Shrinkucci's Ramblings

What Makes a Jazz Singer?

2006-08-20T11:31:00.000-07:00

Trying to define what makes a jazz singer is similar to trying to define pornography; we know when we hear or see instances of each but we have great difficulty explaining why we know. Recently, a friend of mine said that he thought that Tony Bennett sang with honesty and told a good story but was not a jazz singer. I agreed with him but I was not sure why. Our conversation prompted me to try and figure out what the criteria might be to determine which singers deserve the jazz singer label.

Here is my list of those qualities that the perfect jazz singer would possess. I believe that the first four are essential qualities and the remaining four, while very important, are not.

Required Qualities
1. Story telling ability / taste / honesty / emotional range
2. Improvisational skills / ears / interaction skills
3. Good time / relaxed swing / hip phrasing
4. Unique style

Important but not required additional qualities
5. A good sound
6. Technique / range / can scat
7. Good intonation
8. Ability to relate to an audience

My underlying assumption is that a jazz singer should possess the same essential qualities demonstrated by jazz instrumentalists. When Johnny Hodges played a ballad he played tastefully and honestly and the result is that he told a believable story. He understood that showing off one’s technique is not in good taste and that to do so is to sacrifice honesty. He was not only a fine improviser; he also had impeccable technique and wonderful time. His lovely sound, flawless intonation and great chops were all bonuses.

One way to assess the usefulness of the above list of qualities is to use it as a guide while analyzing a few singers with whom we are familiar. Even though some of the artists I refer to are no longer with us, I will refer to them in the present tense since we can still listen to their recordings.

Billie Holiday
Billie has the required four qualities but is, at times, short on sound, technique, range and intonation. Naturally, one can argue: “If technique is the ability to execute the things one wants to express, then Billie has technique.” I agree that she can execute but I must point out that her voice is at times undependable and shaky and as a result her range, and intonation suffers. She is an example of a jazz singer who possesses the four essential qualities but does not have full and consistent access to the other four. However, her style is so unique and her ability to create a mood and tell a story is so rich and powerful, we are more than willing to accept her shortcomings.

Sarah Vaughan
Sarah, perhaps the most talented of all jazz singers, has all eight of the listed qualities. If she has a weakness, it is that she sometimes lets her prodigious technique get in the way of her story telling. She cannot resist, at times, doing a huge, exaggerated bottom note or a big swoop in a spot where it negatively alters the story mood. We marvel at her virtuosity but we cannot help notice that the story suffers a bit.

I have the same reaction to Sarah that I do to Art Tatum. Each has the ability to add scintillating filigree to a solos; but such filigree, while very impressive, detracts from the mood of the performance. I feel a bit on edge listening to Tatum because he so often squeezes in one of his magical runs just when I am getting caught up in the mood generated by the lovely changes and passionate melody playing.

Ella Fitzgerald
Ella, like Sarah, has all eight of the qualities. She also had a highly personal, almost girl-next-store voice quality that makes you like her without knowing her. Like Sarah, she could do it all—improvise, scat, swing like mad, sing in tune and tell a story. The difference between Ella and Sarah is tied more to Sarah’s harmonic knowledge. Because she is an accomplished pianist and has very educated ears, I think she is a freer and more creative improviser. However, I think Ella makes a stronger connection with the audience because she is more emotionally vulnerable.

Dianne Reeves
Ms. Reeves meets all the criteria for a jazz singer. She tells an authentic story, has fantastic time (e.g., check out her comfort in 7/4 on her “Best OF” CD), can improvise and has a unique style. She is, I believe, the most talented of the current jazz singers.

Tony Bennett
Tony Bennett has two of the essential four qualities. He tells a wonderful and authentic story and has a unique sound. I do not think, though, that he meets the criteria for jazz singing because he cannot improvise and he has, at best, average ability to swing. I think it is easy to confuse his ability to swing with his trio’s. He uses great pianists (e.g., John Bunch and Ralph Sharon) and they do an excellent job of giving the impression that he swings. Like Billie Holiday, his ability to create a mood and tell a story is so powerful that we tend to give him slack in other areas. He is, I believe, a jazz-oriented singer, not a jazz singer in the fullest sense of the term.

Billy Eckstine
I though it would be fun to contrast Tony Bennett with Billy Eckstine. Based on the above criteria, Eckstine, like Bennett, is not a jazz singer. He does not swing very hard and is not much of an improviser. He is essentially a jazz oriented crooner. He has a great sound, good technique and range and a wonderful stage presence but because of his need to emphasize his fat and unique sound he tells a so-so story. Yes, he is the legendary “B,” is very hip, dresses beautifully, had a famous bebop jazz band and hangs with jazz musicians; but these things do not qualify him as a jazz singer. He is, like Tony Bennett, a jazz oriented singer.

Kurt Elling
Though I have a couple of his CDs and admire his talent, I do not listen to Elling very much. I am put off by his sound and his uncertain intonation. However, based on the above criteria, he certainly qualifies for the label of jazz singer. He has a unique sound, can tell a story, can swing and is a skilled and creative improviser. I include him in this analysis because he is an example of a singer who meets the essential criteria but because of his sound, will probably never become widely popular. I have played his CDs for friends and few have liked him. Like me, they have admired his ability but not his sound.

Summary
I do not believe it is possible to definitively list those qualities which determine who is or who is not a jazz singer. The above criteria are simply my attempt to analyze and answer a very difficult question. Hopefully, I have written a piece that will generate some interesting discussion. There are probably as many definitions of jazz singing as there are listeners and I welcome hearing from anyone who has thoughts on the subject. I am taking the liberty of including a short list of those singers whom I believe meet the above criteria. The list is far from complete and I have no doubt that I have left folks off who belong on the list.

One obvious drawback to my criteria list is that I ended up leaving some famous blues singers off the list (e.g., Bessie Smith) because the recorded samples I have of their music indicate that they could not improvise. I think that this points out how limiting such a list can be. A friend suggested that perhaps I should make the cutoff for inclusion three out of four of the essential criteria. It is an interesting thought. Psychiatrists routinely assign a diagnostic label to patients who exhibit three out of four symptoms listed in the DSM IV Diagnostic Manual. Why can't jazz fans do the same?

Singers who I believe meet the jazz criteria listed above
Louis Armstrong, Betty Carter, Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday, Sarah Vaughan, Shirley Horn, Anita O’Day, Dianne Reeves, Kurt Elling, Joe Williams, Mel Torme, Abby Lincoln, Bobby McFerrin, Carmen McRae, Cassandra Wilson, Jimmy Rushing, Lou Rawls, Jackie and Roy Kral, Ray Charles.

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Colonoscopies, passing wind and competition

2006-08-11T16:06:00.000-07:00

About six months ago I had a colonoscopy. The doctor, in order to puff the colon up so that he could more freely root around with his camera-headed snake, filled it with air. The result of this inflation was that when he had completed his sight seeing I was left with a lot of the air still in my colon. Of course, before they discharge you from the post-colostomy waiting area the nurses want you to pass the air. That is, they tell you that you need to fart. Apparently, by farting, you show them that all is well and then you can be safely discharged.

The nurses in the room knock out the social taboo against farting by applauding and cheering all farts by all patients. Further, they give longer and more enthusiastic cheers and applause to those who fart long and loud. Naturally, the applause brought out the competitive spirit in me and I pushed and strained, trying for the loudest, longest and "best fart" of anyone in the room. When I received strong applause for ripping off a number of thunderous and fortunately non‑smelly farts (the empty colon doesn't produce odor) I was very proud. (Be clear—when I talk about applause, I literally mean the entire staff and all the patients’ relatives are yelling : "Yaayyyyyyy" and clapping long and loud). If I might toot my own horn a bit, none of my competitors' farts were as impressively in tune, demonstrated as much diaphragm support or had as big a tuba-like bottom. Like my dad used to say: "If you're going to do something, do it as well as you can."

This re‑defining of farting as a socially approved behavior was accepted by my wife and, of course, being the supportive and loving spouse that she is, she stayed with me in the waiting room and enthusiastically applauded me for my musical efforts. I must admit that I wondered if her enthusiasm was as real as it appeared; but I was greatly reassured that same night. At 3 AM I woke myself up with a very long and loud fart; probably the last of the forced-air pockets. She woke up, gave a little giggle, sang a sweet little cheerleader's "Yaaaay..." and then drifted back off to sleep. With a smile on my face, I too drifted back off to sleep secure in the knowledge that I still "had it" and that she knew it.

We are indeed funny and odd creatures. I must admit that now, in light of this victory, I am actually looking forward to having my kidneys checked.

Pat Robertson's Procrustean Bed

2006-06-27T08:00:00.000-07:00

In the "Better Late than Never" department, here are some thoughts about Pat Robertson, the transparently slick, multi-millionaire televangelist, who has again exposed himself for the hypocrite he is.

