Massages, facial treatments, spa sessions and new age music were not in the lexicon back in The Bronx.

Aches and pains? “Recovery Period”? Ha. Walk it off. Suck it up. Pop some aspirin. Ice it. Heat it. Maybe — maybe — if you were fancy-pants you soaked post-football bones in Epsom salts.

So it was with great trepidation that I recently spent 40 minutes in “the waters” during a mini-vacation with friends in Saratoga Springs, 180 miles north of Fordham Road.

I mean, were “the waters” just a lot of hype? What would it do, other than chew through 40 minutes on a gloriously sunny summer’s day?

And, was it communal? Was it private? Would I have to wear a swimsuit, or go nakey? Was it hot? Cold? Was it pandemic proof?

My wife and her friend booked the appointment but had no answers for me as I nervously eyed the rows of pines beside the roadway in Saratoga park grounds. We passed one sturdy brick out-building after another as we wound our way to the Roosevelt Bath House.

We arrived on-time for our treatments. I wore swimming trunks and had a change of clothes with me in my Bronx Luggage. That is, a Garden Gourmet shopping bag.

We then got a 30-second overview from a tiny woman who had the pallor and paunch of the industrious three-pack-a-day, Busch Beer imbiber. With a cheery, if broken, smile, she led me to a private chamber reminiscent of a high-ceiling, subway-tiled treatment room in “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”

“Here’s the tub,” my guide said. Yeah, no duh. It was huge and a bit high-walled. “It’s deeper than you think. Be careful. And there’s the bathroom, and if you need to cool off, here’s a glass of water and there’s the cold water tap. See you in 40 minutes.”

So where do I rinse off? “Oh, you don’t,” she said. “You’ll feel your skin tingle and feel softer and smoother.” I was unconvinced but, like, whatever, being “far from the shallow now” as Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper would have sung.

The attendant lady left. I took off my Dickie’s pocket-tee shirt and swim trunks and kicked off my Keens shoes. The tub was filled with what looked like rusty, bubbly bilge water. I wondered how far we were from the toxic liquids of New York’s Love Canal.

I put one foot inside the tub, and then the other. I slowly sat down and issued an Archimedes “eureka!” as the water rose precariously close to the brim of the tub. I slid back with great care.

The water was justthisclose to hot. I looked up at the ceiling. New age music was piped in from…somewhere.

I looked around. The walls of the tub had brown corrosion of a color that gave me great pause. Tiny bubbles burst around my body. I closed my eyes and silenced the inner voice that shouted “this is silly”.

The steady-state ache in my left knee soon disappeared. The stiffness in my lower back dissipated. My skin felt softer. Not greasy or oily or salty, but somehow more supple.

I let my mind wander and my imagination tumbled about like newly-laundered clothes in a dryer set to “delicates”.

I snapped my fingers, as Archimedes might have done, as I came up with a name for this experience: Aqua Opiates.

I made the water a little cooler. I took a sip of water. I closed my eyes. In no time, there was a tap tap tapping at my chamber door. It wasn’t a raven. It was the kindly attendant with a heated, soft and fluffy blue towel.

“When you’re dressed you can meet your party in the Relaxation Room down the hall,” she said.

Calmed, clean, pain-free and, now, dry, I dressed and ambled over. There was a peaceful waterfall and soft New Age music. Double-wide cushy seating. A table with apples and photos of guests from years gone by. Oh no! I thought. Is this really the Overlook Hotel?

There, in the corner, was my wife, who waved me over. And sitting nearby were our friends. I looked around the Relaxation Room. I guess it was as expected: the other guests, newly exfoliated, jabbed at their smart phones, texting, scrolling, catching up with work, remotely, from the Roosevelt Bath House in the end-stage of this, The Age of Covid.

But me? I’m hooked on Aqua Opiates. More please.

I once had a midtown office window that faced Bryant Park.

I marveled at how that green space was transformed from a drug den (“psst…sen…sen…sen”) to a leafy respite and performance space. I would people-watch from my aerie and make up story lines about the little figures seventeen floors below.

I did this during office hours. My job was to create compelling story lines that would highlight client achievements, and to create new programming that would attract new clients. Willie Loman’s was a “shoe leather” approach, while I let my synapses do the walking.

Anyhow, one fine day I turned away from my keyboard, put my feet up on the window sill, leaned back, took in the Bryant Park scene, and cast my mind out into the sea of ideas. Like fishing, one must be patient, and only jiggle the line once in a while, to attract a lunker. My brain surfed my internal Internet, slip-sliding from one shard of an idea to another.

My reverie was shattered by the visage of my boss, his reflection in the panoramic window overlooking the park.

“So. Kleinman. Busy as a bee, huh?” he said.

And I said, “yup.” And by the close of business, a kick-ass proposal was written, and we landed a big account.

