When I was a wee lad, I used to go with my mother for her visits to the Fisher Theater in Detroit. She loved plays and, since I was the youngest (and least likely to object to such things), I was usually assigned the job of being her escort. It turned out to be great duty. We would usually have a good dinner followed by an ice cream sundae. I remember seeing Pearl Bailey and Cab Calloway, two extraordinary talents, in "Hello, Dolly" and Richard Kiley do his great turn in "Man Of La Mancha."
There is nothing like live theater. I don't get to see it very often any more. But my wife and I did go last night to see "Jersey Boys", the story about Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons, here in Las Vegas. It was a treat to witness and I cannot recommend it enough.
The music is contagiously fun. If you are of my age bracket, you will damn near every one of the 34 songs played word for word. The stories behind some of those songs were tales I didn't know. Now the songs make more sense (and, with it, some sadness as well) than ever before. The language is a bit rough at times but my eastern buddies say that that is the f------ way Jersey people talk.
The actors in this crew are all fairly anonymous (at least to me) but it didn't matter. They sang and danced their hearts out for two hours. About a year ago, I heard Valli in concert. After hearing this show, it is a little harder to tell who sounds better -- the guy who played him here (Travis Cloer) or the old guy himself.
It is worth the effort to find out.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Once a hero, always a hero
When I was a little boy, I wanted to be Ernie Harwell. I thought he had the greatest job in the world. For four decades, he was the radio (and occasionally) TV voice of the Detroit Tigers. Many of those teams weren't very good. But it didn't matter. He got to be there every night, telling us about the "man from Ishpeming" who was taking home a foul ball tonight. When Ernie told you "he stood there like the house by the side of the road", you knew the batter had just taken strike three.
He had a wonderful southern twang to his voice. It was warm and personal. I once heard an interview in which he described his technique. "My father was an invalid who loved to listen to baseball games," he said. "When I started out, I pretended I was talking to him and telling him the story of the game."
Catching him do spring training games was always a treat. His sunny voice told you the cold winter was basically over. (He used to start the first spring training game with The Song of Solomon that refers to just that thing.)
One Sunday afternoon, we were coming back from a trip to Mackinac Island. It's a long drive and my mother, wishing to get some harmony in the car, flipped on the radio to the baseball game. With pit stops to let young boys go out and do what young boys need to do, it was about a seven-hour jaunt. As it turned out, we had Harwell (and, I think, George Kell) for company all the way.
The game lasted seven hours (22 innings) and ended as we were going up Patton Avenue to our house.
Harwell is 91 years old now. He retired from the booth in 2002 but has been back for occasional work here and there. I happened to catch him do an inning when the Tigers were in the World Series a few years ago. He sounded almost the same as he did 40 years ago.
Remarkable.
Recently, it was revealed he has terminal cancer. What would most of us if given such a jolt? Let's hope we don't find out.
Harwell didn't seem too fazed by the whole thing, He seems to be facing the inevitable conclusion the way he told us about the Tigers - with a little humor and a lot of practicality, referring to his cancer as "a new adventure." Oddly, this was basically the way he described things when the late Bo Schembechler, who had been hired as the president of the Tigers, ran him out of the broadcast booth in the early 90s. (That unwise decision was quickly reversed. He was back a year later.)
In the Bible, we are told that all life is basically circular - from ashes to ashes. Harwell, a devoutly religious guy, seems to have taken this adage to heart. What else could he do?
So it is that, at age 56, I find myself (for a radically different reason) wanting to be Ernie Harwell.
Again.
He had a wonderful southern twang to his voice. It was warm and personal. I once heard an interview in which he described his technique. "My father was an invalid who loved to listen to baseball games," he said. "When I started out, I pretended I was talking to him and telling him the story of the game."
Catching him do spring training games was always a treat. His sunny voice told you the cold winter was basically over. (He used to start the first spring training game with The Song of Solomon that refers to just that thing.)
