Summer Games

I like to play games.

Not the kind that would benefit my waist size or cardiovascular system, you understand. No, my sneakers are for strolling, my fingers have outgrown my bowling ball and my golf game is restricted to courses with a windmill.

My workout is all in the wrist --- with cards, dice, game pieces and a board.

But let's back up for a moment. I don't remember exactly how old I was when I got my first taste of game action, but I do know that the introduction did not involve "Chutes and Ladders" or "Candy Land."

No, my first time involved a game of strategy called "Pinky Lee and the Runaway Frankfurters" --- and if you're old enough to remember when it seemed that Pinky Lee. as the host of a TV show for children, was second only to "Howdy Doody," you're my kind of gamer. Only in America could a former burlesque comic become the idol of millions of kiddies.

But I digress. From Pinky, I grew and moved on to other, largely forgettable board games before the journey put me on a road that eventually led to the El Dorado of the industry --- the magical land otherwise known as "Monopoly."

Ah, "Monopoly." They call it a "board game," but that gives no credit to its wonderful game tokens, deeds, play money, houses and hotels, and -- of course -- cards and dice. The various playing pieces -- and their quality -- have changed over the years, but I learned on a friend's vintage set in which many of the items were wooden.

Sometime before "Monopoly," I learned to play checkers and sometime later, I grasped the basics of chess. The former was the game that got me through CYO Day Camp and the latter seemingly hit its peak around the same time as my 15 minutes as a martini drinker (extra dry, straight up, with a twist of lemon) and student of the French cinema.

But neither produced a match that stuck itself in my memory. "Monopoly," on the other hand, was special.

As a kid on summer vacation (the ones without day camp), I spent a lot of mornings playing that game with friends on the stoop, in the driveway or in the backyard. It was our own floating crap game, as we would meet on a daily basis, determined to financially ruin one another --- or, at least, be the first one to land on "Free Parking" when it was stuffed with fake cash.

The games went on for hours, interrupted only by the arrival of enough other kids to warrant a stickball choose-up or by a mother's call to come in for lunch --- whichever came first.

I don't recall any of those games ever being decided with a clear-cut winner. Mostly, I remember giving the business to the kid who picked up a "Community Chest" card and learned he had won second prize in a beauty contest or, better yet, been sentenced to jail by a "Chance" card.

I remember, too, the fear and loathing of leaving the yellows, coming around the bend to the greens and ending in a space that left me staring at what waited up ahead --- the dreaded hotel hell of Park Place and Boardwalk, either a more likely landing place than "Go" (and $200) on my next roll. Each now owned and fully developed by the same kid I had given the business to a few rounds earlier, after he had rolled himself into jail. Who knew?

Over the years, I've played my share of dealer's-choice poker and at different times, have been part of groups that would meet semi-regularly for evenings of low-stakes cards and good company.

Thankfully, none was more intense than that one summer morning when I sat in the driveway and stared down the barrel of blue bankruptcy --- and survived to roll again.

Dead Men Tell No Tales But Still Do Ads

Not knowing very much about how commercials work, I'm left to wonder about the manner in which their shelf life is determined.

I mean, is there a contract in a drawer somewhere that says a commercial has to run "x" number of times, no matter what?

The first time that I got to thinking about this was fairly recently, after a second principal player in a New York State Lottery commercial -- Ed McMahon -- passed from this earth and the damn thing kept airing.

Now the commercial makes great use of three announcers whose voices/trademark expressions are easily recognizable, even if their names (with the exception of McMahon) are not.

But there may be a matter of gross stupidity, if not simple poor taste, to consider.

Months earlier, Don LaFontaine (of "In a world where..." movie trailer fame) had preceded McMahon in death. Yet the commercial kept showing up.

No doubt the same people who like curses, conspiracy theories and real reasons why the Chicago Cubs will never win another World Series have an explanation.