I come to you today in praise of daydreaming. There was even an article in The New York Times about it recently.

The creative process is fragile and ideas of value are like souffles; they are easy to fall. I have a little reminder taped to my keyboard, which underscores the delicacy of the creative mind:

–this is awesome

–this is tricky

–this is shit

–I am shit

–this might be ok

–this is awesome

Here we are in the dog days of summer. The air is heavy and the temps are high. Energy is sub-optimal. It’s a perfect time to sit back, reflect, read a book, hit “pause”, cast your mind out into the ocean of ideas, and let it drift. No one is watching. No one is judging. It’s just you, your brain, and your thoughts.

Finally at peace, finally free of the electronic noise, you are truly yourself.

It may not seem so to the casual observer, but in this state of blissful creativity, you will truly be busy as a bee. And loving every minute of it.

My new story, “When Paris Beckons” was published today by Marie Lecrivain in her Dashboard e-zine.

Here it is for you now. A middle-aged man reassesses his life and prepares for a new chapter, as he rambles through The City of Lights. Enjoy!

https://dashboardhorus.blogspot.com/2022/07/martin-kleinmans-when-paris-beckons.html?fbclid=IwAR0n3Y66BOeH78N-wF08xaT5ZC66NC4vCjXR9EEAUWWnph5cQ1JnFSNZ3lo

My life continues to surprise me. It hasn’t been a linear route, for sure. I liken it to a knock-out rose bush. Sometimes, everything’s in full bloom. Then, all the petals fall to the ground and the branches are barren. Then, I see a bud here, a bud there. The plant flowers anew, the cycle continues.

Upon college graduation, I scoured the newspaper help-wanted ads. No Interwebs back then. And, being a Bronx Primitive (TM), I had no business connections to speak of, so talk about taking the wide route around the racetrack of life.

It was hot and sweaty in my old Fordham apartment. The oscillating Vornado fan blew sooty air this way and that. Fan-conditioning! One morning, red BIC pen in hand, I found a job possibility: management trainee for a cosmetics/beauty products wholesaler on Third Avenue, about a quarter-mile south of Sears. I called, shined my Frye boots, dusted off my Robert Hall brown polyester suit, and went to my interview (the boss’ office was air-conditioned — aahhhhh!).

Somehow, I got the job. The pay was outstanding: $7,500/year.

The next Monday I started. The boss gave me sell sheets of products, package sizes and prices, which I was to memorize. Then, I was led to the warehouse, where I was to unpack cases of products with a box cutter and place the goods on floor-to-ceiling shelving.

No a/c in the warehouse. It was sweaty, filthy, and boring. I tore into my new job. On the second day, I arrived in cut-off jeans and tee-shirt, for my suit was already ruined by the dirty shelves back there. The managers looked at me askance.

At lunch, I walked up Third Avenue on that second day, and found a bar. The a/c was blasting. Three shots for a buck, and they had hot roast pork hero sandwiches for $.75. I downed the three shots and ripped into that hero, juice running down my filthy arms. I finished the day.

The third day, I looked forward to lunch and that bar. I barely finished the day. It was exhausting. At the end of the day, the boss called me in. He tested me on the info on those sell sheets, which I hadn’t even looked at. I coughed up dust balls from the warehouse and left.

The fourth day, I showered and dressed, and paused. Then I called the boss and quit. He offered to pay me for the stock work I did, but not a prorated portion of my lofty $7500/year salary. I said fine.

This second-generation American learned some valuable lessons. It wasn’t my first job that required intense physical labor, but it proved to be my last. Our forebears worked with their hands, so that we can work with our minds. That was one. Another was tremendous respect for, and appreciation of, those who must tackle, hold, and succeed at, these physically demanding jobs. Last, I eliminated a type of work I didn’t want to do.

But now I was out of work, out of money, and almost out of my apartment. I learned an amazing fact: when the wolf is at the door, I could reach back and make stuff happen. I got another job. It, too, was shit. But it was indoors, in air-conditioned splendor. I learned a lot about life there at this crappy insurance company in the Wanamaker Building in the Village, and there I met the girl of my dreams.

We were two Randall McMurphys in that company, stirring it up, just passing through. Our lives took flight.

$7,500 a year and a bar with three shots for a buck had initial appeal, back when I was 22. But looking back, I took Yogi Berra’s advice, and I’m glad I did: “when you come to a fork in the road, take it.”

Ah, The Rascals! What was a New York City summer without The Rascals? I just now came back from an outside mission in 95-degree heat and somehow my mind fell into a late-60s crevasse and there I was again, just a working class kid in a crummy Bronx high school, and there was no a/c at home, or at work (NYPL on Bainbridge, in the now tagged-up building just north of Fordham Road) and I’d stop off at Spinning Disc, or Music Makers, or Cousins, to buy 45s and, more often than not, they were tunes by The Rascals.

