Tag: nostalgia

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Labor Day and the Gospel of Work (and Cupcakes)

Labor Day makes me nostalgic. Not for parades, speeches, or backyard grills, but for the curious collection of jobs that introduced me to the American workforce. Each one a rung on the ladder, or maybe a Hostess cupcake on the vending machine coil.

Lawn Mowers and Cash Drawers

It all began in Clearview, mowing lawns in the humid heat for a few bucks and a sore back. Soon after, I graduated to the high-tech world of the high school bookstore, where I operated an NCR cash register. Nothing teaches math faster than a line of impatient teenagers waiting for their pencils and erasers while you wrestle with a drawer that refuses to open.

Big City, Small Jobs

Then came New York City in the late 1960s. I worked for a large textile firm, which is a glamorous way of saying I put checks in order and filed papers. The highlight of my day wasn’t the paycheck, but the two 15-minute breaks. They were sacrosanct — mini-holidays from tedium. Best of all, the vending machine reliably delivered two Hostess cupcakes for a quarter. Talk about compound interest: two for the price of one.

The Printing Press Apprenticeship

In North Queens, I found myself sweeping scraps in a printing factory with Dominican Republican immigrants. They ran the presses; I ran the broom. I like to think I was perfecting an ancient art form — paper scrap feng shui. It was honest work, even if it left me dustier than a chalkboard.

Clerks, Typists, and Crises

As a college graduate, I became a clerk typist at a mental health clinic on Long Island, recording the anxiety and depression of young and middle-aged patients wrestling with the life crises of the mid-1970s. It was a front-row seat to the human condition, typewritten one page at a time.

I later fulfilled my dream to attend an Ivy League school — not as a student, but as a clerk typist for a renowned Organic Chemistry professor at Columbia. The pre-med students tried to peer over my shoulder to steal exam questions, as if my typewriter were some kind of oracle.

At the American Health Foundation, I typed case-control study questions about cancer prevalence. Occasionally, I was even promoted to ghostwriter for love letters from esteemed scientists — proof that the line between research and romance is thinner than a sheet of carbon paper.

A Salute to Work

Each of those jobs was a tiny cog in the great machine of American productivity. From mowing lawns to sweeping floors to transcribing science (and scandal), I contributed my modest share to the GDP. And on Labor Day, I cherish not just the opportunities this country gave me, but also the workers beside me: the immigrants, the clerks, the professors, and yes — even the vending machine that believed in generosity.

Because in the end, Labor Day isn’t just about honoring work. It’s about recognizing that every job — no matter how small, boring, or sugar-coated — is a building block in the story of our country.

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Golden Teachers: The Ones Who Shaped Us

There are people who pass through our lives and leave behind only a vague memory. And then there are teachers.

Teachers are the architects of our minds, the engineers of our values, the subtle sculptors of who we become. Their lessons go far beyond the blackboard—or these days, the touchscreen. While artificial intelligence may assist in learning, it will never replace the magic of chalk dust, a well-timed joke in a lecture, or the moment a teacher sees something in you before you ever see it in yourself.

My own journey through education is dotted with unforgettable figures who each gave me something I carry to this day.

Mr. Axelrod – 6th Grade, New York

He taught more than spelling and long division. Mr. Axelrod taught life. I remember one lesson that would never be in a textbook: “If you’re in a fight, throw the first punch.” Now, before you gasp, understand—this wasn’t about violence. It was about courage. About taking initiative. About standing up when you needed to. It was his way of saying, “Don’t let life back you into a corner.”

But Mr. Axelrod’s influence extended beyond the classroom. He was the orchestrator of student power at PS 209. He controlled and delegated the coveted positions of crossing guards—our law enforcement—and the elite slide and motion picture crews who operated the school’s visual media for assemblies. We were, to our minds, the penultimate intelligentsia—just one rung below Mrs. Pompa’s gifted “1” class. But looking back, I came to see that Mr. Axelrod gave us something perhaps more profound than gifted designation: he gave us influence. He showed us the power of controlling law enforcement and the narrative, even in the microcosm of an elementary school. A lesson in civics disguised as a privilege

Mrs. Rogart – 10th Grade Geometry

Geometry came alive in her classroom—truly alive, with chalk fragments flying in arcs that rivaled any parabolic graph. She attacked the blackboard with energy, hair in motion, proofs tumbling out until she capped it all off with an emphatic, sweeping “Q.E.D.”—which she translated as “Quite Easily Done.” With her, Euclid had flair. She made logic feel like art.

