A special shout-out to you, Cerches Arche, the fancy French shoe store, for reminding me of the trip to Paris that won’t happen this year, and maybe next year as well.
My comments may seem sarcastic but, in truth, they are not. Without your constant reminders of what once passed for “normalcy”, I might just float away on a cloud of covid-19 madness.
There’s a certain sleepy sadness on this cloudless Sunday. The streets are hushed. There are people about, and they are wearing masks and behaving as they should. Yet there is a palpable poignancy that reminds us that this is not normal, should not ever be considered normal, and should be remembered always.
People talk in low tones as they walk their dogs, ride their bikes, play catch with their kids. It is as if there is an unspoken agreement: tone it down, lower the volume, respect the virus’ power.
On any other sunny Sunday, leaves in bloom, parkland lush, a bright blue sky with unlimited visibility, there would be the sharp crack of ball against bat, the chatter of soccer players, the high-pitched gleeful scream of the little ones.
But not today.
Today is somber. Parking is plentiful, roads are clear, sidewalks are empty. Soot is gone and parked cars remain clean for days, weeks. There has been no alternate side parking, the bane of the boroughs, and yet the curbs are clear of city detritus: cigarette butts, empty cans, food wrappers.
With masks and gloves have come a semblance of courtesy. Respect. Concern for the well-being of fellow citizens. Calm and quiet has replaced manic energy and cacophony.
We await direction from our national leaders, yet in truth we expect none. For we have been reminded of that most American of virtues — or vices — and that is: go-it-alone frontier can-do spirit. This differs from the English “blitz” resilience, which for me is based upon “we’re all in this together” societal glue. Here, we say those words — “we’re all in this together” yet we are reminded, daily, that we are in this fix alone. One medical misstep and we’re stuck in a hallway at Methodist, or Elmhurst General, or the Allen Pavilion, or Woodhull. And good luck with that.
The cavalry is not coming. The good guys don’t always win.
We’re not exactly sure of what a “bootstrap” is anymore, but we sense that we better find them, and soon, and we know that we better start pulling ourselves up by them.
Because we’ve been told a second wave is coming and that it could be worse than the first. Don’t count on a cure. Don’t count on a vaccine. Don’t count on a job. Don’t count on medical coverage.
Which is to say, it’s no wonder that, in 2020, spring fever is cause for concern, not joy.
Which is why, despite the beauty of this glorious Sunday, my interior warning lights flash in bright red: “BRACE YOURSELF!”