Don Riesett

“LITTLE MAN ON THE COUCH”…On Business Meetings & Greek Sculpture

February 23, 2013 / Don posted in Little Man On The Couch / Comments Off

Little’s mom suggests a special session.

TP: Didn’t expect to see you today, Little Man. Had you scheduled for next week.

LM: Right, doc. Blame it on mom.

TP: Yes, she seemed upset when she called. What happened?

LM: A home invasion. That’s what happened.

TP: Home invasion?

LM: Yep. Thursday night. She called a meeting for her animal thing. Drumming up support for some event or other. About 25 people posted…all women. Well, one guy. Think he was with this seriously pregnant woman—looked like she might drop the kid at any second. Not sure if he was the designated driver or an EMT.

TP: OK, so your mom had a meeting. What about it?

LM: Well, two things right off the bat. One, they’re “animal people” which is good and bad. Good, because they’re all committed to helping the homeless and abused of my brethren. Bad, because they’ve all heard mom yak about me, and she (and they) expected me to be some sort of entertainment centerpiece.

TP: Hmm. And the second thing?

LM: Pretty much all of these women know mom…and they know the line between mom’s meetings and mom’s parties is a zigzag of powdery chalk with a bottle of white at every zig, a fine red at every zag, and tasty hors d’oeuvres laid out along the route. In other words, these women came for a little meeting and a lot of party.

TP: So? You’re a smart guy. I’d have thought you’d just find a quiet corner of the house and lay low.

LM: Did that at first, but I couldn’t really relax because what I haven’t told you is that they were “meeting” in my space.

TP: (Chuckles.) I thought it was ALL your space.

LM: True, but I always have a flavor-of-the-month sweet spot…and they were in this month’s spot! They literally circled their wagons in the room that has my scratch box, my fave catnip things, and my absolute best sleeping chair. I couldn’t relax, wondering what kind of havoc they might be wreaking on my stuff, you know?

TP: So you entered the fray. »Read More

Been There, Done That… San Remo, Italy

February 21, 2013 / Don posted in Been There, Done That, Travel / Comments Off

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.

* * *

San Remo, Italy…May 1988. Sande and I were on the second week of our honeymoon, having spent the first in Paris falling in love with everything Parisian—from the magnificent mural painted on the ceiling of our Left Bank hotel room, to the perfect-for-people-watching cafes along Boulevard Saint-Germain, to the sexy lingerie stores where Sande went bra shopping and I shamelessly tagged along. We then made our way south to the medieval village of Eze, dating to 200 BC and perched high atop a cliff overlooking the French Mediterranean and the city of Nice. We would spend the final week of our luna de miel in this virtual fairyland, while exploring the coastal wonders of neighboring towns along the French and Italian Riviera—like San Remo, where I almost got arrested. »Read More

BEEN THERE, DONE THAT…CAYMAN ISLANDS

February 18, 2013 / Don posted in Been There, Done That / Comments Off

* * *

Grand Cayman Island…January 1982. A friend had offered the use of his two-bedroom beachfront condo on the island’s famously beautiful Seven Mile Beach. My wife and I arrived on a Saturday afternoon to 85 degrees of perfect sunshine, having left Baltimore that morning to 2 degrees of brutal winter. Another couple was to join us midweek, but that plan would be scuttled on Tuesday by the horrific crash of an Air Florida jet into the freezing Potomac, immediately after taking off from Washington’s National Airport in a blinding snowstorm. But this is not about the beach or the crash. It is about what happened in the restaurant.