Mr. Barash – High School Social Studies

He didn’t just teach geography or history—he taught us how to think. He challenged us to look at the world with a geopolitical lens before most of us could spell “geopolitical.” He made us understand the causes behind the causes, the story behind the headline. It wasn’t about memorizing; it was about seeing.

Dr. Smith – College Biology

Now here’s a man who gave the phrase “learning in a bar” a good name. His office was the Rathskeller, a dimly lit pub in the bowels of the student union. There, over locally brewed Buffalo beer, he spun tales of fruit fly taxonomy that somehow made us want to memorize Latin names. He humanized science. He made it social, even fun.

Dr. Bugelski – Educational Psychology

It’s been over five decades, but I can still recite his lectures. That’s how vivid his theatrical delivery on learning and memory was. He didn’t just teach psychology—he performed it. He didn’t just explain the theories of learning—he embodied them. In a strange way, he implanted his lessons permanently in our neural networks.

Dr. Berman – Pharmacology, Medical School

He taught us the music of medicine. With cadence and rhythm, he embedded the pharmacopoeia into our green med student brains. We didn’t just memorize drugs—we felt them. His lessons were like a drumbeat: precise, repetitive, unforgettable.

Dr. Sam Rapaport – Hematology

Dr. Rapaport was the kind of physician we all aspired to be. A legendary hematologist with encyclopedic knowledge, yet he never lost his kindness. At the bedside, he modeled compassion with every word and gesture. His brilliance was exceeded only by his humility. I spent my career trying to emulate the grace he brought into every room.

Teachers like these are irreplaceable. Their impact is timeless.

Yes, AI may write essays, solve equations, or simulate patient encounters. But it can’t throw chalk with reckless joy. It can’t wink when you finally grasp a hard concept. It doesn’t pour wisdom into a dark corner of a campus pub. And it surely doesn’t leave behind the lasting rhythm of a mentor’s voice echoing across the decades.

Teachers are golden. Their value isn’t in their output—it’s in their humanity.

We revere them because they gave us more than facts.
They gave us ourselves.

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You’ve Got a Friend: A Night with James Taylor at The Rady Shell

There are concerts, and then there are moments in time that become stitched into the fabric of your memory—softly, indelibly. That’s what happened the other night at The Rady Shell in San Diego, where James Taylor performed under a perfect spring sky.Seagulls glided above the stage, effortlessly catching the breeze like backup dancers choreographed by nature. In the distance, boats floated lazily off Coronado, their sails catching the golden hour light as Taylor’s warm voice wove its way into the ocean air.

It’s true—his voice isn’t what it once was. The range has narrowed, some edges are softer now. But none of that mattered. Because when the first chords of Sweet Baby James rang out, something vivid and unstoppable happened: the floodgates opened. I was back in college, a freshman clutching the brand-new album like it was a sacred text. I could hear myself humming Mexico as we rattled down dusty roads in North Baja, lobsters and beans on our minds. The windows were open. The future was wide.

Time folded that night, like a concert program tucked into a jacket pocket. I looked around and saw my dearest friends and my spouse—people I’ve known for most of my life—illuminated by the soft light of the moon. Their faces glowed with familiarity and joy, made more poignant by the music weaving through the air.

And then, of course, James sang You’ve Got a Friend.

There it was: the reminder, gentle and true, that while our hair may have greyed and our voices quieted, the people who’ve walked with us through all of it are still here. In the same row. Still smiling. Still listening.

As the last note drifted out over the bay, past the gulls and the sailboats and the California light, I realized the music didn’t need to be perfect—it just needed to be shared.

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Moose on the Loose in Park City

Over the years, skiing with family and friends at Park City has provided a tapestry of memories filled with laughter, excitement, and the occasional brush with wildlife drama. This year, however, felt like an episode from National Geographic invaded our alpine playground.