A few months ago, when the Dover, PA state's voters nixed teaching "Intelligent Design" side by side with evolution (a wise decision, since "Intelligent Design," a thinly disguised version of Creationism, is based on faith, not science, and thus has no place in the science classroom), Robertson went into a typical Fundamentalist right wing snit and said: (I paraphrase) "When a disaster strikes, these voters no longer have the right to ask God for help (since they rejected Intelligent Design) and so now they should ask Darwin for help."

This guy is so transparent--he is masquerading as a Christian but he is anything but. He is not accepting or forgiving of anyone who does not agree with him. Like most fundamentalists, he has no capacity to live with grey. He needs a black and white world and any ideas or beliefs that are "relative" frighten him to death.

Imagine the power and magnitude of the insecurity that drives his need to have only simplistic, "right-wrong" answers to life's unansweraable questions. He is like Procrustes, the innkeeper in Greek mythology, who bragged that he had a bed that fit anyone regardless of his size; but the way he achieved this was to either stretch the sleeper on the rack or chop the sleepers legs off to make him fit. Robertson, Procrustes-like, chops away or stretches any facts that do not fit his beliefs.

He does not accept science's demand that one needs to experiment with an open mind and that the findings of experiments give us a basic but still incomplete truth until new experiments extend and refine that truth. He approaches each of life's questions with a pre-conceived, biblical literalist driven answer and then confirms his belief by using a Procrustean approach and chopping away and ignoring all the data that indicates otherwise.

Examples? He needs to believe that the earth is only 5,000 years old because the bible says so, thus he ignores carbon dating. He needs to believe that everything in the bible is the literal truth and so he ignores the fact that the bible has been a political instrument that has been arbitrarily revised many times over the centuries to suit the politics and beliefs of whomever was ruling at the time.

It is a sad thing to see a supposed man of god acting in such a petulant and mean spirited way. The true Christian values of love, mercy, forgiveness and open-mindedness are lost on him. He is a chest thumping, holier than thou, judgmental, empire building little man. One only has to watch his TV show and observe him doing his sham "prayers" and making up stuff about literally hearing the prayers of "a woman out there with a bad heart who needs money" and then making his shameless pitch for bucks to accurately assess his act. He's really no more than a TV huckster with a slick line. It was predictable then, that when the smart folks in PA rejected the pseudo-Christian, pseudo-scientific line touted by him and his ilk, he would tantrum and give himself away. The inability to live with grey is his bete noir.

The Non-Drumming Drummer

2006-06-24T07:38:00.000-07:00

I recently went to visit with a kind-hearted friend of mine. He has a habit of letting assorted people stay at his big San Francisco home. His house is a haven for folks who are either down on their luck, traveling on a limited budget or are friends or friends-of-friends of any of his five children.

While there, I was introduced to a young man of about 20 who, in response to my self introduction, said in a surly voice: "I'm Bob. I'm on a walk-about, traveling the United States." We chatted a bit and then I asked him if he was a college student. He replied: "No, college is a waste of time. It's the safe route taken by frightened people. I'm an artist, a jazz musician." I asked him what instrument he played and he said: "I'm a jazz drummer." I told him that by co-incidence I was also a drummer and asked him who he had studied with and he said, with a strong note of defensiveness: "I didn't have to study with anyone, I learned on my own." Trying to be tactful, I said: "That's brave of you. I was unwilling to try and learn on my own. How is your playing coming? It must be difficult to find opportunities to practice and places to play while traveling around." Sneering, he said: "There is no need to practice. I do all of my learning by listening to jazz and imagining it all in my head. I said: "But, I assume you have learned the basic drum rudiments such as paradittles, flams, and the like?" He answered: "That's all old, corny stuff and absolutely unnecessary. I learn by imagining and picturing the drum set and playing it in my mind."

After asking more questions and suffering the insults that went with his answers, I discovered that this boy had never owned a practice pad, drum sticks or a set of drums and that he had no idea what music notation looked like. I was further shocked to learn that he had never once played with a band of any kind. I was not surprised to find, after further inquiry, that he was the only son of wealthy parents and was traveling on their money.

Given that he was a snotty kid and not very likeable, I decided to tease him a bit. I said: "So, let me get this straight; you have never practiced, you have never played on a set of drums, you have no idea how drum technique works, you have never trained your hands to play the instrument, you have never played with another musician or band, but you advertise yourself as a jazz drummer. How do you justify this?"

Raising his voice, he angrily said: "You're like all the old farts; you do everything by the book. I'm taking a free, unfettered approach to jazz drumming. I can sit in right now with the best jazz groups and play as well as anyone. I've learned everything I need to know by listening. You're a slave to an orthodox, stodgy, old fashioned approach to playing drums."

I watched his face closely, because it occurred to me that he might have been working a beautifully delivered put-on. But, sadly, it was no put-on. His self-delusion was real. At this point I decided that he was getting too worked up and that further pulling of his covers would only lead to unwanted and unnecessary tension in my friend's house; but his pathetic attempt to gain respect by way of false advertising got me to wondering. What kind of parenting or home life would bring about such an obvious feeling of inferiority and enable such a blatantly neurotic and self delusional defense?

A couple of scenarios come to mind. I would guess that he had very little success academically. Given that he was articulate during our exchange and had a good vocabulary, he was probably tagged with an early label of bright under-achiever. His teachers could see he was smart but they did not know how to get past his defenses. I imagine his parents, whenever he delivered his silly "I'm superior to those who have a work-ethic" rationalization in response to confrontations about not doing chores or homework, continually backed down and let him off the hook without any consequences.

The anger that he demonstrated during our little exchange leads me to think that he learned very early to bully one or both of his parents with the tried and true defense of the insecure--"The best defense is a good offense" ploy. That is, if he attacks first, they are set back on their heels and never get their point across. I can imagine that he had weak, guilt ridden parents who folded in the face of his attacks or accusations of unfairness; or perhaps they were pre-occupied and never thought enough about his woefully inadequate study habits to consider it a problem. I would further guess that he was given money in lieu of attention, time and training.

Of course, it could have been a different scenario. Perhaps he had overbearing, judgmental, high achieving parents who put up such high standards that he had to develop this defense in order to justify not reaching such a highly set bar. I remember a patient of mine once telling me that both of her parents had doctorates and that even if she went on to graduate school for a Ph.D. after getting her undergraduate degree, the best she could do was break even. When, at my suggestion, she told this to her parents they were shocked. They had always believed they were inspirations, not daunting roadblocks.

But, for whatever reason, Bob, the non-drumming drummer chose to make believe he had a professional jazz musician's skill. His knew that esteem and respect are tied to such skills but because he had never learned to put in the necessary hard work he had to resort to a silly, delusional rationalization.

It seems to me that the world is populated with all too many folks like this boy. He and the Paris Hiltons of this world seem to think that attention, regardless of how it is gained, is enough. The idea of working hard to learn something worthwhile; the idea of delayed gratification; the idea that one's work is an extension of one's heart and soul; all of these notions are outside their awareness.

Once, while riding on a plane, I sat next to a wise man. We were discussing the challenges that each generation of American immigrants has faced during the last 100 years. He shared a pertinent old Yiddish saying: "My grandfather was a laborer so my father could be a businessman so I could be a professional so my child can be a poet." We can add that if the businessman or professional does not teach a value system that includes a work ethic and the value of delayed gratification, the happy chain of generational events in the saying breaks down. In this same vein, I once heard a definition of happiness: "Happiness is the awareness of my own personal growth." Bob the non-drumming drummer, until he learns to put in the practice, will never be marching to a real and satisfying beat.

The Great Frank versus Perry Moral Dilemma

2006-06-13T12:00:00.000-07:00

I grew up in an extended Italian family. My father and his five brothers were third generation Italian-Americans but were still tied closely to their Italian roots, having been raised for the most part by their maternal grandparents, my Great-Grandpa and Grandma DiToro, who were first generation immigrants. As a result, they admired and were proud of all things Italian, not the least of which were successful Italian entertainers.

To a man, my dad and uncles all loved and admired Frank Sinatra and Perry Como. For those of you who may not know about Perry Como, he was a crooner popular at the same time as Sinatra but whose value system was the polar opposite. Perry had first been a full time barber, Frank had never worked a day job. Perry loved his wife and was, the story goes, always true to her. Frank loved his wives and was never true to them. Perry was married once and stayed married until death did them part. Frank was married a number of times and was always looking over his current wife's shoulder. Perry was relaxed and a homebody, Frank was career driven and usually on the road and partying. Perry was content singing and doing his TV show and did not make movies. Frank sang and was a television and movie star as well as an big time Las Vegas intertainer. Perry was squeaky clean, went to church, hung with his family and had golf scores in the low seventies. Frank went to bars, was tied to the mafia, hung with the Rat pack and had seduction scores in the hundreds. And so, they could not have been more different. Their only similarity, it appears, was that they were both Italian-Americans. Yet, both were revered by my father and my uncles.

