I know there are people who believe in the existence of the stupid question, but I haven’t counted myself among them.
Personally, I like to think that some queries lack accuracy, others are improper and still others share aspects of both. But stupid? No. I find it hard to knock an effort to gain information.
I do, however, reserve the right to change my opinion, if it seems to be the smart move.
Yes, I’ve heard the quip about how keeping quiet and appearing to be stupid is preferable to opening one’s mouth and removing all doubt --- some good advice found in similar quotes attributed to Mark Twain and Abraham Lincoln.
But sometimes, when it comes to questions, a person just has to go ahead and ask, anyway.
It might be the best one can say in trying to figure out what political analyst Mark Halperin was thinking when he said what he said on MSNBC during the cable news channel’s June 30 “Morning Joe” show.
What Halperin, an editor-at-large at Time magazine, said about President Barack Obama -- a crude comment depicting the president as a part of the male anatomy -- got him suspended "indefinitely" by MSNBC. The vulgarity came in answer to a question about the president’s demeanor at his news conference the previous day.
But what put Halperin on a greased slide to a bad place was a question of his own. Instead of providing his analysis of the news conference, he asked co-hosts Joe Scarborough and Mika Brzezinski if MSNBC’s seven-second delay button was working.
As it turned out, whether it was operational didn’t matter; a producer reportedly pushed the wrong one after Halperin went ahead and made the offensive remark, which could be heard by viewers.
Having toiled in the field of journalism for more than twenty years, I came to the conclusion long ago that reporters have plenty of better things to worry about than the risk of appearing stupid --- especially when there’s a fair chance that the risk is a horse already out of the barn and long gone down the road.
But now, well, I think it might be a good time to revisit my opinion about the non-existence of the stupid question.
Meanwhile, on the matter of analysis -- political or otherwise -- I'm thinking: never mind Mark Twain and Abraham Lincoln. Maybe the fellow who summed it up best was a plain talker and true Renaissance man named Forrest Gump.
"Stupid is as stupid does," observed Forrest, who did pretty well for himself without the benefit of a delay button.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Saturday, May 28, 2011
From Finding Peace To Getting The Creeps
A smart man, or at least one who relishes life with minimal ruckus, knows enough to agree with his wife --- particularly when it comes to the ideal route to get from here to there.
Of course, then there are the rest of us, who learn these things the hard way. In the best example of navigating my way in New York that comes to mind, the “there” involves the Suffolk County hospital where my mother has been a patient at various times in recent years.
For too long, I had relied on the roadway that serves as my personal motoring landmark when figuring the way to a destination in Long Island’s Nassau or Suffolk counties. As usual, I had one question, albeit of two parts: how far do I go on Sunrise Highway and where do I go from there?
While I understand the joy and possible benefits to getting some place sooner, there’s also some comfort in taking a major route so lined with businesses, dotted with traffic signals and broken by intersections that it can be seen as risk-proof by first-timers who fear getting lost.
This would prove especially true along the Nassau County stretch that runs parallel to the Long Island Rail Road. Station by station, the passing motorist can mark the drive one village at a time.
My way was simple enough: turn onto Sunrise Highway and head east, beyond the intersections that give way to exits, until I could take the ramp leading to Route 231 and continue south to Montauk Highway. From there, the hospital was almost within walking distance.
Once my wife -- My Wonderful Wife Peg -- learned of this, she wanted to know why I wasn’t taking the Meadowbrook Parkway to Ocean Parkway instead. As it was, I didn’t have any good reason for my way other than it being my way, so I clung to it for as long as I could and whenever I could --- i.e., as long as I sat behind the steering wheel on those occasions when I would visit the hospital alone.
Meanwhile, Peg had the reasons that made perfect sense for taking her way: fewer vehicles and nicer scenery. A much more peaceful ride, she maintained, and as so often happens, she was right.
Taking the Meadowbrook Parkway towards Jones Beach during the fall and winter months put me on a road unlike anything I knew. I am a relative latecomer to Long Island, having grown up and spent most of my life in New York City’s Queens County. Peace and quiet did not come naturally to me.
But in my first try on the route recommended by my wife, I felt a calmness come over me. By the time that the Meadowbrook ended -- after passing through empty toll booths (for parking fees during beach season) -- onto Ocean Parkway with beach land on either side, the transformation was complete: as close to serenity as I am capable of reaching while operating a motor vehicle.
