“It was January 22, 1984 and I was lying on the couch in my girlfriend’s apartment watching the Washington Redskins get creamed by the Los Angeles Raiders in Super Bowl XVIII. One of the announcers had just commented about the bad back that was affecting the performance of one of the Redskins premier offensive players, to which my girlfriend, lying alongside me, retorted, “Bullshit. There wasn’t anything wrong with his back the other night!” I was undoubtedly mulling that comment when an hypnotic humming sound came from the television and an athletic young woman, looking hot and sweaty in a white tank top and orange shorts, suddenly appeared full screen carrying a large brass hammer, running »Read More
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Been There, Done That… Tokyo, Japan
I have had the good fortune to travel all over the world—for both business and pleasure, not that those are mutually exclusive. This blog is about my unique experiences around the globe. It is not intended as a paean to the wonders of the locales themselves, as there already exist volumes that more than do justice to the magnificence of virtually every corner of this earth. Here, I simply recount small, personal moments of surprise, embarrassment, stupidity, excitement, fear, heroics, and other stuff like that.
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Tokyo, Japan…July 1995. Stepping out through the Rosetta marble columns of Tokyo’s Imperial Hotel, I found myself thinking of Oddjob, James Bond’s Oriental nemesis in Goldfinger. The hotel’s entrance columns had that same look of squared-off immovability as the squat muscleman with the steel-rimmed bowler…not terribly elegant but damn solid. I was heading out for a late afternoon jog to clear my head and get my bearings.
This was my first time in Tokyo and I had just finished an intense meeting with a Japanese businessman and an interpreter. For all the traveling I had done in recent years, this was only the second time that I had required an interpreter, the other being in Barcelona at a meeting with the head of a small Spanish agency whose Gothic offices overlooked Las Ramblas, the city’s eclectic pedestrian promenade. The Barcelona meeting had been a delightful introduction to the world of language intervention, thanks to the interpreter being an exceptionally pretty young woman who seemed to find everything I said fascinating. In contrast, my translator in Tokyo was an older gentleman, with a kamikaze-like focus on the job at hand. It was a trait I would find repeatedly in my dealings with the Japanese over the next few years.
I had arrived in the land of the rising sun to intermittent bursts of pouring rain that whipped up an impressive level of humidity reminiscent of the Baltimore summers of my youth. I was, however, reasonably acclimatized, thanks to Tokyo being my final stop on a two-week excursion that had already taken me to Kuala Lumpur, Brunei, and Jakarta. »Read More
Been There, Done That… Muscat, Oman
I have had the good fortune to travel all over the world—for both business and pleasure, not that those are mutually exclusive. This blog is about my unique experiences around the globe. It is not intended as a paean to the wonders of the locales themselves, as there already exist volumes that more than do justice to the magnificence of virtually every corner of this earth. Here, I simply recount small, personal moments of surprise, embarrassment, stupidity, excitement, fear, heroics, and other stuff like that.
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Muscat, Oman…Christmas 1998 & New Year’s 1999. It seemed like a good idea at the time—to spend Christmas and New Year’s in a Muslim country in the middle of Ramadan.
Perhaps the most sacred month of the Islamic calendar, Ramadan is a period during which Muslims refrain—dawn to sunset—from eating, drinking, smoking, and sexual relations, arguably the perennial Big Four on Sande and my holiday wish list. Nevertheless, on Christmas Eve, we boarded a British Airways flight out of London en route to a destination about which we knew little, a culture that could hardly be more foreign, and a region that, within days, would make worldwide headlines when sixteen tourists in neighboring Yemen were taken hostage by Islamist militants. Four of those hostages and several of the terrorists would subsequently be killed when Yemen government troops stormed the compound where the hostages were being held.