When referring to Frank, the males in my family would, with exaggerated New York Italian-American accents and a lowered voice, say: "Hey, that Frank! He gets some tail, huh!? He screws all the most beautiful actresses. How'd you like to be Frank for a week, huh?" And as they talked about him getting laid they would make that fist pumping motion down below their hips which indicated that Frank, that most impressive of swingers, "was getting his and everyone else's while he was at it."

When I became a drummer and moved from New Jersey to Las Vegas to live and work full time, the first thing my dad and uncles would ask me when I would come home to Jersey on visits was: "So, Ron, are you screwing those showgirls silly?" Or, "So, Ron, have you gotten to see Frank and Dino in Vegas? I'll bet there's tons of gorgeous cooze hangin' around them all the time, begging to screw them--am I right?"

On the other hand, when they discussed Perry, the men were equally reverential but about his sound family values. My father and my uncles all said, more than once in one form or another: "You know Ron, Perry Como, he goes to church with his family every week and he doesn't fool around on his wife. He's a good man. He used to be a barber you know, so underneath he's like us, a working man. He doesn't let his success go to his head."

So what does an impressionable young man do with these conflicting moral positions? I can tell you, with some embarrassment, that I did not recognize the conflict. And so it never occurred to me to ask the men in my family the obvious question: "How can you value both Sinatra and Como when they each stand for such different things?" It was only in graduate school that I began examining the split and its effects on me.

I have, over time, concluded that my father and uncles were very comfortable with such a moral split because they were Italian and had bought the old world Italian party line that adultery is okay and divorce is not. For example, on a recent trip to Italy, this was confirmed when I spent time with an Italian physician who bragged to me at length about his trips to Cuba with his male buddies and the high quality of the "teenage screwing" that is available. He is married with three grown children and spoke lovingly of his wife and family. Based on his description of his own behavior and the behavior of his friends, I would not be surprised if this was the norm in Italy.

When I asked my father why Italian men do not divorce but have affairs he said: "Because it's the right thing to do. Italians are family men. We don't abandon our children. We stay together for the kids. We can always get something on the side if we're unhappy. It's what men do."

I did my best to live up to this value system and to earn my father's and my uncles' respect. I married but was unfaithful. I tried the best I could to sleep with as many women as I could and dutifully reported it to my dad and uncles. I basked in their approval but all the while was anxious that I was not really macho enough to be a real lady’s man like Frank because I felt guilty about my exploits and I suspected that no self respecting Sinatra-like male would feel such guilt. Apparently, I had some unrecognized Perry Como in me.

When I got into graduate school at age 32 I was forced, in my supervision therapy sessions, to begin examining my value system. Slowly, over time, I began to see that my Dad and Uncles had taught me something that did not work for me. I decided to stop the lies and the cheating. It took me a while because such behavior is highly addictive.

I often wonder how many young Italian-American men have struggled with this Frank versus Perry split. And when I see an Italian-American man with a slick Brilliantined haircut, his top three shirt buttons open, wearing gold chains and a flashy wristwatch and cupping his crotch while ogling women on the street, I can safely guess he is doing his Frank Sinatra imitation. And so the tradition continues.

An interesting post-script to this is that I recently presented this Frank versus Perry ethical dilemma to one of my cousins. I concluded my story by asking him: "So, what do you make of this?" He thought for a moment, and then with a silly grin on his face, said: "I think the solution is to be a barber and screw a lot of beautiful women."

A Chickadee Soap

2006-05-22T13:27:00.000-07:00

Last Spring Felicia and I had the fun of watching two Black Capped Chickadees court, find a home, build a nest, have babies, raise them and then endure the anxiety of watching them leave the nest and enter a predator filled world. When courting, the male Black Capped Chickadee has a very specific three-note call he uses to attract the female. In musical terms, it consists of one high-pitched quarter note followed by two eighth notes, each one third lower in pitch than the first note. Felicia and I found the little call so appealing that now, when we go shopping and get separated, we whistle it as a way to find each other, using it as a kind of Marco Polo bird song.

We had a number of Black Capped males advertising themselves last spring and their calls to prospective females were constant. One couple hooked up and chose to live close to our house giving us the opportunity to observe their lives for about eight weeks. We have an Aspen adjacent to our second story deck and this particular chickadee couple built their nest in a little wren house I had attached at the 15 foot level. The female inspected the house a number of times before deciding it was acceptable and we wondered what, specifically, she was looking for. The male perched nervously on a nearby branch, hoping she would find the little house acceptable. Once she did, they immediately began nest building. They made hundreds of flights to the gully behind our home and returned with a variety of nesting materials, including tiny feathers, hair, plant down, and insect cocoons. It took them almost two weeks to build the nest and we were impressed with their industry and single mindedness.

Felicia and I watched them at eye level from the comfort of our lounging chairs and made many a guess about what they might be thinking or planning. Neither of us had ever watched Black Capped Chickadees before and it was fun observing their rituals and learning their different calls. While telling my daughter Shannon about the couple, she said: "You should name them." I asked her if she had any ideas for names and she said: "How about Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire? And the babies can be the Ginger Snaps." Felicia and I thought this was creative and funny and so we adopted the names.

Once the nest was completed, Ginger laid her eggs. Chickadees typically have a two to six egg clutch and the female stays on the eggs while the male feeds her. We noticed that if Fred approached the nest and did not announce himself Ginger would emit an angry hissing sound. Fred quickly learned to cue Ginger to his presence with a little six note song that said: "It'ss just me with a tasty spider or insect." His commitment was touching and we watched, impressed, as he worked all day, every day, morning till evening, making countless hunting trips to the gully and back with her food. We wondered if she, like human mothers, had particular yens, perhaps for the more salty variety of spider or for that sweet 3AM snack; maybe a berry or a particular kind of sugar filled bee or ant.

After about two and one half weeks, the babies hatched and at that point both Fred and Ginger went into high gear. Feeding six little chicks was hard work and within a week after the hatching we could hear the little chicks' high pitched chirping when Ginger or Fred entered the nest with something to eat.

It was at this point that we stumbled upon a story in the local newspaper. It was an article by an ornithologist describing the life of Black Capped Chickadees. He discussed their habits and mating rituals and as we read the article we were impressed with his expertise because Fred and Ginger were indeed doing the very things he described. But, toward the end of the article he wrote the following: "One characteristic of the female Black Capped Chickadee is that she is prone to infidelity. When an unattached Black Capped male is in the area and sends out his mating call, if the volume of his call exceeds that of her already chosen mate, she will fly out to the bachelor chickadee, have sex, and then resume nest building with her mate."

He also wote that she would almost certainly do this with more than one bachelor chickadee and that the number of these “quickies” depended upon the song volume of any given sweet talking Black Capped bachelors who were visiting the area. The greater the song volume the bigger the chest and who knows what else. These shenanigans all occur after she has chosen her mate but before she lays her eggs. The author further explained that such behavior is motivated by a genetic, improve-the-species drive. Thus, to our dismay, we were forced to conclude that some of the eggs in the nest were almost certainly not little Fred's. He was raising another bird’s children!

Felicia and I were shocked by this information and, needless to say, very disappointed by Ginger's behavior. We began to refer to her as “the little slut" and both of us felt genuine empathy for Fred. We were righteously angry that such a hard working and dedicated family bird should be cuckolded. We concluded that he probably knew about the multiple affairs but loved her so much he overlooked them, ignoring his pain for the greater good of the coming family. We gossiped about Ginger and our perception of her was now colored by our discovery that she was a liar and a cheat. We made sad little “what are you going to do," faces, and shook our heads disapprovingly at her lack of appreciation for Fred's loyalty and devotion. We spoke with disgust about the corrupt and selfish Black Capped bachelors who preyed on young, impressionable married chickadees who had too much time on their hands. However, we were, sadly, also guilty of revisionism and decided that Fred had all along worked much harder than Ginger and we wondered how we could have initially missed her obviously entitled, “What have you done for me lately" attitude. We remembered her hissing at Fred when all he was trying to do was feed her during her pregnancy. We agreed that Fred should have put some sort of pre-nup in place. But of course how could he have known the real Ginger. We agreed that she had done a masterful job of selling him a bill of goods. We also concluded that if they did not make it Fred should definitely get the house. We were the landlords, by God, and we will have some say.

We also had discussions about whether or not the size of a bird’s mating song really mattered. We concluded that Ginger must have had many such experiences and had become sexually corrupt before seducing Fred. Yes, we concluded that, naturally, she had seduced him; and that he only thought he had courted her.