On a crisp, sunny morning at Canyon’s Docs Run, our planned descent was unexpectedly delayed—not by the usual rogue snowboarder—but due to a moose sighting reported by ski patrol. The run was promptly blocked off for half an hour, allowing the majestic visitor time to leisurely return to its natural habitat away from the groomed trails.

The next day, as we sipped coffee and enjoyed freshly toasted Utah bagels at the condo, we discovered fresh bobcat tracks weaving through our patio, some furniture overturned as if inspected and dismissed by our nocturnal visitor. Clearly, the local wildlife had decided to reclaim their territory, turning our cozy resort into a surprising alpine jungle.

Reflecting on decades of skiing in these very mountains, the landscape hasn’t changed much, though perhaps my approach to skiing certainly has. Now firmly in what I affectionately call my ‘geriatric skiing phase,’ every run is an artful dance of taming gravity, gliding over ice, powder, and avoiding clusters of snowplow skiers and ambitious boarders. Each turn comes with whispered prayers for ligaments and tendons to remain firmly intact, a gentle negotiation between exhilaration and caution.

Yet, despite these cautionary moments, skiing continues to weave its magic, binding generations of family and friends together. Park City remains our snowy sanctuary, ever ready to gift us yet another unforgettable story—moose detours, bobcat tracks, and all.

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The Tragic Tale of TV Theme Songs: From Gilligan’s Island  to Whatever This Is Now

Ah, the 1960s and 1970s when TV theme songs were more than just filler. They were spectacles. They were anthems. They were the reason you sat through the credits, pretending to pay attention while your popcorn got cold and your sibling snatched the last cookie. But today? TV theme songs have become like the sad parsley on a microwaved dinner unnecessary and mostly forgotten. Let’s take a wild ride through the glory days of TV theme songs, from The Beverly Hillbillies to Gilligan’s Island and then to the sad, meme-driven shadow of today’s intros.

The Glory Days: When TV Theme Songs Were Basically Broadway

Back in the good old days, TV theme songs weren’t just there to fill air time, they told entire stories. They set the stage, introduced the characters, and gave you everything you needed to know in a minute or less. Take The Beverly Hillbillies, for instance. That banjo-fueled ballad didn’t just say, “Hey, the Clampetts got rich and moved to Beverly Hills” No, no. It invited you into their world, where you could almost smell the cement pond and taste the possum stew. You felt like you were right there, sitting on the front porch in a rocking chair, staring at their brand-new mansion.

And then there’s Gilligan’s Island. The Ballad of Gilligan’s Island wasn’t just a theme song, it was a full-on epic. In less than a minute, it not only explained why seven people were stranded on a deserted island, but also gave you their names, jobs, and a helpful warning that the weather started getting rough.It was Homers Odyssey, but with more coconuts and fewer monsters. If you didn’t know the lyrics to that song, well, you might as well have been from a different galaxy.

The Decline: When Theme Songs Became the Sad, Overlooked Stepchild

Now let’s talk about what happened to TV theme songs as we entered the age of streaming, smartphones, and the complete destruction of patience. Today’s theme songs are like the intro credits of The Office, short, forgettable, and so uninspired that even the animated sequence feels like it’s just phoning it in. In fact, modern shows treat theme songs like a necessary evil, something to slap together so they don’t get sued for not having one. Now, they’re lucky if we get a 10-second jingle that barely manages to say, Hey, this is a show, before its done and we’re on to the next scene.

What happened? Did we suddenly decide that listening to full songs was too much of a commitment? Did Netflix declare, Sorry, theme songs, we’re all about the plot twists and memes now? Or did every banjo player in Hollywood just retire? (Seriously, where are all the banjo players?)

The Beverly Hillbillies vs. Modern TV: A Tale of Two Eras

Let’s break it down, shall we?

 The Beverly Hillbillies: A glorious minute of banjo strumming that gives you everything Jed Clampett, his kinfolk, and how they went from being poor mountain folk to Beverly Hills royalty. A true rags-to-riches anthem. You didn’t just watch it, you hummed along.