True to form, Sande and I were blissfully ignorant of such dangers as our plane touched down in Muscat. Our concerns were more basic. Had Sande brought enough color-coordinated veils to cover her head whenever we were out in public? And since we could only drink alcohol in the privacy of our hotel room, albeit via a very well stocked mini-bar, how often would we actually be sober enough to make it downstairs for dinner? »Read More
“WHEN SANTA LIVED NEXT DOOR”
The signal usually came as a rap on the wall that separated our row house from the one next to us. I suppose Mr. Joe could have just yelled (row house common walls hardly being soundproof), but a couple simple knuckle raps got the job done just fine.
“Joe’s ready,” my mom, clearing the supper dishes in the kitchen, would say to my dad, who was already putting his coat on and checking to make sure there was film in the camera.
“Yep, here we go again.” Dad said, heading for the door.
“Don’t forget to stop at Willie’s,” my mom called out, as the front door closed.
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It was a Christmas Eve ritual. Mr. Joe, in full Santa Claus regalia, with my dad, his trusty wingman, ho-ho-ho-ing their way around the neighborhood to the delight, surprise, and occasional terror of its children.
Eyes wide, mouths open, the really little tykes would wonder at the sight of Santa coming through their door before hustling off to bed in hopes of remaining on his “nice list.” Meanwhile, the older kids got a kick out of playing along for the benefit of their younger siblings, and maybe because a part of them wanted to revisit, if only for a few moments, the magical fantasy that is the jolly fat man in the red suit. As for the parents, while they might put out cookies and milk later, they would offer Santa a considerably more adult beverage now to lighten the burden of his busiest night of the year, not to mention assuring that he would leave even merrier than he had arrived. »Read More
“LITTLE MAN ON THE COUCH”…On Cat Names, Dog Peculiarities & The Prodigal Half-Pound
It’s a boy. Oops! Not so fast.
TP: Hi, Little. Happy Halloween a day late!
LM: Thanks, doc. I went as myself this year—“a grumpy old man.”
TP: Still smarting from that ER doctor’s comment about you, I see.
LM: Let’s just say it was good he didn’t send his kids over, trick-or-treating.
TP: OK, Mr. Grumpy. What else is new?
LM: Here’s something. You know Miss Genny—Curly’s mom and all-around-trouble maker?
TP: Sure, we’ve discussed her before.
LM: Well, she’s big into fostering kitties, for which I give her kudos. But she seems to have a little trouble with gender identification.
TP: How so?
LM: Get this. She finds a little one abandoned in a trailer park and decides to call him Earl. Makes a big deal of it on Facebook, says she’s naming him after some TV show called, My Name Is Earl. Duh. Apparently, it’s a show about some ne’er-do-well who tries to turn his life around. And this has what to do with a newborn kitten?
TP: Well, people have all kinds of odd ways of naming their pets. Look at you.
LM: This is not about me. Anyway, a few weeks later, STOP THE PRESSES. Earl’s a girl! Oops! That’s a little embarrassing for Miss I know everything about pets. Hell, she’s only been breast (I mean, bottle) feeding the little runt for weeks…she just now got around to checking out the equipment? Anyhow, now we get a post that says, “we think Earl might be a girl.” She thinks?
TP: Well, maybe it takes a little while, you know, for things to develop.
LM: Please, doc. It ain’t rocket science. Anyway…drumroll…here comes the name change. Earl is now Celeste. Now you tell me, doc, have you ever heard of an animal named Celeste? I mean, what’s the kitten named after now? A pizza? She’d been better off taking a page out of that Prince guy’s book, you know? Just become the cat formerly known as Earl. That’s got some panache, at least. »Read More
BEEN THERE, DONE THAT…BEIJING, CHINA
I have had the good fortune to travel all over the world—for both business and pleasure, not that those are mutually exclusive. This blog is about my unique experiences around the globe. It is not intended as a paean to the wonders of the locales themselves, as there already exist volumes that more than do justice to the magnificence of virtually every corner of this earth. Here, I simply recount small, personal moments of surprise, embarrassment, stupidity, excitement, fear, heroics, and other stuff like that.