It was at this point that Fred and Ginger experienced a devastating family crisis. One so disturbing that Ginger's infidelity paled by comparison. It was late one afternoon as we walked onto our deck. We checked Fred and Ginger's house and noticed that some of the chicks were now missing from the nest. We concluded that they had flown away. It takes Black Capped chicks about three weeks to mature to the point where they can leave the nest and the three weeks were up. Then, at that moment, the last two chicks flew from the birdhouse opening down onto our back lawn. Their wings were strong enough to keep them from crashing but not strong enough to sustain flight. We looked for Fred and Ginger and discovered that they were each perched on low tree branches at opposite ends of the yard and both were sending loud calls to the two chicks. Their constant squawks had an intense and alarmed quality that we suspected was too strong to be merely attempts to urge the chicks to fly. Felicia and I scanned the yard and discovered that a mature, foot tall American Kestrel, an orange-brown falcon, was perched on one of our fence posts and eyeing the two chicks. The chicks were instinctively motionless on the grass. Felicia and I held our breaths as we watched the drama unfold.

Fred and Ginger were beside themselves, flying from tree branch to tree branch while entreating their chicks to fly away. I pulled out my Birder's Handbook and hurriedly searched for information about American Kestrels. I discovered that unlike some of their falcon cousins, they have no qualms about picking their prey off the ground and because of this they are described as "swooper” feeders. We watched the scene. It did not look good. We thought about intervening but dismissed that as unwise interference with the natural order of things.

The kestrel made its move, flew with lightening quickness into the yard, swooped down and flew off with one of the chicks in its talons. The other chick, flushed by the kestrel, flew into the safety of the gully. We were horrified. Fred and Ginger flew in circles and made sad little muted bird sounds. We felt for them. My god! Eight weeks of work and then this.

Though we looked for them, Fred and Ginger never returned to their home. Spring turned to summer and, over time, Felicia and I healed. Time has a way of helping. This year the aspen to which their birdhouse was attached had to be cut down due to a parasite invasion. Though there are still Black Capped Chickadees in the area, we are almost certain that Fred and Ginger are not among them. We believe that the affairs and the loss of their chick was too much for them to overcome and that they opted for a change of scenery. We also believe that Fred forgave Ginger and that his unconditional love combined with their new locale saved their relationship.

Friendship and "Air time"

2006-05-09T10:44:00.000-07:00

I recently have had contact with an old drum teacher acquaintance of mine. He was a good teacher and a fine player. I studied with him for a few years back in the early sixties. Since I was the student and he was the teacher, our implicit agreement during those years was that I listened while he did the talking. We have had occasional contact over the years and recently he and I have had a few phone conversations. What I find interesting about our recent phone calls is that it is clear that he is still operating under the old assumption that he will get all or almost all of the “air time” when we speak.

For example, a year or so ago I mailed him a CD of an old tape I had made with a trio I used to work with. We were backing a name singer and I thought the tape had some very nice moments. He never responded to the mailing and so I never knew what he thought about it or even if he had received it. Then, one day during some down time he had at his job, he called me up to chat and he pretty much talked non-stop for 45 minutes. Just before we got off the phone I asked him: “Incidentally, did you ever get the CD I sent you?” He replied: “Yes, I did.” I asked: “How’d you like it?” He said: “It was nice.” Since he volunteered no additional information, I let it drop and we ended our phone conversation.

Then, a month or so later he mailed me a CD of a tape he had made with a big band back in the sixties. About a week after I received the CD he called and asked if I had gotten it. I said that I had. He asked me what I thought of the tape. As an experiment, to see how he would respond, I said simply: “It was good.” He waited for me to volunteer more and when I did not, he said, more aggressively: “That’s it? What do you think about my playing on the tape?” I smiled to myself at his insistence but decided to be nice; and so I spent the next fifteen minutes analyzing his playing in detail and describing all those things about it that I liked. It was not difficult to do because he is a good player and it was an enjoyable recording. Finally, the conversation came to an end and he hung up, satisfied that he had heard all he was going to hear about his CD.

The sad thing about this little sequence of events is that my old drum teacher's lack of awareness about sharing airtime is not unusual. Many people get stuck at the acquaintance level and do not get to the next level of friendship for the same reason. Real friends give each other an opportunity for equal air time; and this includes the gift of genuine interest in each others endeavors. When one person sets up an unequal “air time” arrangement by doing all the talking the imbalance becomes problematic.

Ron, a musician friend of mine who lives in Las Vegas, Nevada, describes his occasional telephone exchanges with a mutual acquaintance of ours who does not listen but loves to talk: “When he calls, I get a pillow, prop the phone on it, plop down with my ear next to it and get ready for a long listening siege. Then, periodically he asks me what I’m up to and after I give him one piece of information, it triggers something else he wants to talk about and he’s off again and I listen for another half hour. It’s a huge drag.” Not surprisingly, our mutual friend has difficulty making and keeping friends. This is understandable, because most people are not willing to pay the price of doing all the listening and getting no air time. We all need to get our chance to talk and to feel like our friends are interested.

An embarrassing personal example of not giving air time occurred one morning in my office with a patient. I had gotten into the habit of drinking two large mugs of very strong coffee with sugar on my hour long drive into my office in Denver. One morning, my first patient, a very bright and assertive business executive, after listening to me expound non-stop for his entire psychotherapy hour, asked me, “So, Doctor C., are you going to pay me now or should I just bill you?” Confused, I said, “I don’t understand. What do you mean?” He said, “You talked non-stop for this entire hour so I assume it must have been therapeutic for you. Do you want to pay me now or should I bill you?” Embarrassed, I immediately apologized and said, “I’m so sorry–it must be the coffee. Naturally, I will not charge you for this hour.” He laughed and said, “You were very interesting, but you might want to cut back a mug or two.” Fortunately, he was a very accepting man and overlooked his lack of air time, chalking it up to my caffeine intoxication.

The “Ten minute rule”
I have a friend who is one of the best listeners and communicators I know. He was the dean of music at a large university and is an accomplished conductor. I often inquire about conducting because he is so articulate and insightful about this fascinating endeavor. I have noticed that he observes what I call the “ten minute rule.” He will speak freely in response to my open ended questions for about ten minutes and then he will try to shift the focus of the conversation back to me. Being a sensitive man, he assumes that I would also like some air time. If I do not want the air time, I just reassure him that I want to hear more about conducting; he is then usually comfortable discussing it further.

Although he is a fascinating guy, and in my opinion he does not have to do a ten minute check with me, I think it is a good rule of thumb when you are having a discussion with friends. Sometimes the topics we are talking about are only of limited interest to our friends and so periodically giving them the opportunity to change topics or to get some air time by changing the focus back to them is generally a good thing to do.

And so, some final words about my drum teacher acquaintance: What is the effect on me of his poor ability to inquire or show interest? Since I have been relegated to the role of listener-audience, I do not have as much fun talking with him as I do with friends who inquire. Like everyone, I would like to think that I also have things to say that are of interest. When I feel that I am not being listened to or that there is no opportunity for me to get at least some air time I become bored. Having said all this, I think my old drum teacher is a good guy with a good heart. He has simply not learned to share air time.

The Bambi Dilemma

2006-04-28T17:47:00.000-07:00

My mom took me to see Walt Disney’s Bambi when it came out in 1942. I was six years old. I still remember sitting with my mother and watching it in the Hobart theatre on Steinway Boulevard in Astoria, Long Island. I wish I could say it was a wonderful childhood experience but it was not. I was stricken when Bambi’s mother was killed by MAN in the meadow and for years I remembered with great sorrow how little Bambi cried: “Mother? Mother? Where are you mother?” I cried for Bambi that day in the movie theater as I am sure hundreds of thousands of children have cried since.

Over the years, I have discussed this film with generations of parents and almost without exception they have reported having had, as children, the same experience. Almost all of them have wondered: “How could Disney justify such a traumatic encounter with the death of a mother in a movie made for children still so powerfully attached to their own mothers?” To this day I am mystified and offended by the decision.

Sadly, this one overpowering and traumatic event in Bambi kept me from taking my children to see the film. I could not justify putting them through the same experience. Yet, the wonderful scenes of Bambi as a faun meeting Thumper and Flower and having his first experience with snow and ice are some of the most cherished of all my movie memories. Unfortunately, I did not think it was a workable solution to take my daughters to the movie theater and then try to cover their eyes and ears when the death of Bambi’s mother occurred and so I did not take them at all. At some point, of course, all three of my daughters did finally see the movie and they all agreed that the loss of the mother was very painful and that it blemished their memories of the film.

And so, Lars, my almost three year old grandson, came to stay with me for a couple of days this week. He has seen, I believe, all of the Disney movies except Bambi. I was faced with the Bambi dilemma—what to do, what to do. Then, It occurred to me that if I rented the film on DVD I had the option to simply skip over the painful segment using the DVD remote. I decided that I could pull it off and rented the film.