We are lost these days, with multiple once-in-a-generation issues: Pandemic, climate change, Russia/Ukraine war and resulting economic issues, a broken political system. We are split into tribes, paddling the ship of state in circles.

Well, guess what? The late sixties were no bargain either. Vietnam, the draft, political mendacity, the aftershock of JFK’s assassination, the assassinations of Bobby + MLK + Malcolm X, civil rights unrest, rioting/arson, hard-hats vs. college kids — it was all too much. And then came Kent State.

So there I was, dealing with these macro issues, while the “war-at-home” micro-shizzle raged. My chaotic family life burst like a ruptured appendix that spewed emotional sepsis into every corner of my life. Thank the goddess for top-40 radio and the radio stations such as WOR-FM, WBAI-FM, WPLJ-FM, WNEW-FM, and WWRL-AM (where I first heard Little Stevie Wonder’s “Fingertips Part I & II”).

I did what I had to, in order to save myself. I did a deep psychological dive, ever the Pisces, and swam far below the turbulence. I started hanging out with a new crew, years older than me, and as the draft calls rose, and the body bags piled high, The Rascals released “People Got to be Free”. A friend of mine at school, a senior, enlisted. “I’m going,” he said, “because they killed my buddy.”

After graduation, at my new place of work, as an office boy in a financial company’s bursting room, the 1A-classified guys were getting called at age 19 and two months. Those that returned and still could interact told horrific stories of their time in-country, long periods of intense boredom interspersed with bursts of gut-ripping madness, and they spackled their broken lives with expensive muscle cars and drugs, lots and lots of drugs.

Of my old guard, Tony C. was one of the smartest, earning all-honors classes at my aforementioned crappy high school. Tony grew up on Hoe Avenue, and suffice to say his neighborhood in the sixties was less than optimal. He was never without a bottle of Thunderbird or Carlo Rossi Paisano, When Tony’s dad died, in the east Bronx, I was asked to join the gang at the wake, but I was working doubles and exhausted. In the middle of wake-week, I got a call from one of the guys.

“You blew it man. You really blew it.”

“Why?”

“We were all in the funeral home, meeting T’s family. All of a sudden, a door opens and three BIG guys walk in, followed by a little guy, who spoke to T and his mom and family.”

“And?”

“It was fucking Crazy Joe Gallo man! You missed it!!!”

Well, I didn’t have the heart to say that, upon hearing this account, I was greatly relieved in not being there, for I knew it was only a matter of time before the mobster known as Crazy Joe Gallo met his fate (gunned down in Little Italy) just like it was a matter of time before Tony C. met his. The gang fractured after graduation but I saw T once, decades later, on a downtown #2 IRT, holding a hand rail during morning rush hour, weaving, eyes fluttering, the ever-present pint of Thunderbird in his back pocket. I mentioned it a few years later, my Tony sighting, to another old friend, who filled me in. T was a hardcore alky, periodically homeless, and now very much dead, having died of exposure. And I remembered how Tony and this friend were lost to us for an entire week during the blizzard of ’69 (“the Lindsay storm”) after dropping acid. This was pre-mobile phone, when our two buddies were gone to us. Lost in a snowbank? Mired in Mexico? Remanded to RIkers? We had no idea and neither did their families.

In a way, the lyrics of a Rascals hit from the Summer of Love (haha) was a life-preserver for me. The song was “How Can I Be Sure?” As I searched for the real me, a kid in a chrysalis during chaotic — no, downright frightening — times at home and in the wider world, I realized that that song’s love interest was, in actuality, myself. “How can I be sure? In a world, that’s constantly changing, how can I be sure, where I stand with you?” It took many years for me to learn to listen to myself, trust my instincts, care for myself, as the world turned to spin art, and up was down, and down was up.

I mean, like now.

These are the first five words to the Judy Collins song, “My Father”. Here’s the song, for you, a few days before Father’s Day:

Parenting is an art, not a science. In that context, I think my father’s approach was finger-painting “Guernica”. That is, his effort resulted in an unsophisticated tableau of violence.

Over time, I’ve learned that everyone screws up their parenting in some way and there are plenty of things that I did where I’d gladly accept a “do-over”. Having said that, I don’t want to let my father off the hook. He was emotionally absent, except when he wasn’t, and those were the times I feared most.

Table-banging. Screaming. Blazing anger, seemingly from nowhere. What were his demons? I can only imagine. Was it rooted in the upbringing by strict immigrant parents, an emotionally absent father? Was it the horror of WWII combat? Was it a chemical imbalance?

Maybe. Probably “all of the above” but the net result was that my sister and I would very literally run for cover, and dive under the bed for safety, when he went on the warpath. And we were never truly sure what would set him off. A loud noise? A long-forgotten memory? A bad day at the office?