 Modern Show: A five-second instrumental that sounds like a kitten tiptoeing across a Moog synthesizer. You don’t learn anything about the characters, the plot, or why you should care. You’re left wondering if you accidentally clicked on a screensaver.

It’s like comparing a five-course meal to a stale cracker. One’s rich with flavor and history, the others are just there.

Gilligan’s Island vs. Streaming Services: A Three-Act Tragedy

Now, let’s pit Gilligan’s Island against the modern streaming era:

 Gilligan’s Island: A full-blown ballad that explained everything in under a minute. You knew who was on that island, why they were there, and how long they’d be stuck (spoiler: a three-hour tour). It was the perfect blend of exposition and entertainment.

 Streaming Show: A 10-second loop of ambient noise that doesn’t even try to explain what’s happening. You’re left wondering if you accidentally clicked on the Welcome to 1998 screensaver on your desktop.

It’s like Shakespeare writing Macbeth and modern TV offering up a text message that just says K.

The Why of It All: What Happened to TV Theme Songs?

So, what happened? How did we go from The Beverly Hillbillies to whatever is happening now? Some might say it’s the rise of streaming and the skip intro button. Others might blame the constant need for instant gratification. Who has time for a full song when you can just dive into the plot with minimal effort? The attention span of viewers has drastically shrunk, and I’m sure TikTok isn’t helping.

But the real loss here is the joy that a great theme song can bring. A good theme song was like a friend you could rely on familiar, exciting, and always there for you. Sure, they might’ve been a little cheesy, but that’s part of their charm. We miss the days when the theme song could make or break a show.

A Call to Action: Bring Back the Theme Song!

I know you’re out there, TV producers. You may have forgotten about the power of a good theme song, but I haven’t. We need to bring back the iconic, catchy, slightly ridiculous theme songs that made us sing along and set the mood for every episode. Give us something that lasts more than the time it takes to grab a snack.

Until then, I’ll be here, humming the Gilligan’s Island theme and waiting for the day when a show dares to give us a theme song worthy of a standing ovation.

Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale…

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Minnie Riperton: The Voice, The Song, and The Legacy

Minnie Riperton, a name synonymous with ethereal melodies and unparalleled vocal talent, left an indelible mark on the music world. Her iconic song “Lovin’ You”, her breathtaking five-octave range, and her heartbreaking battle with breast cancer combine to tell a story of artistry, love, and resilience.

The Story Behind “Lovin’ You”

Released in 1975 as part of her album Perfect Angel, “Lovin’ You” became Riperton’s signature song. It’s a dreamy ballad that radiates warmth and intimacy, often remembered for its gentle melody and the iconic birdsong in the background. What many may not know is that the song was deeply personal.

Riperton wrote “Lovin’ You” as a tribute to her family, particularly her young daughter, Maya Rudolph—yes, the same Maya Rudolph who would go on to become a beloved actress and comedian. Minnie herself revealed that Maya was in the studio during the recording, and the gentle spirit of the song was meant to embody the love and peace she felt for her daughter and husband, Richard Rudolph.

The famous line, “Maya, Maya, Maya”, sung softly at the end of the song, immortalized the bond between mother and daughter. This subtle inclusion made the song even more special, as it was a lullaby-like expression of maternal love.

A Voice Like No Other!

Riperton’s vocal prowess was unmatched. Trained in operatic techniques, she was renowned for her five-octave range, a rarity in popular music. Her ability to effortlessly glide into the whistle register—those impossibly high notes—set her apart. The purity and control of her voice were showcased in “Lovin’ You,” where she used her upper register to create a dreamy, almost celestial quality.

Her technical skill was complemented by her emotional depth, making her music both technically impressive and profoundly moving. Riperton was often compared to a songbird, a metaphor that became literal in the background sounds of “Lovin’ You.”

Her Battle with Breast Cancer

Tragically, Minnie Riperton’s life was cut short by breast cancer. Diagnosed in 1976, she was one of the first celebrities to publicly share her battle with the disease. She became a spokesperson for the American Cancer Society, using her platform to raise awareness about early detection and treatment.