I did a sales job on Lars about Bambi prior to watching the movie with him. He is currently enthralled with Spider Man, Superman, The Hulk and The Fantastic Four and I was worried there would not be enough action scenes in Bambi to keep him satisfied. But then I remembered the fire scenes and the episode where Bambi saves his girlfriend from the dogs and thought that perhaps I was selling the movie short. I explained to him that the movie was about a baby deer that lived in the forest with his mother and all of his nice animal friends and that Bambi and his buddies had lots of fun playingtogether. Lars agreed to watch the movie and we proceeded to do so.

I was thrilled as Lars giggled at Bambi’s difficulty learning to walk and I was overjoyed to watch his face as he roared at Bambi’s pratfalls on snow and ice. It occurred to me that he himself was not so far removed from learning to walk and that he was probably remembering those same trials and tribulations.

Watching the film with Lars, I was again struck by the genius of the cartoon work. Bambi’s facial expressions are even more sweet and adorable; Thumper’s voice is more charming and Huck Finnish; and the leaves falling on water and the birds’ songs of spring are as magical as I remembered. I watched Lars’ face as the movie unfolded and he was as enthralled as I had hoped.

Already an experienced DVD watcher, Lars can pick up on film score cues. And so, when the music became ominous the first time we are introduced to the danger of MAN in the forest, Lars said: “Uh oh—bad guys.” I said to him: “Yes, there are men with guns in the forest who want to shoot the animals.” Lars’ eyes got big and he looked worried. I knew that the first run-in with the hunters worked out safely for Bambi and his mother and so I allowed Lars to see it. He handled it well and was relieved when they escaped unharmed.

Then, when the second run-in with MAN occurred, as Bambi and his mother began to run away, I skipped the traumatic section using the DVD remote. Lars searched my face to see why I had done it. I said: “Lars, Bambi’s mother got shot in the foot and had to go and get it fixed, but Bambi’s okay.” He seemed a tad troubled by this but pretty much bought it at face value. As the rest of the film played he stayed involved and did not ask any more questions about Bambi’s mother. I felt that I had successfully protected him from the film’s unnecessary trauma.

Lars had a strong positive reaction to Bambi’s father. He kept pointing to him and saying: “Papa, Papa.” I agreed and pointed out that the Papa in the movie was not only Bambi’s father but also a “good guy” who protected all the animals in the forest.

The part of the movie that Lars seemed least interested in was the “Twittilated” sequence showing all the animals falling in love during spring. I do not think that at this time he has enough information to figure out what it all means. I tried to explain that Thumper, Flower and Bambi each “found a girlfriend to play with.” He seemed to accept this but I could tell by his face that it was not adding up. His experience playing with others does not include the lovesick looks, the kisses and the other strong flirtation stuff in the movie. But, he hung in there and found enough interesting things—he was quite impressed with the forest fire scenes and Bambi’s dash to safety--to offset this somewhat mysterious part.

Naturally, Lars will see this movie again at some point and it is likely that he will probably see the entire movie and have to deal with the loss of Bambi’s mother. But, he will be older and more able to handle it. All things considered, I feel really good about his first Bambi experience and of course am honored to have been there for his first viewing. True, it was the Grandfather’s Expurgated Version but I believe I found a suitable solution to the Bambi dilemma.

Innies and Outies

2006-04-26T00:07:00.000-07:00

A psychology professor once explained to me a fascinating theory he had developed about people and their interpersonal style. He believed that almost everyone fell into one of two groups and guessed that the differences between members of the two groups were probably genetically determined since he saw these differences manifested in little children. He called one group “Outer Directed” and the other “Inner Directed.”

Outer directed people (Outies), by his definition, are those who from a young age are aware of and sensitive to the needs of others. Additionally, they are, for the most part, oblivious to their own needs. This pre-disposes them to take care of others at their own expense. They rarely make waves, seem to instinctively know how to please people, do not impose their will on others and prefer to let others lead. They do not recognize their internal emotional states and if you ask them what they are need or are feeling at any given moment, they will stare at you, confused, and respond: Gosh, I don't know. They are almost always well liked. This makes sense since they spend a lot of time pleasing other people and are conflict avoidant. They are often labeled by mental health professionals as sub-assertive.

Inner directed people (Innies) are the opposite. From an early age they always seem to know exactly what they want; they impose their will on others; they are, for the most part, insensitive to others' needs and feelings and often appear to be self centered. They recognize their internal emotional states and feel free to talk about them. They also are not shy about telling you what you can do to make them feel better. They rarely inquire about others’ internal states. I once heard my professor friends say that “Innies “assume that the party does not start until they get there.

Being a member of either group has its advantage. Outies are well liked and get along with everyone. Innies know what they want and get their needs met. The problem, of course, is that the members in each group have the same problem. They suffer from poor social awareness but are operating at opposite ends of the awareness continuum. On one end the Outies are unaware of their own needs and feelings and at the other, the Innies are unaware of others’ needs and feelings.

For example, when, as children, the members of these two groups attend grammar school, Outies rarely get into trouble because of their generous Outie behavior. They are people pleasers and there is nothing that a grade school teacher likes better than a class full of Outies. All they want to do is please the teacher and others. The children who usually get into trouble are the Innies. They know what they want and if it conflicts with the teachers' needs, so be it. Teachers want order and predictability and Outies deliver in these areas.

Over time, there are important additional distinctions that come about within these two groups. As individuals age they experience difficult and challenging life experiences, suffer the ups and downs of competition and the pain and joy of relationships. As a result, at least ideally, hey learn additional awareness. And so, Outies learn to be aware of their own needs and Innies learn to be aware of others' needs. After these years of life experience, any individual may now now fall into one of four groups:

1. Outies without awareness
2. Outies with awareness
3. Innies without awareness
4. Innies with awareness

However, Outies will always tend to be givers rather than takers despite having learned to recognize what they want. And, conversely, Innies will always tend to be takers despite learning to recognize others’ needs and feelings.

What are some of the advantages to knowing which category you or your children fall into? If, upon reflection, you determine you are an Outie without awareness, it is important to begin asking yourself what it is you need from your relationships and from life in general. You may discover that you are consistently taking a back seat to everyone around you and missing out on getting your needs met. Outies without awareness, in my experience, do not have much to look forward to each day.

If you determine that you are an Innie without awareness, it is a good idea to begin
paying more attention to others' reactions to you during interpersonal dealings. You may be dominating relationships or losing friends and not know why.
Be clear, being either an Innie or an Outie without awareness is not a crime. It is merely a state of undeveloped awareness. Personal growth is, after all, an awareness issue, not a static, pass-fail situation.

As far as relationships go the ideal couple is a combination of an Innie with awareness and an Outie with awareness. This recommendation, if you think about it, is really based on the old Giver-Taker theory of relationships. What makes it more sophisticated is that both the giver and taker have added awareness so that no one gets ripped off. It is not enough to say that givers and takers are a good match. Unless there exists the necessary added awareness , the giver-taker relationship is fraught with peril. There is a huge difference between an Outie with awareness saying: “No biggie—I truly don’t care if we eat Mexican food two nights in a row,” versus “My gosh…I wish I had the guts to say no to Mexican food again…but I don’t want to displease my spouse.”

The most painful type of relationship occurs when two Innies without awareness team up. All one hears is "Me, me, me." Screams of outrage and accusations of selfishness are the norm and both individuals feel ripped off 24 hours per day. Combine an angry, pseudo-liberated feminist with a rigid, self-centered chauvinist and you have the Double Innie prototype relationship.

A very frustrating relationship also occurs when two Outies without awareness team up. Since neither knows what he or she feels or wants, nothing ever gets decided. Their dialogues go like this:

He: What do you want to do tonight?
She: I don't know, what do you want to do?
He: I don't know, do you want to see a movie?
She: It's okay with me if you want to. Do you?
He: Do you?
She: If you do...etc.

Such relationships usually die of boredom over time. One individual, admitting to involvement in such an Outie+Outie relationship, described it as analogous to two people trying to drive a bus down a sandy, not very steep hill but the bus has no steering wheel, no engine, no brakes and all the windows are blacked out. After a not very exciting ride, the bus eventually comes to a stop.

Parents, once acquainted with this theory, often become intrigued with its implications for child rearing. They often discover that they have unexamined prejudice toward their annoying Innie offspring. Further, they begin to see that their Outer directed children are not getting their needs met, despite being well liked by others for their pleasing ways.

There are scores of scenarios that this little theory generates that have interesting and important implications for relationships, child rearing and friendships. And so which of the four categories do you believe you fall into? Are you an Outie without awareness, an Outie with awareness, an Innie without awareness or an Innie with awareness.