I remember as a small boy having to zero-out my emotions and “run silent, run deep” when he came home from a night out. I’d dread hearing the fumbling of his key in the front door lock. Who knew what shape he’d be in at three in the morning? We feared the worst and we were rarely disappointed.

The father in Judy Collin’s song was a miner, who shared big dreams with his family, dreams that took root a generation down the road. My father worked the mines of the concrete canyons, as an accountant in Manhattan. In my recollection, he did not dream. My father shared his nightmares, however. He downloaded tales of war to me when I was a child, yet did not share these with his family, with his own wife. I was the lucky tape recorder into which he unspooled his demons. But there were no expressed dreams, not of “living in France”, that’s for sure.

Nor did he give advice. He said that, in so many words. He rarely spoke, in fact. He stared out the window of our dingy apartment holding a can of Schafer and look at the rain pelt down on our Bronx street. That’s what I remember most: the absent stare.

There was no “there” there. Was it depression? PTSD? Funny, but decades later, I spoke to my cousin about his dad. My uncle’s behavior mirrored my dad’s. There was some corrupt file in that household, to be sure, since my uncle did not go to war.

I made parenting mistakes with my own son. This I admit. I tried hard to undo the pain of my own childhood, and I over-compensated in some ways. And my anger did flare, an anger I’ve come to tame over the decades. Yes, I know: “hurt people hurt people”.

I give my dad a D- in parenting. I give myself a B/B-. (My son would no doubt disagree.) My son is an amazing guy. Super smart, funny, handsome, mentally and physically strong. From time to time, over the years, I was asked how I learned to be a dad. My stock answer was: “Easy. I thought about what my father would do, and just did the complete opposite.” Ha ha. Very facile.

But. I was emotionally available to guide and hopefully inspire. My kid can give and receive love and is now engaged to a wonderful young woman. They are each other’s best friend and soulmate. It’s beautiful to watch.

So at the end of the day, maybe that was my father’s gift to me. I experienced a childhood with a woefully deficient dad and, from these bitter ashes, learned how to be a parent. Not a “best friend” — a parent. A dad who set moral and ethical boundaries, gave unconditional love, supported and suggested big dreams, and always had his kid’s back.

Parenting is an ongoing effort and the relationship is always a work in progress. I adore every minute of it. Happy Father’s Day, all you dads out there!

There is a reason why I changed my landing page image from the shot I took years ago on Broadway and 207th Street in Inwood, to this one.

This shot is one I took in the Left Bank of Paris. Two vacations to Paris have been cancelled in the last few years. Thanks, Covid.

So this Real New Yorker pines for my second favorite city, Paris. If you’ve never been there, I hope you can get to Paris eventually. If you love NYC, you’ll adore Paris. I mean, c’mon! Look at this!

Oh, and incidentally, I just finished a story about someone about to emerge from his post-Covid battle with death, depression and agoraphobia. It’s called, not coincidentally, “When Paris Beckons” — it’s just been distributed to lit pubs. Hopefully it will see the light of day.

Sometimes — especially times such as these — daily life can be more challenging than it needs to be.

Sometimes the solution is to change one’s perspective. Look through the telescope the other way.

Long ago, children were told the basics of conversation. Listen more, talk less. Be respectful of others. Include everyone in the discussion; don’t hog the mike, so to speak.

And never, ever, discuss politics or religion!

Yet here we are, surrounded by social media platforms that give powerful, international, electronic megaphones to pipsqueaks with no knowledge. Facebook ranters stand on their electronic front porches, metaphorically screaming at people to get off their lawn.

We curate our social groups to eliminate alternate points of view. Tribalism above all else. Within our tribes, we discuss the (admittedly serious) issues of the day, and these are too often related to politics and religion.

Now, I’m not saying that we do not have serious issues, locally, nationally, globally. Not the least of these is Year III of a frightening, shape-shifting pandemic that has ended lives, ruined others, and stressed our economies — hell, our daily lives — to the max. Think how leaders here and abroad have used this primal fear to tear us apart, and distract us as they enrich themselves.

We have to take matters into our own hands. Step one is at the voting booth. And step two is to realize that there are as least as many human characteristics that unify us as those that divide us. Despite what we are told in our daily 360-degree needle shower of stories from news gathering organizations (and faux news outlets), bot farms, and social media “friends”.

If we listen more, and talk less. If we include others in the conversation, not exclude them. If we maintain respect for others, whether older or younger than us. Then maybe we’ll have a sliver of sanity during our time on the planet.

Easier said than done? Oh, for sure. And humans are tribal.

So maybe, let’s start with a limit of our time on social media platforms. Maybe spend more time listening, not postulating. More time on artistic pursuits, hobbies, family life.

It’s easy to grab slices of society and pull them close. All it takes is a look through the telescopic lens of electronic media.

What is harder, and to me more rewarding, is to summon the courage to look through the telescope the other way.

Hey, it’s a start.