* * *
Beijing, China…May 1998. Notwithstanding the beauty of Paris, the bustle of Tokyo, the nobility of London, or the sheer presence of New York, Beijing is perhaps my favorite city in the world. No other city has ever transported me, both literally and figuratively, to the heights of mental and sensory acuity that I experienced there.
To wander for hours through the centuries old Forbidden City and imagine what it was like to be the last Emperor or for that matter the first, who resided there some 500 years earlier, throngs of followers stretched out in homage before him, concubines and eunuchs attending to his every whim; it is a truly magical place.
Located in the center of Beijing, just around the corner from our hotel, I would jog each morning past the entrance to this city within a city, and consider life outside its walls for the common people who were forbidden to enter the Emperor’s world of secrecy and mystery. Then I look up at the enormous framed portrait of Chairman Mao overhanging the main gate, as workers clad in drab tunic style Mao suits sweep the pre-dawn streets—vivid reminders of China’s communist mindset, still fresh and dominating despite two decades of the country being open to westerners like me.
I continue my jog through Tiananmen Square and am immediately transported to that iconic moment, just nine years earlier, when a lone student stood before a column of 50-ton Chinese military tanks in a protest that would have been inconceivable to generations past, resulted in a massacre of student protestors, and moved China another painful step toward its future.
Later in the day, Sande and I will ride our bikes to the Temple of Confucious before stopping for lunch at McDonald’s, at which point a mild rumble is felt on the ground below our feet, as Confucious, Mao Tse-Tung and every Emperor in China’s thousands-years history undoubtedly turns over in his grave. »Read More
BEEN THERE, DONE THAT…MADRID, SPAIN
I have had the good fortune to travel all over the world—for both business and pleasure, not that those are mutually exclusive. This blog is about my unique experiences around the globe. It is not intended as a paean to the wonders of the locales themselves, as there already exist volumes that more than do justice to the magnificence of virtually every corner of this earth. Here, I simply recount small, personal moments of surprise, embarrassment, stupidity, excitement, fear, heroics, and other stuff like that.
* * *
Madrid, Spain…February 1993. Over the course of my tenure as an international ad man, I visited Madrid many times, but the most noteworthy by far was the weekend Sande and I spent there early on in our life as expatriates. An interesting place to do business, often requiring translators, thanks to Spain’s relatively recent past under the iron-fisted isolationist rule of Generalisimo Franco, and a place of cultural renown, thanks to the treasures of the Prado, the Sofia, and the city’s many magnificent cathedrals and plazas, Madrid was also a city where I would have the most memorable dessert of my life. »Read More
“GRAPES IN THE GRAPE JELLY”
It hangs in my mind like a Norman Rockwell illustration for the cover of an old issue of The Saturday Evening Post.
A boy of seven lies in bed, the narrow room softly lit by the amber glow spilling from a frayed lampshade, the bed sheet pulled tight to the boy’s chin, his eyes heavy. Alongside the boy, in an over-stuffed armchair, sits a bear of a man. The crown of his head is bald, bordered by fluffy tufts of snowy white. His eyebrows, great bushy things careening wildly in many directions, frame eyes that say weariness but comfort, and stand out from a face that is pleasantly bountiful. The body is broad, centered on a belly rounded by age and hops, strong arms bulging from a sleeveless T-shirt. Two meaty paws rest on the man’s lap. The fingers of one work the beads of a rosary; the other wraps a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon.
My Uncle Carroll was a gentle man, filled with kindness and patience. He loved his faith and he lived it. But his final days were filled with great pain; the pain of a son lost to suicide and a body crippled by stroke. It breaks my heart to remember him that way. Rather, I choose to recall the week I spent with him and my Aunt Delores one summer many years ago.
It was a summer of firsts—my first “girlfriend;” my first time getting dumped by a girlfriend; the first time I saw two adult ladies have an actual physical fight; my first tuna fish sandwich made with Miracle Whip; and, my first realization that there were grapes in the grape jelly. »Read More
“LITTLE MAN ON THE COUCH”…On A Trip To The Emergency Room
You’d be grumpy, too.