Ocean Parkway runs a bit more than 15 miles between two state parks -- Jones Beach and Captree, with beaches in between. It starts in one county (Nassau) and ends in another (Suffolk), before feeding into the Robert Moses Causeway, named for the all-powerful parks commissioner who had envisioned Jones Beach State Park and the roadways to it.
But in traveling from home, once I got past Moses’ own promised playland for summer fun, I no longer knew where I was exactly, except for an occasional sign about a particular beach or town. I had passed the one real landmark I could rely on --- the old water tower that stands as a monument at the center of circling roadways. After that, I was on my own, with no busy intersections, traffic lights or railroad stations to serve as clear and frequent reference points.
In either direction, Ocean Parkway is a long stretch of two lanes cutting through the tall weeds, wooded brush and sand. With fewer signs and structures, except for occasional clusters of houses, the landscape was wrapped in more sky than what I typically failed to notice. Wherever else I was, I knew I was at peace --- so comfortable in the feeling of solitude that I was free to get lost in my thoughts.
With neither congestion outside the car nor conversation inside it, there was nothing to steer my mind in a certain direction. I let myself drift, from wondering about the present -- and whether my mother would rebound from this latest episode of physical betrayal -- to sifting through memories that now seemed like scenes from old movies.
I could choose my soundtrack, as I drove to and from the hospital. Instead of listening to the news or sports talk on the radio, as I often do while driving, I found myself bringing CDs along for the ride. Shawn Colvin and Aimee Mann emerged as Ocean Parkway favorites.
But then it all began to change last December, after human remains turned up along Ocean Parkway. Within a three-day period, four decomposed victims -- subsequently identified as females in their 20s who were regarded as suspected prostitutes -- were found in the vicinity of Gilgo Beach.
The crime scenes and evidence searches that ensued led to the kind of traffic closures usually reserved for road work projects and marathon races while news accounts pieced together the shadowy picture of a serial killer.
At least, it appeared to be a matter of a singular slayer until earlier this month. Police boosted the numbers of both victims and killers, due to the cases of three other people --- two of them, dismembered women partially found years ago in Manorville -- whose body parts had been dumped near Ocean Parkway between Gilgo Beach and Oak Beach.
Along with the suspected victims of foul play, the blanketed corpse of a female toddler presented an eighth case for investigation.
“It is clear that the area in and around Gilgo Beach has been used to discard human remains for some period of time,” Suffolk County District Attorney Thomas Spota said, during a May 9 conference with the news media.
By then, my mother had left the hospital to return to the nursing home. But while I did not need to drive on Ocean Parkway, I felt wounded by loss just the same. I knew how I had felt soon after the grisly finds were made last December. More than ever, I missed what it had meant before fog or darkness became worrisome things, sometime before I gave serious thought to how I could describe my location in the event of an emergency cell phone call --- before the sign for “Gilgo Beach” gave me the creeps.
Even the sound of Shawn Colvin quietly singing “Shotgun Down the Avalanche” in my car seemed haunting now in a way she hardly would have liked.
As somebody whose newspaper experiences included years of covering murders and going to crime scenes, I could understand what would make Ocean Parkway appealing to a killer looking to dispose of a body. But knowing a monster’s idea of heaven had poisoned the peace in my own way through it.
Of course, then there are the rest of us, who learn these things the hard way. In the best example of navigating my way in New York that comes to mind, the “there” involves the Suffolk County hospital where my mother has been a patient at various times in recent years.
For too long, I had relied on the roadway that serves as my personal motoring landmark when figuring the way to a destination in Long Island’s Nassau or Suffolk counties. As usual, I had one question, albeit of two parts: how far do I go on Sunrise Highway and where do I go from there?
While I understand the joy and possible benefits to getting some place sooner, there’s also some comfort in taking a major route so lined with businesses, dotted with traffic signals and broken by intersections that it can be seen as risk-proof by first-timers who fear getting lost.
This would prove especially true along the Nassau County stretch that runs parallel to the Long Island Rail Road. Station by station, the passing motorist can mark the drive one village at a time.
My way was simple enough: turn onto Sunrise Highway and head east, beyond the intersections that give way to exits, until I could take the ramp leading to Route 231 and continue south to Montauk Highway. From there, the hospital was almost within walking distance.