This piece is dedicated to James Mikawa, Ph.D., a wonderful teacher, a fine man and a good friend

On Being Italian: Statali, Autonomi & Dependenti

2006-04-17T22:45:00.000-07:00

Italians can be split into three classes based on their job. These three classifications do not include people born to wealth or the super affluent, successful businessmen such as Silvio Berlusconi.

The Statali: These are people who work for the government. Statali cannot, for anything short of murdering their boss, be fired. They have absolute job security until they reach retirement age, which is in their late forties to early fifties. They have superior benefits, including paternity leave with pay; very generous retirement programs and the absolute right, after a few years on the job, to be transferred to the same job back in their home town. They work a 35 hr week but do not have to show up if they do not want to and because they work such short hours they can moonlight and make extra, unreported income. They have many paid days off each year, get special government rates at hotels and resorts, receive higher earnings on their savings and pay lower loan interest rates. They are both envied and despised by the Italian general population. One of the most egregious stories of Statali benefits involves elected office. When an individual is elected to the Chamber of Deputies--that is, becomes an elected representative of the people (there are 620 such positions), he only has to serve one term (less than 12 months) in order to receive a lifetime state pension that is significantly greater than that received by school teachers and lesser state officials who must work 35 years before reaching retirement.

The Autonomi: These are the self employed. They own their own business and have one great advantage over both the Statali and the Dependenti; they can avoid paying income taxes. In Italy, it is a fact of life that, if possible, one avoids paying taxes by under-declaring income. The Autonomi say to themselves: “It is a given that since the government babies the Statali workers and wastes money on them, it is furbo (clever) of us to figure out as many creative ways as we can to cheat the government since it will only waste our tax money on the Autonomi.” It is also a given then, that the Autonomi, since they do not have the benefits or extra perks that the Statali have, chronically gripe about how they are forced to lie and cheat to avoid paying taxes to support the Statali who live off the government’s big tit.

Our experience of an Autonomi member in action was Marisa, the woman who rented us our apartment in Rome. Within minutes after meeting us she asked that we sign a letter stating that we were paying only half the amount of rent that we were actually paying. Since she makes a living renting her apartments, she is self employed and part of the Autonomi group. Thus, she believes it is only fair that she cheat the government out of taxes in order to survive. That is also why she was not at all self conscious asking us to sign an untruthful statement.

Also, when we bought books at either of our two favorite bookstores in Trastevere, we were almost always given a hand written receipt because Autonomi store owners, for the most part, do not run sales through their cash registers. Predictably, both book store owners complained mightily about taxes and how they have to cheat to survive.

The Dependenti: These people are the employed; they work for others. They have limited benefits, work long and rigid hours, cannot moonlight, make far less money, and are the unhappiest of the three groups. They are the ones who are most angry and who are most apt to complain about the lousy work ethic of the Statali and the cheating, tax avoiding Autonomi. They complain that they alone are carrying the nation on their backs because they are paying high taxes and the other two groups are either gobbling the taxes up with their benefits or almost completely avoiding paying taxes and coasting.

When the Autonomi and the Dependenti talk they complain about the Statali and their easy, lazy life. When the Statali and the Dependenti talk, they put down the Autonomi because they pay very little taxes. When the Automoni and the Statali talk, they make clucking noises about the “poor working stiffs” who have it so bad. Bruno, our Florence, physician-surgeon friend, falls into an interesting category in terms of these three groups. He is technically a self employed professional (Autonomi), but since his surgery and practice hours run through a hospital and a group practice, he does not have the option to launder and hide income and so he is taxed as though he were part of the Dependenti group.

Despite all the anger and resentment directed toward the Statali by two thirds of the working population, most Italians would give their last pot of sugo for a Statali job. The general belief among Italians is that: "Once you get on the big tit you never have to work or worry again."

The Amalgamated Order of Real Bearded Santas

2006-04-16T08:56:00.000-07:00

This week I decided to call a college friend of mine that I have not seen or spoken to since 1958. His name is Ed Kulkosky. He and I always got along well and were fellow journalism majors at a New Jersey commuter college. A couple of years ago I found his email address on-line and we began to exchange occasional emails. He has had an interesting life. He has been a NY Times newspaper editor, a financial journal writer and editor, a standup comic, a singer and entertainer and is currently writing songs for a musical as well as working weekend gigs as a professional Santa Claus.

I called him because I had recently sent a number of emails to which he had not responded. Since we are both at that age when bad things can happen very quickly, I decided to check to see if he was okay. It turned out he is fine and that he has been having trouble with his email address and so we talked for a while. He mentioned that he had been very busy this past holiday season doing Santa gigs and as our chat unfolded, some interesting stuff came out about the job of playing Santa. Ed said that most of his work comes through “party planner companies” that book entertainers for events like birthdays and Christmas parties. He said that at one Christmas party a father, as he placed his daughter on Santa’s lap, said: “Don’t is shy sweetie—tell Santa what you want for Hanukkah.” He also said that he can tell which toys have been pushed by TV advertisers because every little girl and every little boy pretty much wants the same stuff. When I asked him what the parents expected from a Santa at these parties he said: “Oh—the predictable things. They want Santa to be mellow, patient and to be a good listener who really focuses on what the kids are telling him. The problem is that there are usually so many kids that it ends up being a more cursory thing with each kid—you know--get on Santa’s lap, take the photo, tell Santa which toys you want and it’s over.

I asked him where one would buy a Santa suit and he said that there are a fair number of companies that manufacture and sell them. An off-the-rack Santa suit runs three to four hundred dollars and one that is custom made could easily cost a thousand to twelve hundred. I expressed surprise that there would be such demand for Santa Claus outfits and he said: “In that vein, let me tell you about an event I’ll be attending this coming July. I’m going to Branson, Missouri. A group of businessmen in Los Angeles have put together a Santa convention in there. Branson is a little town that has become famous in recent years. A number of professional entertainers—Dolly Parton for one--have opened theaters and nightclubs there and are drawing crowds. This convention is called The Amalgamated Order of Real Bearded Santas. As you can tell by the title, the only requirement for taking part is that each Santa must have a real beard. Beard length is not spelled out, it is essential only that the beard be authentic.”

Ed said he was looking forward to the convention and then our conversation turned to other things--old mutual college friends, the passing of the years, our health (of course) and our wives and families. It was good catching up with an old friend. And afterward, I sat there in the glow of this really fun conversation, wondering how many other old friends have led such creative and fascinating lives and, sadly, how infrequently I have found out about them. Ahhh--it is an interesting world we live in.

Perry Como and Courtly Love

2006-04-06T04:15:00.000-07:00

Recently, I purchased a couple of Perry Como CDs. I bought them because I wanted to re-capture a taste of early home life. During the fifties my mother adored Perry Como and played his LPs by the hour. She would get starry eyed when listening to him and his versions of “Till the End of Time,” “It’s Impossible” and “I Surrender Dear” would melt her heart. I can still remember her reaction as she listened to his crooning: “Awwww—I just love him.”

Until now I have never really thought too much about Perry and his effect on my mother but after listening to his CDs for the last month I have come to believe that Perry Como’s RCA Records A&R man, Tommy Loftus, truly understood women. His formula for Perry was simple. Perry’s albums and singles were always about one thing—a 20th century version of courtly love.

His songs fall into two categories. Straight on love-adoration tunes—e.g., “I Surrender Dear,” “Till the End of Time” and lighter musical vehicles with the same message but not so emotionally laden—“Find a wheel,” “Mama Loves Mambo-Papa loves Mama”. He alternated these tunes but the message was always the same--a man adores a woman with undying love and devotion and will never, ever, veer from his loyalty and commitment. This is feudal courtly love at its most stereotypical.

Marriage among the affluent during feudal times was about family mergers, not love. It was too loaded with reality and women needed the fantasy of being adored not for their estates and dowries but for their souls. Courtly love, known at the time as “L’amour courtois,” was a highly stylized, artificial and forbidden affair that was characterized by certain attributes.

It was aristocratic and practiced by noble lords and ladies. It was ritualistic and the woman was constantly courted with poems, songs, bouquets and gifts. The man was painstakingly attentive and the woman need only return a hint of approval to keep his love. She was kept on a pedestal and adored. It was secretive and the rest of the world was excluded. They were in their own special universe. Finally, it was extra-marital but sans sex. The ultimate objective was not crude physical satisfaction but a sublime and sensual intimacy based on absolute adoration of the woman by the man. Then, as now, there was nothing quite as exciting as unfulfilled sexual desire.

With these courtly love guidelines in mind, jump ahead to the fifties and think about the needs of the many financially trapped women married to men who had not yet been exposed to the liberating sixties ideas allowing them to examine and express their feelings and to begin actually listening to their women and treating them as equals. Given this context It is understandable why Perry was so adored by women during his fifties heyday. Additionally, it did not hurt Perry Como that he was a devoted family man. It made his songs' messages more believable and as important, it made him unobtainable, an important characteristic of courtly love.