One Sunday afternoon, we were coming back from a trip to Mackinac Island. It's a long drive and my mother, wishing to get some harmony in the car, flipped on the radio to the baseball game. With pit stops to let young boys go out and do what young boys need to do, it was about a seven-hour jaunt. As it turned out, we had Harwell (and, I think, George Kell) for company all the way.
The game lasted seven hours (22 innings) and ended as we were going up Patton Avenue to our house.
Harwell is 91 years old now. He retired from the booth in 2002 but has been back for occasional work here and there. I happened to catch him do an inning when the Tigers were in the World Series a few years ago. He sounded almost the same as he did 40 years ago.
Remarkable.
Recently, it was revealed he has terminal cancer. What would most of us if given such a jolt? Let's hope we don't find out.
Harwell didn't seem too fazed by the whole thing, He seems to be facing the inevitable conclusion the way he told us about the Tigers - with a little humor and a lot of practicality, referring to his cancer as "a new adventure." Oddly, this was basically the way he described things when the late Bo Schembechler, who had been hired as the president of the Tigers, ran him out of the broadcast booth in the early 90s. (That unwise decision was quickly reversed. He was back a year later.)
In the Bible, we are told that all life is basically circular - from ashes to ashes. Harwell, a devoutly religious guy, seems to have taken this adage to heart. What else could he do?
So it is that, at age 56, I find myself (for a radically different reason) wanting to be Ernie Harwell.
Again.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
A fair way to spend a day
The Minnesota State Fair is one of the most unique events in the entire country. Just about every state has a fair of some way, shape or form. But people come from all over to this extravaganza. What makes this fun is not just the carnies ... who are basically no different than anywhere else in the country.
It's the odd combo of foods (even beer on a stick) and people-watching, a sport that is still very strong in our little part of the world.
Yesterday, I did an eight-hour shift in a small tent selling beer, pop, burgers, etc. It was for a group that uses the proceeds to benefit playgrounds in St. Paul. And, like a lot of volunteer experiences, I got more out of it than the people I served.
When you stand on the same corner for nearly eight hours and watch the world go by, you tend to see things in a different light. You see the same people pass by two or three times with their kids. When they go by the first time, the adults seem full of energy. By the third pass, most of them are dragging a bit while the kids continue to skip at a merry pace.
Business was steady at our little tent. We had folks who said they had been coming to this spot for 30 years, young couples on first or second dates and people who were just hungry and knew a good deal when they saw one (2 bucks a hamburger, a quarter more for cheese.)
One of my favorites was a big guy who wanted a Triple Hamburger. "A triple?", I asked. (We had Doubles on the boatrd but no Triples listed.)
"They did it for me here yesterday," he said by way of explanation. "They just charged me 50 more cents."
"Who am I to argue with history?", I replied. "A triple it is."
The woman cooking gave me a funny look as I wrote this order down but merely smiled.
So did the gentleman as he ate it deliberately with great enjoyment.
There were a surprising amount of moms who stopped for ... er ... refreshment while pushing baby carts. My favorite was a young woman about age 30 who had a baby in a stroller and another young 'un clinging to her leg.
"What's your largest size beer?" she asked. When informed it was 20 ounces, she asked "Is that it?" But she gladly bought two of them and said she would be back later when she found "him."
Apparently, she did find "him" because she returned alone an hour later for a refill. This beer was drank slowly and seem to be cherished with the fervor of a jeweler looking at the Hope Diamond. "Is it okay if I just sit here for a while?" she asked. "Take all the time you need," I responded. I think she was stationary for 15 minutes.
There was another couple who looked to be in their early 60s who wandered by.
"What can I do for you?", I asked.
Before the male half of this happy pair could utter a sound, the female half jumped in. "We'll have a large Pepsi," she said. This option seemed to disappoint the male half of the party considerably. But he merely sighed and, upon a non-verbal command, handed over the dollar and a half as they went on their merry way.
And so it went nearly all day. Only one person got upset at how a beer was poured and insisted on a do-over. Women who were 30 years old and were asked for their ID anyway did so with a grateful smile. Young guys who recently entered the legal age (one of them was only a month past his 21st birthday) didn't object to being carded. A couple of folks had Passports instead of Driver Licenses for ID. I was a bit quizzical the first time I saw this. "I left it at his house," the young woman said, nodding to her escort. He grinned knowingly.