Once my wife -- My Wonderful Wife Peg -- learned of this, she wanted to know why I wasn’t taking the Meadowbrook Parkway to Ocean Parkway instead. As it was, I didn’t have any good reason for my way other than it being my way, so I clung to it for as long as I could and whenever I could --- i.e., as long as I sat behind the steering wheel on those occasions when I would visit the hospital alone.
Meanwhile, Peg had the reasons that made perfect sense for taking her way: fewer vehicles and nicer scenery. A much more peaceful ride, she maintained, and as so often happens, she was right.
Taking the Meadowbrook Parkway towards Jones Beach during the fall and winter months put me on a road unlike anything I knew. I am a relative latecomer to Long Island, having grown up and spent most of my life in New York City’s Queens County. Peace and quiet did not come naturally to me.
But in my first try on the route recommended by my wife, I felt a calmness come over me. By the time that the Meadowbrook ended -- after passing through empty toll booths (for parking fees during beach season) -- onto Ocean Parkway with beach land on either side, the transformation was complete: as close to serenity as I am capable of reaching while operating a motor vehicle.
Ocean Parkway runs a bit more than 15 miles between two state parks -- Jones Beach and Captree, with beaches in between. It starts in one county (Nassau) and ends in another (Suffolk), before feeding into the Robert Moses Causeway, named for the all-powerful parks commissioner who had envisioned Jones Beach State Park and the roadways to it.
But in traveling from home, once I got past Moses’ own promised playland for summer fun, I no longer knew where I was exactly, except for an occasional sign about a particular beach or town. I had passed the one real landmark I could rely on --- the old water tower that stands as a monument at the center of circling roadways. After that, I was on my own, with no busy intersections, traffic lights or railroad stations to serve as clear and frequent reference points.
In either direction, Ocean Parkway is a long stretch of two lanes cutting through the tall weeds, wooded brush and sand. With fewer signs and structures, except for occasional clusters of houses, the landscape was wrapped in more sky than what I typically failed to notice. Wherever else I was, I knew I was at peace --- so comfortable in the feeling of solitude that I was free to get lost in my thoughts.
With neither congestion outside the car nor conversation inside it, there was nothing to steer my mind in a certain direction. I let myself drift, from wondering about the present -- and whether my mother would rebound from this latest episode of physical betrayal -- to sifting through memories that now seemed like scenes from old movies.
I could choose my soundtrack, as I drove to and from the hospital. Instead of listening to the news or sports talk on the radio, as I often do while driving, I found myself bringing CDs along for the ride. Shawn Colvin and Aimee Mann emerged as Ocean Parkway favorites.
But then it all began to change last December, after human remains turned up along Ocean Parkway. Within a three-day period, four decomposed victims -- subsequently identified as females in their 20s who were regarded as suspected prostitutes -- were found in the vicinity of Gilgo Beach.
The crime scenes and evidence searches that ensued led to the kind of traffic closures usually reserved for road work projects and marathon races while news accounts pieced together the shadowy picture of a serial killer.
At least, it appeared to be a matter of a singular slayer until earlier this month. Police boosted the numbers of both victims and killers, due to the cases of three other people --- two of them, dismembered women partially found years ago in Manorville -- whose body parts had been dumped near Ocean Parkway between Gilgo Beach and Oak Beach.
Along with the suspected victims of foul play, the blanketed corpse of a female toddler presented an eighth case for investigation.
“It is clear that the area in and around Gilgo Beach has been used to discard human remains for some period of time,” Suffolk County District Attorney Thomas Spota said, during a May 9 conference with the news media.
By then, my mother had left the hospital to return to the nursing home. But while I did not need to drive on Ocean Parkway, I felt wounded by loss just the same. I knew how I had felt soon after the grisly finds were made last December. More than ever, I missed what it had meant before fog or darkness became worrisome things, sometime before I gave serious thought to how I could describe my location in the event of an emergency cell phone call --- before the sign for “Gilgo Beach” gave me the creeps.
Even the sound of Shawn Colvin quietly singing “Shotgun Down the Avalanche” in my car seemed haunting now in a way she hardly would have liked.
As somebody whose newspaper experiences included years of covering murders and going to crime scenes, I could understand what would make Ocean Parkway appealing to a killer looking to dispose of a body. But knowing a monster’s idea of heaven had poisoned the peace in my own way through it.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
When One Foul Ball Meant Bullied For Life
For those who may be thinking life stinks, cheer up: you could be Steve Bartman, the Chicago Cubs fan who got in the way of a Cubs outfielder's attempt to catch a foul ball in the eighth inning of Game 6 in the 2003 National League Championship Series.