On Sunday, perhaps owing to too much sun, my wife was not feeling up to dinner, preferring to rest in the cottage and send me off to the restaurant by myself. I was shown to a small table on the side and immediately noticed a large table ahead and to my right. There were about a half dozen couples seated six across, with a single individual seated at the head. My immediate reaction was a flashback to a scene from The French Connection, one of my all-time favorite movies. In that scene, Popeye Doyle and his partner, Cloudy, are in a Manhattan nightclub, observing a small-time hood, named Sal Boca, throwing money around like there was no tomorrow as he entertains a bunch of aging, cigar-chomping goodfellas and their well-endowed nieces. Popeye turns to Cloudy and says, “That table is definitely wrong!” »Read More

“POP, PIGTOWN, AND FAMILY”

February 13, 2013 / Don posted in Select Essays / Comments Off

He was a steel man. Each morning, lunch bag in hand, he’d walk the six blocks to the big U.S. Steel warehouse at the corner of Bush & Wicomico Streets, where he’d spend the day handling massive sheets of iron—cutting, forming, loading, and unloading—until the whistle sounded and his clothes and face were cobalt blue. Then it was home to hose off the carbon, have dinner with Lily and their five boys and, a little later, walk another handful of blocks to the 1019 Pleasure Club.

My grandfather was a founding member of the 1019, a mid-block converted row house—the exterior of which featured a large glass-bricked window fronting James Street, with the interior little more than one big open room, in the middle of which stood a pool table, and behind which, and two steps above, perched the smaller, but all-important tap room. A poor man’s Cheers, where the tedium of the day was erased with good friends and cold beer!

He was my paternal grandfather. Born in 1901, the youngest of nine children, Pop was part of a family evolution that had begun in 1846 when his grandfather and family of seven arrived at Baltimore’s Locust Point from the small, rural farming community of Wasserlos, near Frankfurt in Germany. The immigrant family soon made its way to Pigtown, a South Baltimore neighborhood named for its slaughterhouse functionality, where the Riesetts would essentially remain for the next hundred and fifty years. By the time I was born, a hundred years into the process, Pigtown was very much our tribal village. Within a quarter-mile radius, family or extended family seemed to occupy every other house. And whoever wasn’t family was German. »Read More

“THOMPSON TWO”

February 11, 2013 / Don posted in Poetry / Comments Off

I live in a place called Thompson Two,

Where all is battered and nothing new.

This goes quite well with the people here,

Whose minds are all entwined with fear.

We fear the outside; it’s tough to cope

Without the aid of a form of dope.

For some it’s H, coke or speed;

For some it’s arson, a perverted deed.

One is a vandal; another a queen.

One tried murder; another’s just mean.

And some just didn’t think their worth

Deserved to remain on this good earth. »Read More

“PIGEONHOLED”

February 10, 2013 / Don posted in Poetry / Comments Off

Sharing crumbs,

He looked the part.

Weathered watch cap

Sat like a crown…

Inside out.

Battered T-shirt

Sought a chest…

Found a back.

Unshackled laughter

For a funny story…

No one told.

“Are you crazy?”

Screamed at aggressors…

Who did not exist.

Sharing his weakness,

And loneliness…

With cooing gray birds.

A role played

To perfection…

On the grounds of the cuckoo’s nest.

“LITTLE MAN ON THE COUCH”…On Super Bowls, Mom & Marketing

February 7, 2013 / Don posted in Musings / Comments Off

Little Man opines…from Meathead to Monopoly.

TP: So, Little, being a Baltimore cat, I assume you got caught up in Super Bowl fever?

LM: Not me, doc. In fact, I sent mom and dad out of the house to watch it. Too much yelling and screaming. The name’s cool, though.

TP: Yes, it’s obvious you’re a fan of super sizing.

LM: Don’t get all caught up in the weight thing, doc. I’ve been tipping the scales at a very consistent “just shy of 30” all winter. Pretty good, I think, considering the loss of my little chipmunk playmates.

TP: What do you do for exercise all winter, Little Man?

LM: Not much, as you can imagine. But I like to humor dad with the occasional game of String Chase.

TP: How’s that go?

LM: Dad runs around the room dangling one of his shoelaces and I swat at it when he dangles it near me.

TP: Doesn’t sound like much of a workout.

LM: No, actually, dad works up a nice little sweat.

TP: Uh-huh. Back to the Super Bowl. Bet your dad was pretty jazzed about it.

LM: Yeah, I’ll say…paid the price the day after, though. Too much jello, apparently.

