Still Crazy After All These Years
(The Lost Episode)
*I wrote this a while back, and somehow, it was never “archived”. Crazy, Huh?
NOTE:
I write "The Forever Kid" to recount my happy memories and stories
of my childhood in The Bronx in the ‘50’s and ‘60’s
AND
to explore my “current childhood” as a "supposed adult" today.
-----------------------------------
Over my many years as Creative Director at Grey Advertising,
I often got called into my boss’ office and asked...
“Why do you always hire only ‘the Crazies’?”
I answered simply...
“Because I like ‘the Crazies’”
I’m a fervent believer that being a little “crazy”
makes you different, interesting, creative and …
keeps you young!
I, myself, have been called “crazy” by some
(OK, many)
and I accept it as a badge of honor.
To begin with, I do have a constant imaginary “parallel life”.
I see my existence as a “movie” in my mind,
in which almost daily…
I imagine and plan things, behaviors and elaborate scenarios that I WOULD do…
in my ideal, imagined world,
while then returning to deal with reality.
In addition, I guess I may have several, shall we say, “quirks”.
But I’ll let you be the judge.
Rubber Bands
Anybody who knows me, knows about my rubbers bands.
I will run into people I haven’t seen in 5, 10, 50 years…
and they will inevitably ask ...
“Still wearing your rubber bands?”
The absolute truth is…
for every single second of my life,
since the 6th grade,
I have obsessively worn a rubber band on my wrist.
Why?
Good luck, obviously.
Its origin?
Back in the day, like almost all of us guys, I wore an “I.D. bracelet”.
These rather clunky chain links,
with a horizontal bar in the middle that proudly,
(and rather egotistically),
displayed our first name.
Whenever I would write anything…
my compositions, box scores, love letters
or begrudgingly do my homework,
I would constantly jiggle my I.D.
Of course the main reason for an I.D. Bracelet...
was so that when one “went steady” with a girl,
(usually lasting for 1-4 weeks),
one would bestow it upon her so she could show off to her friends.
(Thinking back on it… a rather sexist custom…
having your "girlfriend du jour" walking around wearing YOUR name on her wrist).
Anyway, whenever I gave my I.D. away,
(to a continuous stream of girls I fell into deep, meaningful “love”),
I had nothing to jiggle?!?
Enter the rubber band!
I found a nice thick band, pulled it onto my wrist,
and jiggled away happily.
And then something amazing happened!!!
(Or what passed for “amazing” to me…I don’t actually remember what???)
Perhaps I passed a math test.
Yanks won a doubleheader.
I got away with some act of mischief.
Whatever…
Thus, I totally believed it was "Cause and Effect".
And from that day on...
I would always, always
have a rubber band on my wrist.
But it doesn’t stop there.
Because the rubber band now served as my security blanket,
(much like the enabling feather on Dumbo’s snout),
I was fanatically obsessed with making sure it would always be there!!
So, while (in "rubber-band theory"),
I really only need the one…
I took to wearing several,
sometimes as many as 8-10 per wrist!?
Hey, you need back-ups!
One could gauge the level of my anxiety by the number of bands on my wrists.
By the way,
when I get down to one...
I truly panic!
And immediately search for an "insurance band".
NOTE: Summer is a rough time for rubber bands…they melt!
You should also know...
that it isn’t as simple as going to a box of bands and selecting one.
Oh no!
I believe my bands must appear to me in some organic, cosmic, way…
left on a restaurant table,
discarded on some grassy field,
noticed on the street as I’m rushing to a meeting.
And once I put a band on…
it doesn’t merely stay there until it breaks.
It must earn its place on my wrist!
If things are going well....
it stays.
If not…
it’s gone.
I also switch the distribution of bands from one wrist to the other to change my luck.
My bands are a part of my life.
When my son was born...
a friend sent me a large envelope filled with hundreds of mini-bands.
When my Mom passed away…
at the cemetery,
I dropped one of my bands in her grave…
in hopes of bringing her a blessed journey.