But if I'm the third (and last) of The Three Announcers left standing -- Johnny Gilbert of "Jeopardy!" -- I'm suddenly Mr. Mum, checking out the ice fishing in Greenland and waaay too busy to take notice.

And if somebody wearing mukluks, gloves and a parka comes up and taps me on the shoulder as I'm waiting for a bite, I've already got my story and I'm sticking to it: "Gilbert who? Never heard of the guy."

Happily, the commercial seems to have run its course. Or maybe somebody got to wondering why LaFontaine and McMahon hadn't cashed their residual checks in a while and launched an investigation.

Whatever the reason, at long last The Three Announcers commercial seems to have gone away.

Now if the Ministry of Good Taste would just do something about that radio spot with the guy who sounds too much like Phil Hartman insisting "men get what men want," I could almost feel comfortable again.

Not Always in the Cards

My father died suddenly 20 years ago this month and I still get the twinges.

One will hit me if I hear a certain song that I know he liked or played as a musician. Most often, though, I risk a twinge when I'm in a card store, trying to find one with a message that works for the intended recipient, and I happen to spot the card-stuffed slots marked "Father."

Nope. Not for me. Not anymore.

For all the things that changed the day my father died, my buying of greeting cards was altered forever in a way that conjures up that old song "There's Always Something There to Remind Me" (the Sandie Shaw version).

So, there I'll stand, with a twinge of remembrance and regret.

I have some great memories of my father. I remember being a little kid and sometimes waiting on Queens Boulevard by the subway station in the evening until he surfaced, so that we could walk home together.

One of my favorite father-and-son memories has to do with baseball --- the night in 1969 when we were at Shea Stadium as the Mets beat the St. Louis Cardinals to clinch the division title on their way to winning the National League pennant and, ultimately, the World Series. Amazin'!

I remember, too, my dad's side job as the tuxedo-wearing leader of the Bob Mitchell Orchestra, playing weddings and church affairs. As one of the kids who picked up a guitar (didn't everyone?) after the Beatles hit it big, I was in a rock group. And since my father refused to play rock, he'd bring us along to play while his band was on its break.

But my dad and I did not always get along and some disagreements were worse than others. In particular, there were those bitter arguments at the dinner table, during the height of the Vietnam War.

We were on opposite sides, followers of different leaders: My father had served under General Patton in World War II; I sat in the street behind Shirley MacLaine in a quest for peace.

As might be expected, there was never a winner in our war of words --- only the knowledge that we made a good team in bringing my mother to tears.

"Can't we just have dinner once without an argument?" she would cry.

Of course, that would shut us up --- until the next time.

Fortunately, my father and I grew to become more agreeable, even if it wasn't an easy process. My last memory of him is that we had just spent a good time together at a wedding reception. When it ended, we parted with a handshake, a hug and a sincere "I'll talk to you," even if we didn't.

I have known people who were on the outs with a parent or sibling when the harsh truth that we all get to answer to mortality suddenly hit them upside the head. Well, if I am grateful for anything, it's that I've missed out on that kind of haunting.

Knowing that wasn't in the cards, I've learned to live with the twinges.

Re: Leftovers as an Opening Act

As a professional writer (i.e., somebody who has collected a paycheck by stringing words together for a community newsweekly in New York City's borough of Queens the past 20 years), I've sometimes -- okay, often -- wondered about engaging in outside projects and possible conflicts of interest.

The first time that I got to thinking about the subject, I think, was upon learning that one of my favorite sports columnists would be making regular appearances on sports talk radio. And I wondered: who's going to get the leftovers?

To put it another way, I wondered who would be getting this particular scribe's best stuff. If he were lucky enough to have a scoop on his hands, which audience would get it first --- his readers or his listeners?

It's safe to say that his respective bosses probably wondered, too.

So, as I join the rest of the world on a blogging stage, for an opening act, I promise no scoops or even tasty leftovers; just some musings, and hopefully, a reason to visit every once in a while.