Despite her diagnosis, Riperton continued to perform and record music, demonstrating incredible strength and resilience. Her song “Memory Lane” from her 1979 album Minnie reflects the depth of her emotions during her illness, capturing both her pain and hope.

Minnie Riperton passed away on July 12, 1979, at the age of 31, leaving behind her husband and two children, including Maya, who was only seven at the time. Her death was a devastating loss to her family, friends, and fans.

The Legacy of Minnie Riperton

Though her life was tragically short, Riperton’s influence endures. Her music continues to inspire countless artists, and her vocal abilities remain a benchmark of excellence. Maya Rudolph has often spoken about her mother’s legacy, carrying her memory into her own creative work.

Minnie Riperton’s story is one of immense talent, unwavering love, and profound courage. Whether you listen to “Lovin’ You” to marvel at her vocal brilliance or to feel the love she poured into it, you’re connecting with an artist who transcended the limits of time and space.

Her music, much like her spirit, remains timeless.

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Pictures and Musings from New York City

Beatles Quiz: Program from Beatles concert at Carnegie Hall 1964: Spot the Error!

Auditioning for a Liberty Mutual Ad

Capitalism’s Answer to Anxiety and Depression in Today’s Society

Plaque on Park Avenue and 37th Street honoring Mary Lindley Murray, a Revolutionary War Hero who served tea to General Howe’s troops, delaying their pursuit of George Washington’s troops and saving the nation. Why don’t we drink tea honoring this beverage that saved the Union?

The first piano from 18th century Italy (Pianoforte, Bartolemeo Cristofori 1655-1731). Marked the beginning of the decline of the Harpsichord Industry.

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Ode to the Hot Dog

Oh, savory delight, the humble hot dog,

A taste that transcends time, an American emblem.

In Times Square’s bustling scene, I savored you,

Nathan’s masterpiece, as I toiled on Broadway’s stage.

As a part-time employee in that bustling space,

Where documents flew and deadlines gave chase,

Amidst the chorus of keys and whirring machines,

I found solace in your presence, your flavors serene.

But it was on July 4th, in Dobbs Ferry, I recall,

My first encounter with you, a revelation, overall.

At my uncle’s house, laughter filled the air,

As I sank my teeth into a grilled Hebrew National, rare.

I listened to Mel Allen’s voice on a transistor radio,

His iconic commentary filled the air with a vibrant glow.

As the hot dog sizzled on the grill, a symphony of flavors,

His voice painted the scene, enhancing the savors.

Amidst family and friends, laughter filled the space,

The transistor radio playing, a joyful embrace.

Dobbs Ferry’s charm, the hot dog’s savory bliss,

A symphony of summer, a moment not to miss.

In the sweet voice of Mel Allen, the stadium would sway,

As he announced a Mantle home run, “going, going, gone,” he’d say.

Toasted buns, untoasted buns, a debate so grand,

A choice that divides, across this great land.

Yet, as I bit into your warmth, the bun held you close,

A perfect union, each flavor enhancing the other’s dose.

Oh, hot dog, your history we must embrace,

From street carts to ballparks, a cherished place.

A symbol of immigrants’ dreams and endeavors,

Your origins intertwined with American treasures.

From German immigrants’ humble sausages, they say,

You were born in the streets of New York, they portray.

From Coney Island’s Nathan’s to Times Square’s allure,

You’ve become a culinary icon, timeless and pure.

So, let us raise a bun, a condiment-laden cheer,

To the hot dog, beloved, let its legacy be clear.

In each bite we take, a taste of history is found,

A culinary masterpiece, forever renowned.

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Timing, Tempo and Rhythm

As I sit in front of the piano with its 88 keys, I feel challenged to produce a musical tune with my novice fingers. My online instructor keeps repeating: “Timing, tempo and rhythm.” How did Mozart and Stevie Wonder manage to master these skills? As I hear the NBA playoffs on TV, I realize that timing, tempo and rhythm are essential for many aspects of life, not just music. 

Timing, tempo, and rhythm – three little words that can mean the difference between life and death. In the twisted game of existence, they’re the cogs that turn the wheels, propelling us forward or leaving us behind in a trail of dust.