You think crazy?
Well all I can say is…
I am pretty damn lucky.
So don't scoff.
Throw a rubber band on your wrist tomorrow,
see what happens,
and then judge.
MY Yankees
To say I’m a Yankee “fan”....
gives you no sense of the magnitude of my "cosmic connection".
(I’ll actually save that for a future post).
Suffice it to say...
that I truly believe my actions have a true effect on the unparalleled success
or tragically, heartbreaking failures
of the New York Yankees.
So, when I’m heading up to a game in my beloved Bronx
and someone says...
“Have fun!”…
I immediately correct them.
It’s not about “fun”…I have a job to do!
It begins as soon as I enter the Stadium.
I always must start with a fist-pump with my companions.
(If I am alone…I actually fist pump myself).
Then…
MOST CRITICAL!!!!!!!
Before the game starts….
I ABSOLUTELY MUST TOUCH THE RIGHT FIELD FOUL POLE!!!!
I’ve done that for every game I’ve attended for the past 60 years.
There have been times that a Nazi Security Guard tries to tell me
I can’t go to the pole area…
and I go into full Rain Man mode!!!
I lose it…
until the supervisor, who knows me, steps in...
“It's O.K., that’s what he does!
The young attendants have even taken to calling me...
"Mr. 60 Years".
NOTE: By the way, ANYONE who attends a game with me,
MUST also touch the pole before the first pitch!!
There is also the "no-eating rule" until the Yankees score.
And no ice cream until they homer.
(There were those unfortunate times that the Yankees were shut out...
my kids starved).
A Stadium “tradition” has everyone rising as the Yankee pitcher
has two strikes on a batter.
We sit.
Bad things happen when you stand.
But as ritualistic as I get at the games,
it doesn’t compare to what goes on at home…
Sitting in a certain position in a specific place .
Repeating a specific body action or movement.
Insisting that everyone in the room not move during a rally.
Watching the game on TV with no sound.
Switching channels at a critical point so I don’t have to watch something bad happen.
Switching to online computer reports, while turning away from the broadcast.
But…for the peak of my obsessive/compulsive Yankee behavior…
I go back to one particular World Series.
I believe it was 1977.
The Yankees were playing the Dodgers in Los Angeles.
I was watching on TV and the Yanks were losing.
So I went to my bag of tricks…
switching rubber bands,
changing chairs,
finally in desperation, switching channels.
As I did...
I found the game being simulcast on Spanish television.
I watched and the Yankees began to rally.
Obviously I watched the rest of the game en Espanol.
AND the next night’s game too.
Not TOO crazy, right?
But wait…
When the Yankees returned home and I was off to the Stadium…
I insisted that, while I was at the game,
my wife, Marcia, keep the T.V. on…
IN SPANISH!
Loco???
Maybe…
but the Yanks did win that Series.
Muy Bien!!
Ugly Faces
Each morning when I awake,
(after my fitful 4-5 hours of “sleep”),
I stumble into the bathroom and prepare for whatever the day may bring.
When I see myself in the mirror…
I am stunned.
Who is that old guy?
And what did he do with my 20something self image?
My too-long hair is running amok,
(looking like Doc Emmet Brown),
the bags under my eyes store untold treasures or evils,
the lines in my face look like a relief map of Uraguay.
So I stand and stare for a while.
And then…
not leaving bad enough alone,
I wrinkle and violently contort my face to make it as ugly as possible!!?
WHOA!
I terrify myself!!!
On some rare occasions...
I share my grotesque faces,
(Freddie Kreuger meets Bob from “Twin Peaks” ),
with my family.
They cower.
They shriek.
The most frightening thing about it…
As I get older…
it’s getting easier and easier to make the transformation.
Kinda like...
when my Mom used to caution me that I should stop crossing my eyes
because one day they might stay that way!
Crazy is a beautiful thing.
What are your "Crazies"? Please share...so I know I'm not alone.