At the time, the Cubs had a three-run lead in the eighth inning and were up, three games to two, on the Florida Marlins. Cubs pitcher Mark Prior was throwing a shutout. If "The Bartman Incident," as it is known, hadn't happened and Moises Alou somehow had caught the pop foul by Luis Castillo, it would have meant the second out --- putting the Cubs four outs away from going to the World Series for the first time since 1945.
Ah, if only ifs and buts were candy and nuts. But instead, the Marlins would score eight runs in the inning. They won the next game and went on to beat the Yankees in the World Series.
As for Steve Bartman, the 26-year-old Little League coach didn't go home with a souvenir baseball, but he caught plenty of grief from his fellow fans. Still wearing his Cubs cap, Bartman had to keep his jacket up to his face as he left, escorted from the stadium for his own protection.
It was only the beginning for the unfortunate fellow who suddenly became known as the most hated man in Chicago. Meanwhile, the Cubs have not been closer to a World Series since that night and Steve Bartman remains That Guy to a lot of fans.
Of all the reasons to be hated by people you never met...whew.
I mention this because I just heard a radio interview with director Alex Gibney, whose film on "The Bartman Incident" and the fallout, titled "Catching Hell," is about to make its premiere at the Tribeca Film Festival here in New York.
It sounds like a fascinating documentary. In recent years, there's been more attention paid -- finally -- to bullying and the damage it can cause to victimized kids, if adults turn a blind eye instead of taking action.
But I'm thinking that the turning of Steve Bartman into the ultimate scapegoat, simply because he did what pretty much any fan in the ballpark would -- try to catch a ball coming into the stands -- is sort of a lifetime sentence to being bullied.
Then again, the word "fan" is regarded as short for "fanatic" and it is almost expected that fanatics will find a way to leave reasonableness out of any discussion about cause and effect.
For Steve Bartman, the ugly and angry reactions of fans who blamed him for the Cubs' ignominious exit from baseball's post-season caused the need for police cars outside his home. He became the butt of cruel jokes by TV show hosts. On the Internet, the quality of mercy was strained by vengeful strangers, under the guise of Cub supporters, who could not -- would not -- get over it. Instead, they posted personal information, including Bartman's address and telephone number, for other nuts to read and maybe act on.
To this day, he avoids the spotlight and continues to turn down offers -- reportedly, involving six-figure sums -- to talk about what happened that night at the ballpark. At the very least, Bartman went into hiding as a baseball fan. He declined an invitation to take an active part in Gibney's film.
My own team in the National League is the New York Mets. So, it's not lost on me that the two players principally involved in "The "Bartman Incident" -- Castillo and Alou -- went on to play for the Mets.
By that time, Alou was often hurting and near the end of a fine career, though he would set a club record with a 30-game hitting streak in 2007, when he was 41.
While playing for the Mets, Alou recalled "The Bartman Incident" in an interview with The Associated Press and said that he felt "really bad" for Bartman. Additionally, he acknowledged that he wouldn't have made the catch of Castillo's foul ball, even if a fan had not deflected it.
The admission was quite different from Alou's immediate reaction that night -- he was described as being "livid" on television -- which did not spare Steve Bartman.
"Hopefully, he won't have to regret it for the rest of his life," Alou said, in the wake of the loss.
Luis Castillo, who had set the sequence of events in motion by sending Mark Prior's pitch towards the seats in Wrigley Field's left-field corner -- and Bartman -- became a different story of sorts, in his own way
Castillo earned a championship ring as a member of the Marlins. But his signature moment as a Met occurred during a June 2009 game against the Yankees --- when he dropped an infield pop-up with two outs in the bottom of the ninth, allowing two runs to score and turning an 8-7 victory into a 9-8 loss. The fact that it came against the Yankees made the defeat all the more bitter.
After Castillo's misadventure in the field, most Mets fans wished he'd go into hiding.
"It was a gift from God --- or Castillo," was the view of Yankees slugger Alex Rodriguez, who had hit the pop fly, as quoted by the New York Daily News following the game.
Mets fans never entertained the notion of divine intervention. Radio talk shows became forums for heated campaigns demanding Castillo's banishment, which finally came with his release during spring training this year.