TP: Great to see you, Little Man. Heard you were sick.
LM: Thanks, doc. Yeh, I had a rough time last week. Couldn’t even eat! That freaked everybody out.
TP: I bet.
LM: Three straight days of no appetite and even my vet, Dr. Evan, was worried. Apparently, he told dad that when big, rakishly handsome cats like myself stop eating for even a short period, our internal organs can shut down and, well, next stop—the big litterbox in the sky.
TP: Scary. So even your vet thinks you’re “rakishly handsome,” does he?
LM: Just paraphrasing, doc, okay? Anyhow, by late Wednesday night, mom and dad were pretty worried and, no kidding, I was hurtin’. Giving dad the old do something eyeball and my most pathetic woe is me cry.
TP: That’s when you went to the Pet ER?
LM: Right. Dad checked with Dr. Evan first to see if we should wait until morning to see him, but Evan said, No way. Get that little stud to the ER, pronto.
TP: Were you worried?
LM: I have to be honest, doc. I was. Mom couldn’t get over my total silence on the drive over. I was busy with that whole life flashing before your eyes deal. It’s true, you know. Thinking about all the things you did, shoulda done, coulda done, would do if you were allowed just one more bite of the apple. Maybe I shoulda been more of a lap cat for mom, a better (slimmer) hunter for dad. Perhaps I coulda been nicer to that dweeb, Curly, or less aggressive toward the annoying kid in the plaid pajamas. Probably shouldn’t have laughed when dad fell out of the tree and fractured his rib trying to “save me” when I was little. Stuff like that.
TP: Hmm. So what happened at the ER? »Read More
“SUNDAYS”
A typical Sunday morning, roughly 8:15, a long time ago. My father stands in the doorway to my room, extends his thumb to his lips, curls his fingers as if holding a bugle, and sounds out the military wake-up call of Reveille. God, that was annoying!
I was eight, and it was time to get up and get ready for church. All the kids who attended St. Bernardine’s parochial school were “encouraged” to attend the nine o’clock Mass on Sunday. While not a strict requirement, my fellow third-graders and I were well aware that any absence would be duly noted by the eagle-eyed Sister Mary Eustacius and met with a syrupy snippet on Monday morning on the order of: I don’t believe we had the pleasure of Mr. Riesett’s company yesterday at the 9. It never bode well for an eight-year old to be called out as a “mister,” especially in the regimented obedience of the 1950s.
Fortunately, thanks to my dad’s faux bugle call, I was a regular at “the 9,” virtually always officiated by Monsignor Louie Vaeth, a great character of a man with a crusty exterior and a unique talent for memory. Standing in the pulpit from which he would deliver his sermon, he would first read that day’s Gospel selection…except he never actually read it. Rather, he would open the Bible to the appropriate page, hold it out in front of him in his left hand, and recite it word-for-word without ever glancing at the page.
In those days, the Monsignor of a Catholic parish was essentially a benevolent dictator, and Louie Vaeth played his part to the hilt. Once an amateur boxing champion, now a gruff old shepherd of one of the city’s fastest growing congregations, he loved to play poker and smoke cigars with the faithful on Friday nights, attend the local fights on Saturday, and shepherd his flock to higher heights of holiness on Sunday. The story was told about the night that Monsignor Louie, at that point well into his 60s, attended a local fight card and was invited into the ring to offer a blessing. Suddenly, a voice called out from the well-lubricated crowd, Go back to your church, you penguin-suited bum. A hush fell hard over the arena. Glaring out from the ring, Louie Vaeth immediately removed the white clerical collar at the throat of his otherwise black priestly garb and called out to the faceless voice: “Forget this Roman collar. Come down here and say that to me as a man.” That no one moved (or probably breathed for the next minute) undoubtedly deprived the crowd of a Main Event they would have never forgotten. »Read More