And, so, following my need to reproduce a musical mood that I lived with in my parents’ home in the fifties, I bought and listened to Perry Como’s music. And as I listened I began to realize why his music was so powerful for my mother. She and my dad had an emotionally empty marriage. Neither knew how to share their feelings and each felt unloved by the other. My mom also read romance novels (the courtly love principle runs through all of them--"Man cherishes woman, man and woman have a dilemma, love conquers all, woman is still cherished, they live happily ever after")—and my dad put his energies into work. And so when I listen to Perry sing there is a bitter sweet quality to the experience. I hear not only his songs but I recall what satisfaction he brought to my mother and I smile at her swooning response to him.

Grandma Zsoka's Gomboc Dessert Dumplings (Szilvas Gomboc)

2006-04-06T02:50:00.000-07:00

When I was a little boy I used to go with my mother to Masury, Ohio during each summer and stay with Grandma and Grandpa Zsoka for a few weeks. Grandma’s house always smelled of freshly baked bread and Hungarian pastries which she kept covered with crisp, white linens.
She made a particular dessert, which at the time, I believed was called “Gumboat.” I have recently learned that its correct name is “Gomboc” and it is essentially the Hungarian, dessert version, of an Italian gnocchi. It is stuffed with either a sweetened whole prune or prune filling (lekvar). I loved this dessert and whenever we visited with Grandma Zsoka or she visited us in New Jersey she would make it for us. It can be eaten with a knife and fork, or held in the hand and eaten like an apple.

Ingredients:
One small can of prune filling (lekvar)
4 medium sized potatoes
1 large egg or two small, beaten
4 level cups of sifted flour (through a strainer is fine)
1 tsp salt
½ cup butter
1 cup of bread crumbs
½ cup of sugar
2 tsp of cinnamon

Directions:
Toast breadcrumbs in the butter in a sauté pan over medium heat. With a spatula or tongs, continually turn them over until they turn a medium brown color. Do not over toast or they will get bitter. Mix the browned bread crumbs and the sugar and cinnamon in a bowl and put aside.

Peel potatoes, cut up and cook in salted water until tender, then drain and mash them. In a large mixing bowl, combine the potatoes while warm to the sifted flour and salt. Add the beaten egg and mix all until a dough like consistency is reached. Place the ball of dough on a floured board and roll out to a thickness between ¼ and ½ inch. Cut the dough into 4” squares.

Place a teaspoon of prune filling (lekvar) in the center of each square and turn into a ball by doing the following: Connect two corners in center over lekvar and pinch together. Connect other two corners in same manner. Now bring four resulting corners in and pinch them as close to the center as you can. As you are doing this, you are working your way toward a round shape. Keep pinching any seam that does not seem closed. Once all seams are sealed by pinching, roll the ball between your palms, bottom palm facing upward. Once all the dough has been turned into gumboc balls (you should get 20 to 24 balls) do the following.

Drop four or five gumboc balls at a time into boiling water. Let cook for 10 minutes and adjust heat so that water boils but not too violently. Early during the boiling time you may need to separate each ball from the bottom of the pan with a spatula. Lift each batch of gumbocs from the boiling water with a slotted spoon or ladle and while the next batch is cooking do the following.

Roll each gumboc in the bowl of breadcrumb-sugar-cinnamon mixture until thoroughly coated and place on a buttered cookie tray in the oven (200 degrees) to keep warm. Repeat this with each batch.

Gumbocs can be served as is or with a dollop of sour cream on a dish. They can also be frozen, after cooking, until needed. Let thaw completely at room temperature (don’t use the microwave) and re-heat in oven until warm.

Carmelina's Limoncello Recipe

2006-04-06T02:26:00.000-07:00

In August of 2002 I went to Italy with my three daughters. We had the opportunity to visit Mirabello, a small mountain village North of Naples, in the Abruzzi-Molise area, where my Great-Grandparents, Amodio and Rose DiToro, were born and lived before coming to America. While there, we visited with newly discovered family relatives, Marina Volpacchio and her parents, Giovanni and Carmelina. At the conclusion of a five course dinner, Carmelina served her wonderful home made lemon liqueur. Because I enjoyed it so much she gave me a bottle to bring home. We have since gotten the recipe and make it often. Here is some of Carmelina's Limoncello. I hope you have as much fun making and drinking it as we do.

Ingredients
One liter of Everclear Grain Alcohol (190 proof—be sure it is a 1,000 ml liter bottle)
10 lemons
1 ½ quarts of filtered water
3 pounds of sugar (2 cups = 1 lb)

Directions
Using a potato peeler, take all the yellow rind off of each lemon, trying to avoid getting the white, bitter pith on the thin lemon peelings. Combine the Everclear and the lemon peelings in a clean one gallon glass or plastic container. Cover and store in a dark place for one week.

At the one week mark, make a simple syrup by combining the sugar and water in a large sauce pan. Bring it to a slow simmer, and let cook for 20 minutes. (Note: the longer you simmer the syrup, the thicker it will get because only the water boils away). Next, allow this simple syrup to cool to room temperature. Do not add warm syrup to the vodka-lemon peel mixture.

Strain the lemon peels from the Everclear and combine the simple syrup and the Everclear alcohol. It is now ready to drink. This recipe yields close to four quarts. Its alcohol content is about 30%, thus it can handle being stored in the freezer. The bonus is that freezing gives it a delightful, slightly thick consistency.

Notes: This drink, made by infusing grain alcohol with the oil from lemon peels, is very popular in Southern Italy, particularly on the Amalfi coast. It is excellent splashed over vanilla ice cream or fresh strawberries. It also makes a fine martini, two or three parts vodka to one part Limoncello. Enjoy!

Wince Memories

2006-04-05T15:11:00.000-07:00

For many years, psychologists have been using the phrase “old tapes” to refer to those things we do or think that are the result of early life experiences. For example, I have an old tape about the tie between food and company. If company comes to my house, my early life experience of living in my parents’ home and watching them entertain, leads me to believe that I would be akin to a serial murderer if I should happen to run out of food and someone could not enjoy a second or third helping at the table.

Recently I have become aware of something similar to the idea of old tapes. I have noticed that when I am tired or when I have discovered that I have made a mistake either interpersonally or professionally, for a short period afterwards I am prone to fall into the trap of going into my memory banks, pulling out embarrassing incidents or immature behaviors, picturing them and then literally wincing at the images. These “wince memories” can be six months old or 30 years old; their age does not seem to matter. Each has the power to make me want to close my eyes, shake my head and try to wipe away the image.

I find the depth of the embarrassment intriguing but I also think it is fascinating that memories do not seem to lose their power with time. Here is a specific example of a recent wince memory. Forty five years ago, as a young man, I was a guest, along with seven or eight other folks, for a long weekend at the home of a professional chef. I made the mistake of telling her that I loved to cook. The fact is, I was enamored with the idea of cooking but had actually cooked very little. She generously asked me if I had a favorite recipe that I would like to cook while I was visiting. By coincidence, I had recently had a long discussion with my father on the phone and he had explained in detail how to cook his special Sunday spaghetti sauce. I had not yet cooked it but I was sure from our phone conversation that I knew how to do it.

Foolishly, I told my host that I would like to cook my father’s recipe for spaghetti sauce and added that I had cooked it many times and that it was a very special recipe. I then proceeded, in front of her, to butcher the recipe so badly that the sauce was practically inedible. Worse, I was very outspoken about how the sauce should be made and blew her off when she tried, during my cooking attempt, to give me some tips to get me out of obvious culinary trouble. Despite my attitude, she very tactfully bailed me out at the end by doctoring the sauce to an almost acceptable level. Worse, the guests, who had seen my entire act, were kind enough to compliment me on my bad sauce. There is no doubt in my mind that my host and the guests saw me as a fraud and that all of them knew by the way I had approached cooking the recipe that I had no experience in the kitchen and that I was simply showing off. When I picture me trying unsuccessfully to make this sauce, transparently bluffing and ignoring the chef’s attempt to help me, the reality of how I must have appeared to everyone is painful and I literally wince and try and wipe away the memory.

Naturally, If we live long enough and take enough risks, we will have many such embarrassing memories in our banks. It is not enough to merely try and wince them away. We must also have something we can do and things we can say to ourselves so that they do not bring us down. What I say and do is based on the following premise. Depression resides in the past with mistakes and regrets. Anxiety resides in the future with performance worries. Joy resides here in the present. So, when I wince at old memories and am temporarily residing in the past, I do two things. I say to myself: “Yes, it is embarrassing to have done that but if I had not done it I would not be the person I am today. Such mistakes teach humility. Thankfully, I have learned from the experience.” Then I pull myself back into the present by getting involved in an activity that I enjoy.