Now that I think of it, the Mets haven't been back to the World Series since Castillo botched that seemingly easy catch at Yankee Stadium --- or, going further back, since he hit the ball that beckoned to Steve Bartman that night at Wrigley Field.
Chicago Cubs fans might want to consider that maybe, just maybe, the wrong guy's name has been attached to the "incident" subsequently blamed for the end of their world in 2003.
At the time, the Cubs had a three-run lead in the eighth inning and were up, three games to two, on the Florida Marlins. Cubs pitcher Mark Prior was throwing a shutout. If "The Bartman Incident," as it is known, hadn't happened and Moises Alou somehow had caught the pop foul by Luis Castillo, it would have meant the second out --- putting the Cubs four outs away from going to the World Series for the first time since 1945.
Ah, if only ifs and buts were candy and nuts. But instead, the Marlins would score eight runs in the inning. They won the next game and went on to beat the Yankees in the World Series.
As for Steve Bartman, the 26-year-old Little League coach didn't go home with a souvenir baseball, but he caught plenty of grief from his fellow fans. Still wearing his Cubs cap, Bartman had to keep his jacket up to his face as he left, escorted from the stadium for his own protection.
It was only the beginning for the unfortunate fellow who suddenly became known as the most hated man in Chicago. Meanwhile, the Cubs have not been closer to a World Series since that night and Steve Bartman remains That Guy to a lot of fans.
Of all the reasons to be hated by people you never met...whew.
I mention this because I just heard a radio interview with director Alex Gibney, whose film on "The Bartman Incident" and the fallout, titled "Catching Hell," is about to make its premiere at the Tribeca Film Festival here in New York.
It sounds like a fascinating documentary. In recent years, there's been more attention paid -- finally -- to bullying and the damage it can cause to victimized kids, if adults turn a blind eye instead of taking action.
But I'm thinking that the turning of Steve Bartman into the ultimate scapegoat, simply because he did what pretty much any fan in the ballpark would -- try to catch a ball coming into the stands -- is sort of a lifetime sentence to being bullied.
Then again, the word "fan" is regarded as short for "fanatic" and it is almost expected that fanatics will find a way to leave reasonableness out of any discussion about cause and effect.
For Steve Bartman, the ugly and angry reactions of fans who blamed him for the Cubs' ignominious exit from baseball's post-season caused the need for police cars outside his home. He became the butt of cruel jokes by TV show hosts. On the Internet, the quality of mercy was strained by vengeful strangers, under the guise of Cub supporters, who could not -- would not -- get over it. Instead, they posted personal information, including Bartman's address and telephone number, for other nuts to read and maybe act on.
To this day, he avoids the spotlight and continues to turn down offers -- reportedly, involving six-figure sums -- to talk about what happened that night at the ballpark. At the very least, Bartman went into hiding as a baseball fan. He declined an invitation to take an active part in Gibney's film.
My own team in the National League is the New York Mets. So, it's not lost on me that the two players principally involved in "The "Bartman Incident" -- Castillo and Alou -- went on to play for the Mets.
By that time, Alou was often hurting and near the end of a fine career, though he would set a club record with a 30-game hitting streak in 2007, when he was 41.
While playing for the Mets, Alou recalled "The Bartman Incident" in an interview with The Associated Press and said that he felt "really bad" for Bartman. Additionally, he acknowledged that he wouldn't have made the catch of Castillo's foul ball, even if a fan had not deflected it.
The admission was quite different from Alou's immediate reaction that night -- he was described as being "livid" on television -- which did not spare Steve Bartman.
"Hopefully, he won't have to regret it for the rest of his life," Alou said, in the wake of the loss.
Luis Castillo, who had set the sequence of events in motion by sending Mark Prior's pitch towards the seats in Wrigley Field's left-field corner -- and Bartman -- became a different story of sorts, in his own way
Castillo earned a championship ring as a member of the Marlins. But his signature moment as a Met occurred during a June 2009 game against the Yankees --- when he dropped an infield pop-up with two outs in the bottom of the ninth, allowing two runs to score and turning an 8-7 victory into a 9-8 loss. The fact that it came against the Yankees made the defeat all the more bitter.
After Castillo's misadventure in the field, most Mets fans wished he'd go into hiding.
"It was a gift from God --- or Castillo," was the view of Yankees slugger Alex Rodriguez, who had hit the pop fly, as quoted by the New York Daily News following the game.