In sports, timing can be the difference between winning and losing, between victory and defeat. But it’s not just about being in the right place at the right time. As basketball coach John Wooden once said, “Be quick, but don’t hurry.” It’s about knowing when to make your move, when to strike, and when to hold back. Elvin Hayes, who played for the Houston Rockets in the 1970s, was known for listening to Smokey Robinson’s “Second That Emotion” before games. Hayes believed that the song’s upbeat tempo helped him get into the right mindset for the game. The late, great Kobe Bryant listened to Jay-Z, Beethoven and Journey to syncopate his court skills. 

Timing is a key ingredient that makes the jokes of Seinfeld, Chris Rock and George Carlin hilarious and transform a sigh into a belly laugh.

Tempo, on the other hand, is the heart of music. It’s the pulse that drives the beat, the speed at which we move through life. And just like a well-crafted melody, the tempo can evoke emotions we never knew existed. The faster the beat, the more frenzied we become. The slower the tempo, the more melancholic we feel. It’s a delicate balance, and one that can be manipulated to great effect.

But rhythm is the true master of our fate. It’s the pattern that underpins everything we do, the driving force that gives us purpose and direction. Whether it’s the rhythm of our breathing or the rhythm of our footsteps, it’s the metronome that keeps us moving forward. As writer Maya Angelou once said, “Everything in the universe has a rhythm, everything dances.”

Timing, tempo and rhythm are the foundations of our existence, the elements that shape the mysterious maze of life. Whether we’re making jokes or scoring points, playing music or dealing with our feelings, it’s these three little words that can lift us up or drag us down. So let’s harness the power of timing, the core of tempo and the master of rhythm. For by doing so, we’ll find the groove that leads us to success and keep us forever young!

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Digital Monopoly and Family Bliss

Picture this:  a family vacation in Park City, Utah and ten feet of snow.The ski slopes were pristine, the views were breathtaking, the ski and snowboard turns were on point and on edge. The family was having a great time. But, what brought us even closer, was something unexpected:  a highly competitive digital Monopoly game.

Yes, you heard that right.  Monopoly! The game where players buy and sell properties, build houses and hotels, and bankrupt each other. It’s not exactly what you would call a family bonding activity, right? But it turns out capitalism can be a social glue too.

The idea of playing Monopoly came as we sat in the living room and watched the Rocky Mountain snow pile up against the silhouette of the ski lift. Siri suggested that we look into  the digital version, and four clicks later, we had the Monopoly board streaming on the big screen. At first, I was skeptical. I mean, I had played Monopoly before, and I knew how intense it could get. But the group was game, and soon enough, we were all huddled around the monitor reading how to electronically roll the dice.

The game started off pretty innocently. We all picked our favorite game pieces (I went with the top hat, of course) and started buying properties. I delegated management to my younger son,  a real-life mergers and acquisitions attorney, who parlayed our portfolio into a few monopolies. Adrianne, my older son’s girlfriend, snagged all the railroads and piled up big time currency as we repeatedly landed on her railroad holdings. 

But things really started to heat up when my older son and his girlfriend, Adrianne, started negotiating over St. James Place. He was willing to buy it from her for $200, but she wanted to sweeten the deal. She suggested he throw in a pedicure at a spa in Miami and only then she might consider the sale of St. James Place.  Introducing a real-life aspect to the game left us all in hysterics.

As the game progressed, we all became more and more invested. We started making alliances and deals in an effort to outsmart each other. The bankruptcies started to pile up and the monocled, rich Uncle Pennybags began ruthlessly deleting the accounts of the moneyless, propertyless contestants.

 As the evening turned into a late night event only two players were still solvent: Adrianne declared victory based on a Fort Knox wad of cash and hotels on Boardwalk and Park Place and her real-life pedicure appointment already secured.  My younger son and I were not ready to concede and we await the final report from our forensic accountant. 

We all had a great time playing the game. It brought us closer together and we laughed and joked the whole time. It was a reminder that sometimes, it’s the unexpected and simple activities from days gone by that bring us together.

So, next time you’re on vacation with your family, consider breaking out the virtual Monopoly board. An old-fashioned game night might just bring you closer together. And who knows, you might even get a pedicure out of it.  It worked for Adrianne.