After watching weeks of allegedly angry people on TV yelling about health care, the damn Democrats, the damn Republicans, the damn Yankees, etc., it was refreshing to see happy (or at least not unhappy) faces again.
I love going to the fair, strolling the Midway, seeing some new exhibits and eating anything from Tom Thumb Donuts to Sweet Martha's Cookies along the way. After spending a day somewhat on the inside, I have a new and healthy respect for the folks who work it for 10 days. I am not sure I am made of strong enough stuff to do that. But an eight-hour shift there does wonders for the soul. It was nice to see people smiling again.
It's the odd combo of foods (even beer on a stick) and people-watching, a sport that is still very strong in our little part of the world.
Yesterday, I did an eight-hour shift in a small tent selling beer, pop, burgers, etc. It was for a group that uses the proceeds to benefit playgrounds in St. Paul. And, like a lot of volunteer experiences, I got more out of it than the people I served.
When you stand on the same corner for nearly eight hours and watch the world go by, you tend to see things in a different light. You see the same people pass by two or three times with their kids. When they go by the first time, the adults seem full of energy. By the third pass, most of them are dragging a bit while the kids continue to skip at a merry pace.
Business was steady at our little tent. We had folks who said they had been coming to this spot for 30 years, young couples on first or second dates and people who were just hungry and knew a good deal when they saw one (2 bucks a hamburger, a quarter more for cheese.)
One of my favorites was a big guy who wanted a Triple Hamburger. "A triple?", I asked. (We had Doubles on the boatrd but no Triples listed.)
"They did it for me here yesterday," he said by way of explanation. "They just charged me 50 more cents."
"Who am I to argue with history?", I replied. "A triple it is."
The woman cooking gave me a funny look as I wrote this order down but merely smiled.
So did the gentleman as he ate it deliberately with great enjoyment.
There were a surprising amount of moms who stopped for ... er ... refreshment while pushing baby carts. My favorite was a young woman about age 30 who had a baby in a stroller and another young 'un clinging to her leg.
"What's your largest size beer?" she asked. When informed it was 20 ounces, she asked "Is that it?" But she gladly bought two of them and said she would be back later when she found "him."
Apparently, she did find "him" because she returned alone an hour later for a refill. This beer was drank slowly and seem to be cherished with the fervor of a jeweler looking at the Hope Diamond. "Is it okay if I just sit here for a while?" she asked. "Take all the time you need," I responded. I think she was stationary for 15 minutes.
There was another couple who looked to be in their early 60s who wandered by.
"What can I do for you?", I asked.
Before the male half of this happy pair could utter a sound, the female half jumped in. "We'll have a large Pepsi," she said. This option seemed to disappoint the male half of the party considerably. But he merely sighed and, upon a non-verbal command, handed over the dollar and a half as they went on their merry way.
And so it went nearly all day. Only one person got upset at how a beer was poured and insisted on a do-over. Women who were 30 years old and were asked for their ID anyway did so with a grateful smile. Young guys who recently entered the legal age (one of them was only a month past his 21st birthday) didn't object to being carded. A couple of folks had Passports instead of Driver Licenses for ID. I was a bit quizzical the first time I saw this. "I left it at his house," the young woman said, nodding to her escort. He grinned knowingly.
After watching weeks of allegedly angry people on TV yelling about health care, the damn Democrats, the damn Republicans, the damn Yankees, etc., it was refreshing to see happy (or at least not unhappy) faces again.
I love going to the fair, strolling the Midway, seeing some new exhibits and eating anything from Tom Thumb Donuts to Sweet Martha's Cookies along the way. After spending a day somewhat on the inside, I have a new and healthy respect for the folks who work it for 10 days. I am not sure I am made of strong enough stuff to do that. But an eight-hour shift there does wonders for the soul. It was nice to see people smiling again.
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