Mets fans never entertained the notion of divine intervention. Radio talk shows became forums for heated campaigns demanding Castillo's banishment, which finally came with his release during spring training this year.
Now that I think of it, the Mets haven't been back to the World Series since Castillo botched that seemingly easy catch at Yankee Stadium --- or, going further back, since he hit the ball that beckoned to Steve Bartman that night at Wrigley Field.
Chicago Cubs fans might want to consider that maybe, just maybe, the wrong guy's name has been attached to the "incident" subsequently blamed for the end of their world in 2003.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Goodbyes Come In All Kinds And Sizes
One of the nicer things I’ll remember about last year is how I managed to reconnect with a former neighbor who lived two doors away when we were growing up in Elmhurst. Besides the two years I had on him, a difference between us was that Randy Balz had stayed in the neighborhood, continuing to reside in the family’s house on 55th Avenue even after he was the only one left.
Meanwhile, the first chance I'd had, I moved to my first bachelor's pad -- a basement apartment in another part of the borough -- in the early 1970s. I came back to Elmhurst a couple years later, staying with my parents until they made an even bigger move than mine by selling the house and retiring to the Poconos in Pennsylvania. Whenever I'd see Randy, it amounted to a brief exchange of hellos.
Thanks to my best friend, Michael Bellotti, whom I’ve known since we were boys in Elmhurst, I got the opportunity to meet Randy again. The three of us went to the Georgia Diner on Queens Boulevard to relive boyhood adventures such as the dirt bomb battles in the schoolyard of P.S. 102 (when it had one big enough to land an airplane) and the hunts for old comics at the Victory Thrift Shop.
Of course, we also recalled going to the wrestling matches at Sunnyside Garden. In particular, we recalled the time we had gone to see the tag team known as The Fabulous Kangaroos, two grapplers who were from Australia. Before their match, the Kangaroos would toss cardboard boomerangs from the ring into the crowd. That day, each of us -- including Randy’s late older brother, Roger -- had succeeded in snagging one of the souvenirs. Rather wistfully, I wondered aloud how I had become separated from mine, considering my penchant for holding onto things that have no great value besides what they mean to me.
During the course of the evening’s conversation, Michael and I enjoyed hearing what had happened over the years to some of our old neighborhood’s people and places. In his quiet and gentle way, Randy filled us in --- not as a snoop or a gossip, but as a kind of grassroots historian whose knowledge of the community was matched only by his affection for it.
Months passed, but we met again. Together, Michael and I drove from Long Island to Queens and upon our arrival at Randy’s house, he made a point of happily presenting some gifts that he wanted us to have. Michael received a small stack of old comic books -- just the sort that we would have been thrilled to find at the Victory Thrift Shop -- while I was handed an envelope that contained a boyhood treasure: a Fabulous Kangaroos boomerang.
At the end of another fine night of reminiscing at the diner, we talked about how we would do it again --- and soon. Meanwhile, I wished that I had something meaningful that I could give to Randy, but I could think of nothing.
Over the weeks that followed, I would encounter many more artifacts to recall my growing up in Elmhurst, as my sister Eileen and I took on the task of cleaning out our mother's apartment while she was hospitalized. Upon her eventual discharge, our mother would be entering a nursing home.
Going through her things proved to be a bittersweet experience, especially when it came to the boxes of old photographs. For my sister, who had always believed that hardly any snapshots were taken of her during childhood, the chore was enlightening. I got a kick just watching her as she found the various items of evidence to refute that belief.
Suddenly, there they were --- black-and-white images of her birthday parties and other special occasions. Of the latter, none was more memorable than the time Eileen had been photographed in her cowgirl outfit atop a pony when some entrepreneurial photographer visited our block on a summer day. She could not have been more pleased.
At one point, I came across a photo that I had forgotten about: a picture of Anna and Rudy Balz -- Randy's parents -- smiling for me as I photographed them as guests at the party Eileen and I had given at the Justice Inn to celebrate our parents' 25th wedding anniversary. It was a color photo, sharp and clear, of a happy, well-dressed couple and in that moment of discovery, I knew: I had my gift for Randy.
But I never got to see how he would have received it, because there would be no next time at the Georgia Diner. Instead, some more time passed, before I got the call from Michael, clearly upset. He advised that after several unsuccessful attempts to reach Randy, the voice he finally heard belonged to a cousin who was in the house to attend to some matter. Randy had died due to illness; the funeral service had taken place two days earlier.