My God--I'm Half Hungarian!

2006-03-29T08:56:00.000-08:00

For as long as I can remember I have been intensely proud of my Italian heritage. From the time I was a little boy, my father used to say: “Ron, there are only two kinds of people—Italians and people who want to be Italian.” I believed this to be true until my high school girlfriend’s father made her break up with me because I was Italian.

Actually, her dad was misinformed. I am only half Italian. My mother was of Hungarian descent. Unfortunately, her Hungarian heritage was given short shrift by me and my siblings. Why? Because we grew up surrounded by my father’s New York and New Jersey relatives including his mother Angelina, my great-grandparents Amodio and Rose DiToro, my great uncles Don and Mike, my aunt Ann, my five uncles—Leonard, Joe, Martin, Paul and Anthony as well as scores of DiToro and Carducci cousins, half cousins and their paesan friends.

Given that they all cooked Italian, spoke “Ital-glish,” (example: “Pikinickah” for picnic), loved Perry Como and Frank Sinatra and grew plum tomatoes, sweet basil and Italian parsley in their back yards, my mom’s Hungarian heritage did not stand a chance. It never occurred to me to think of myself as anything other than Italian.

Over the years, I bought Italian shoes and Italian suits. I learned to cook, eat and appreciate Italian food. I loved to listen to my Great-Grandfather and Grandmother speak their Southern dialect Italian. I loved the loudness and the passion and the joy of being part of large family gatherings on Sundays at one house or another. I love Italian opera singers and Italian operas--the French operas have too much talking and the Germans fill the histrionic cup too soon—in short, I have been, in my mind, Italian.

This is not to say that I never experienced my Hungarian roots. I visited my Grandma Zsoka in Ohio during a number of childhood summers, and while there, ate wonderful Hungarian dishes and desserts and heard the rhythms of Hungarian being spoken by my grandmother, my mom, my aunts and uncles and friends of the family. My mom also cooked certain Hungarian dishes—pigs-in-the-blanket, cabbage and noodles, chicken paprikash, etc., but for some reason these experiences never altered my solid conviction that I was Italian.

About six months ago all of this changed due to a confluence of events. First, I came across an old audio tape that I had misplaced. On it was a one hour conversation that I and my sister had in the late 80’s with my Hungarian grandmother, Lidia Zsoka, in an old age home, shortly before she died. She discusses her life and she answers a lot of questions put to her by me and my sister. Next, I discovered an old cookbook that my grandmother had made for my mother. It was a small wire bound notebook with a number of her recipes written out longhand and in red pencil. It included a short introductory paragraph in which she named her home town and county in Hungary. I transferred the tape onto a CD and sent it to my sister. I also had the little cookbook interpreted from Hungarian into English and turned it into a little book and also sent that to my sister.

The newly discovered audio tape and cookbook combined to awaken my interest in my Hungarian heritage. Happily, my sister had exactly the same awakening and we began at that point to talk about a “roots trip” to Hungary. We decided that we wanted very much to visit Granda Zsoka’s home town. In order to enrich the trip experience, my sister visited our 89 year old Aunt Irene in order to get birthdates and any other important information she might have. Amazingly, Aunt Irene had both a letter with our Grandpa Ivan’s Hungary address and a 60 page diary written by him which is currently being translated (Grandpa Ivan was Grandma Zsoka’s second husband and her true love). To make a long story short, these discoveries by my sister at Aunt Irene’s led to finding out Grandpa Ivan’s county and home town in Hungary and now we will be able to visit both towns while we are there.

Impressively, my sister has now made contact with a lodge owner in Grandma Zsoka’s home town and is arranging for us to sleep in the little town over-night. Since Grandpa Ivan’s home town is only 40 miles away from Grandma’s town, we can now easily visit both towns over a two day period.

Additionally, Patty and I are now studying and trying to learn some rudimentary Hungarian phrases as well as re-visiting some old Hungarian recipes that my mom and grandmother had written out. This week I made a Hungarian dessert called Gumboc and both Patty and I tried making Grandma Zsoka’s farina dumplings. We have begun using simple little Hungarian phrases in our emails. In short—we are suddenly half Hungarian for the first time in our lives. It feels good to re-discover this part of myself and I cannot but feel that my mother, if she is able to pick up on all of this, is pleased. She was very outspoken and frank and so I can also imagine her saying: “Well, it’s about damn time!”

Raising children to accept a "No"

2006-03-28T09:49:00.000-08:00

This past week I watched a young mother sitting with her three year old boy in a restaurant. She asked him if she could have one of his chicken nuggets. He frowned and said: "No." She gave him an angry look, disregarded his negative response, speared a nugget on his plate and ate it. He became angry and began to cry. She looked at him and said sternly: "You need to learn to share! Mommy can have a nugget if she wants one!"

What is both important and interesting about this to me is that, unwittingly, this young mother was teaching her son to regard a "No" answer as unacceptable. If we buy the idea that one mark of maturity is the ability to accept either a "Yes" or a "No" with equal grace when we ask a favor of another, then this young boy was being shown that it is okay to ignore a "No" answer.

I once asked a good friend if I could borrow his sleeping bag for a camping trip. He said: "No, I'd rather not--it's too personal an item to loan out." I reacted poorly and said: "Jeez--I can't believe you won't loan it to me. That hurts my feelings." He answered: "Ron, let me get this straight--am I only allowed to say "Yes" when you ask me a favor?" After thinking it over, I apologized.

In this vein, I notice that young mothers often say to their toddlers: "Okay, we're going to go home now--okay?" When they tag the sentence with the "Okay?" they are asking a question that can be answered "Yes" or "No." When the child says "No" and is forced to leave anyway they are, again, teaching their child to ignore a "No." They are also setting up a combative situation, one that will lead to a tantrum and a win-lose ending.

Additionally, why would a mother give a toddler control over when to leave or stay? It makes no sense. It is her decision, not the toddler's. I try to teach young mothers that an essential child management skill with toddlers is to make declarative statements. For example: "Billy, it's time to go home now. Let's get your coat on and get going." To ask a toddler's permission is simply inviting trouble. They love saying "No" (which is understandable since, given their age, they have almost no interpersonal or decision making control) and then, if you ignore their "No" you're teaching them the wrong thing.

Age and Patience With Others

2006-03-28T09:23:00.000-08:00

I was, until recently, under the impression that as we aged we became more accepting of others' shortcomings but recently I've begun questioning this. I remember that as a young man I was much more accepting of friends who had major failings. Once, 40 years ago, as a young musician, I shared an apartment for an entire summer at the Jersey shore with a junkie musician who spent most of his time scamming people for money and drugs. But, he was funny, charming and bright and I enjoyed his company. Together we once spent 20 bucks (a lot of money back in 1960) for a bag of oregano and all we did for days was laugh about how it tasted as we tried to smoke it.
It seems I had more friends back then who were seriously flawed. Now, I'm a lot more particular about who I spend time with. I find myself assessing their interpersonal style and if they are poor listeners or are not at all curious about others I find it tedious to be in their company. I seem to be paying the price for my pickiness, however, and have far fewer friends now that I have dropped a number of friendships with folks who I finally decided were just too much work or were not making an effort to enrich our friendship.
I know that much more possibility for personal growth is offered by difficult people--i.e., they force one to stretch to get big enough to tolerate them gracefully--but as I age I opt more and more to just sacrifice the growth, smoke a cigar by myself and stare at the back yard or read a book. It just takes too much energy.

O'Neill special on American Experience

2006-03-28T09:18:00.000-08:00

There was a special about O'neill on TV last night (The American Experience series) and they spoke about the similarity between Shakespeare's King Lear and O'Neill's "The Iceman Cometh." They posited the idea that both dealt with our need for dreams-illusions as a way to cope with the frightening and depressing reality of life (the existential reality). They state that at the end, Lear is stripped of all his dreams-illusions about family and love as are the characters in Iceman.
The "Iceman" character has the need to believe he was insane to justify having killed his wife. Because, if he was not insane, then he killed her because he hated her (the reality) and that was too tough to accept...he needed the illusion of insanity to maintain the fiction-illusion-dream that he loved her. And, additionally, all those other characters in the play who have had their illusion stripped away can smile again because if the Iceman can maintain his illusion so can they.
Given this short overview, would you tend to agree with their claim of a similarity? Do you think Shakey was consciously examining this existential issue of our need to create fictions to make life livable and bearable?

2006-03-28T08:47:00.000-08:00

March 28th, 2005
This photo was taken from up on the Michelangelo Piazzale overlooking Florence while Felicia and I were there in April of 2005.

I think this blogging site should be fun. Today is my first foray onto this site and I'm intrigued to see how it will turn out.