TP: Jello? »Read More

“MUSINGS OF A WHITE BOY”

January 23, 2013 / Don posted in Select Essays / Comments Off

I was a small boy the first time my parents took me to the movies. The theatre was on Washington Boulevard, once a vibrant commercial venue of Baltimore’s Pigtown neighborhood. Back in the early ‘50s, going “up the boulevard” was special, the Crown Theatre having been one of its prime attractions for more than thirty years. Originally built to accommodate vaudeville and minstrel shows, the old structure had played host to the best. It was said that even the great Al Jolson sang for his mammy there—in blackface, of course. Now, black faces appeared in the audience, albeit within certain parameters.

The theatre’s downstairs was especially crowded that night, so my parents headed for the balcony in search of three seats together. I excitedly climbed the plush, carpeted staircase ahead of them. I was sorry that I had. Reaching the top, instinct thrust me back like a stiff wind. I was terrified, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away. Smoke hung like a shroud over a sea of tawny eyes looking out from muted blackness. Breathless, I stared at the “Colored Section,” and it stared back at me.

I imagine it now like entering Louisiana’s Cajun bayous at night, the big gators languishing in the sluggish, slimy creeks awaiting the arrival of prey to make opening their lantern-like eyes worth the effort. You should not be here, their eyes say. You will pay dearly for the mistake. »Read More

“LITTLE MAN ON THE COUCH”…On Sound Machines & Drill Sergeants

January 15, 2013 / Don posted in Musings / Comments Off

Little’s therapist returns from break.

TP: Happy New Year, Little. How’d the holidays treat you?

LM: Not bad, doc, considering.

TP: Considering?

LM: You know the drill. The family blitzkrieg, too many kids, wrapping paper flying all over the place, “sound machines”…like these kids need help making noise.

TP: What are sound machines?

LM: You must’ve seen ‘em…little things look like cell phones with a bunch of buttons that sound out everything from applause to belching and farting. Guess which buttons the little sweetheart grandkids pushed about a thousand times?

TP: Annoying?

LM: Ya think? Plus this year we got a double dose of holiday fun. When Christmas night finally (mercifully) ended, I figured the worst was over. Wrong! Next day, the New Jersey contingent showed up, everybody else returned, and they did it all over again. Who coordinates scheduling for these people?

TP: How about you? Any good stuff?

LM: A few catnip-loaded tchotchkes and, you’ll love this, a tie.

TP: A tie? »Read More

“THE GHOSTS OF CHRISTMAS PAST”

December 24, 2012 / Don posted in Musings / Comments Off

To Sande…On Our 25 Christmases Together.

Twenty-five years ago, in the week between Christmas and New Year, I had dinner alone at Gampy’s neighborhood bar in Baltimore’s Mount Vernon district. It was a bitterly cold Sunday night. To my left, the restaurant had a few patrons, but not many. To my right, outside the big picture window, heavily bundled pedestrians moved briskly against a wintry wind bearing down on Charles Street’s snow-piled sidewalks.

It looked to be a lonely night, and I accepted it as such, even as I found myself flashing back to my bar seat (different bar) at our ad agency’s Christmas Party the week before. I couldn’t stop thinking about her…the Creative Director who had once dubbed me the Idi Amin of advertising and who had spent the bulk of the Office Christmas Party making regular pit stops at the bar to replenish her champagne glass and deliver zingers aimed squarely at the account man she hated—me. Somewhere along the way that evening, we actually started speaking to each other and ended up going home together. Hey, these things happen.

A week later, I’m sitting at Gampy’s, debating whether or not to call. No, I thought. Bad idea. Get a grip on yourself. One more drink. Then, home.

Fate intervened during that drink, and I suddenly found myself asking the bartender for a bottle of champagne to go. I drove up Charles Street, parked outside your house, dialed your number on my car phone, and almost hung up when you answered. I managed to blurt out something to the effect that I was wondering if I could stop by. “OK,” you said, without hesitation, “but I’ll need an hour.”

For the next hour, I sat cradling the champagne, watching the clock, and wondering what I had done. Four months later, we got married.

I don’t know about destiny, but somehow we both knew that we had found our soul mate. Everyone should be so lucky. »Read More

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