He left us without saying goodbye, though perhaps in his own gentle way, that's exactly what Randy was up to when he gave away certain possessions to Michael and me instead of putting them up for auction on eBay.
But the way it turned out, there had been as much a chance of saying goodbye to him as there had been for any of us to bid farewell to the youth that now belonged to memory and momentos --- old photographs, comic books and cardboard boomerangs.
Meanwhile, the first chance I'd had, I moved to my first bachelor's pad -- a basement apartment in another part of the borough -- in the early 1970s. I came back to Elmhurst a couple years later, staying with my parents until they made an even bigger move than mine by selling the house and retiring to the Poconos in Pennsylvania. Whenever I'd see Randy, it amounted to a brief exchange of hellos.
Thanks to my best friend, Michael Bellotti, whom I’ve known since we were boys in Elmhurst, I got the opportunity to meet Randy again. The three of us went to the Georgia Diner on Queens Boulevard to relive boyhood adventures such as the dirt bomb battles in the schoolyard of P.S. 102 (when it had one big enough to land an airplane) and the hunts for old comics at the Victory Thrift Shop.
Of course, we also recalled going to the wrestling matches at Sunnyside Garden. In particular, we recalled the time we had gone to see the tag team known as The Fabulous Kangaroos, two grapplers who were from Australia. Before their match, the Kangaroos would toss cardboard boomerangs from the ring into the crowd. That day, each of us -- including Randy’s late older brother, Roger -- had succeeded in snagging one of the souvenirs. Rather wistfully, I wondered aloud how I had become separated from mine, considering my penchant for holding onto things that have no great value besides what they mean to me.
During the course of the evening’s conversation, Michael and I enjoyed hearing what had happened over the years to some of our old neighborhood’s people and places. In his quiet and gentle way, Randy filled us in --- not as a snoop or a gossip, but as a kind of grassroots historian whose knowledge of the community was matched only by his affection for it.
Months passed, but we met again. Together, Michael and I drove from Long Island to Queens and upon our arrival at Randy’s house, he made a point of happily presenting some gifts that he wanted us to have. Michael received a small stack of old comic books -- just the sort that we would have been thrilled to find at the Victory Thrift Shop -- while I was handed an envelope that contained a boyhood treasure: a Fabulous Kangaroos boomerang.
At the end of another fine night of reminiscing at the diner, we talked about how we would do it again --- and soon. Meanwhile, I wished that I had something meaningful that I could give to Randy, but I could think of nothing.
Over the weeks that followed, I would encounter many more artifacts to recall my growing up in Elmhurst, as my sister Eileen and I took on the task of cleaning out our mother's apartment while she was hospitalized. Upon her eventual discharge, our mother would be entering a nursing home.
Going through her things proved to be a bittersweet experience, especially when it came to the boxes of old photographs. For my sister, who had always believed that hardly any snapshots were taken of her during childhood, the chore was enlightening. I got a kick just watching her as she found the various items of evidence to refute that belief.
Suddenly, there they were --- black-and-white images of her birthday parties and other special occasions. Of the latter, none was more memorable than the time Eileen had been photographed in her cowgirl outfit atop a pony when some entrepreneurial photographer visited our block on a summer day. She could not have been more pleased.
At one point, I came across a photo that I had forgotten about: a picture of Anna and Rudy Balz -- Randy's parents -- smiling for me as I photographed them as guests at the party Eileen and I had given at the Justice Inn to celebrate our parents' 25th wedding anniversary. It was a color photo, sharp and clear, of a happy, well-dressed couple and in that moment of discovery, I knew: I had my gift for Randy.
But I never got to see how he would have received it, because there would be no next time at the Georgia Diner. Instead, some more time passed, before I got the call from Michael, clearly upset. He advised that after several unsuccessful attempts to reach Randy, the voice he finally heard belonged to a cousin who was in the house to attend to some matter. Randy had died due to illness; the funeral service had taken place two days earlier.
He left us without saying goodbye, though perhaps in his own gentle way, that's exactly what Randy was up to when he gave away certain possessions to Michael and me instead of putting them up for auction on eBay.
But the way it turned out, there had been as much a chance of saying goodbye to him as there had been for any of us to bid farewell to the youth that now belonged to memory and momentos --- old photographs, comic books and cardboard boomerangs.
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