New Age wedding?

Somewhere along the path of life, you start missing forks in the road. It doesn’t occur to you at first. The first clue is probably when the Grammy, Emmy or Oscar awards come out one year and you don’t recognize half the names.

Fran calls me up and says she came across a recipe for a salsa cheesecake and is going to make it for me. I know the labor that goes into a cheesecake and can imagine the size of the string attached. I don’t have a clue what it is, but I steel myself for a kidney punch.

She finally gets around to it. “Diane’s daughter is getting married.” I let out an involuntary groan. “What was that?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Well she is one of my best friends. Stop making those noises.”

I can’t help it. Being invited to go to a wedding is on a par with being asked to help someone move, pet sit or apply an ointment. It’s a biggie. Lots of points, but not always worth it. I do some foot dragging to see if she’ll back off, but she doesn’t.

I’ve been to a few “adult weddings” in the past decade, but I haven’t been to any kiddie events in a while. They’re a little heavier than I care for. Or, so I thought.

The wedding was at Xavier University’s chapel. We’re seated and there’s a singer. The “Wedding Song.” Novel. Some things don’t change. The chapel has the acoustics of a locker room shower. I notice the crowd’s attire ranges from suits to t-shirt and jeans. I might expect the latter from youngsters, but very mature adults? I missed the fork, somewhere.

The deacon appears and calls the event to order. He’s in a white Friar Tuck robe and is a little thinner than John Pinet. He explains the difference between a deacon and a priest, tells us the story of his life and assures us about twenty-seven times that nothing really bad has happened at any of his weddings. I’ve never gone to one apprehensive about something “really bad” happening, but I’m beginning to wonder.

I’m waiting for pairs of ushers and bridesmaids to start the aisle walk, but players are generally milling around until they come to rest somewhere proximate to the altar. Like one of those hand games where you roll around the tiny silver balls until you get them to seat in the indentations. This aberration in protocol is someone offset by the program, which is reminiscent of a sporting event. It not only lists the players, but also their affiliation (friend of bride, cousin of groom, etc.). Saves a lot of whispered questions. Now this is progress. The couple lists their 18-month old daughter as a flower girl. The times they are a changin’.

There is a recognizable bridal walk, so we seem back on track. Except, the deacon lards the proceedings with a lot of bad jokes and stories that lack punchlines and relevance. He says his wife is there to keep him from getting too far off track and introduces her in the audience. She stands and takes a bow. Bizarre. He doesn’t conduct a mass, but his ramblings take us the far side of an hour. People file out willy nilly, as opposed to the ushers peeling off one row at a time. We head for the reception.

There is no reception line. Instead, after most have populated the room, there’s an announcement of the arrival of the bridal party. The DJ plays the theme from “Top Gun” and the party dances in as couples, all with Tom Cruise sunglasses. If there is a significance, no one seems to know what it is.

There’s a buffet dinner. We sit with friends of Fran’s, their offspring and their offspring’s dates. Looks like a Goth convention. The DJ launches into an odd mix of disco and archaic country. Donna Summer, meet Buck Owens.

Fran and her friend decide to wander around and find other acquaintances. She tells me I should feel free to stay put. In other words, sit there and don’t bother anyone. Not likely. This crowd has too much potential.

It doesn’t take long to ferret out Ray, who looks like a short Wilford Brimley and is brimming with mischief. He owns the FBN Construction Company, which is primarily him. FBN stands for Fly-By-Night. Yes, I have the right guy. I grab a pitcher of beer and we retreat to a corner where Ray entertains with some great stories.

Somewhere along the line, Shawna joins us. She’s a strapping lass who’s well into her cups and is having some trouble wearing her dress. Ray seems to be making an effort to overlook this. I’m more inclined to look.

Ray excuses himself to go to the rest room with one of the more banal explanations, but Shawna has some interesting stories of her own. Someone taps me on the shoulder, but I’m rapt. “They’re cutting the cake,” I hear Fran say.

“Fine, get me a piece.”

“I thought that’s what you were trying to do.” Uh oh.

I’m towed over to the cake table. It would be too much to expect that one of the newly wedded wouldn’t try the mooshing the cake in the face trick. Why wouldn’t I think it would go beyond that? It almost turned into a variation of mud wrestling. Classy.

Faces are wiped and the DJ launches into “Rocky Top” and “The Chicken Dance.” Some traditions should die. Fran says it’s all in good fun and tries to goad me onto the dance floor. Not a chance. She joins her friends.

I find Ray. We grab a couple pitchers of beer, climb up to a balcony and do some prime people watching. When people are searching a room, they seldom look up. So, I figure I’m pretty safe up here. I figure wrong.

“What are you doing?” I answer her. “What?” I answer again. “Let some of the air out of your tongue and try that again. Better yet, give me the car keys.”

It had been a while since I’d been lured to a wedding. It’ll be a while before it happens again.

Cold Case

On occasion, I watch “Cold Case.” Not that it’s an especially great show, but it is laced with references to the Italian Market, Fishtown, Kensington and other neighborhoods I knew growing up in inner city Philadelphia.

They are virtually all row houses. Not a term I hear anymore. Row houses run from one end of the block to the other, with no space in between them. One long monolith. They are usually identical, except perhaps for the facade, which may be brick or stone. There is the front door and the stoop; three or four steps to the sidewalk. No grass. Just sidewalk and street.

You walk through the front door into the living room. Behind that is the dining room. The steps rising upstairs are located in one of these rooms. Behind the dining room is the kitchen and steps down to the basement, which usually has a coal bin. The house is one room wide.

Upstairs are a front bedroom and two small ones in the rear. A bathroom is in the middle. It obviously has no window, but often does have a skylight with a chain to open it for ventilation.

Cars are parked on the street. Except, if there is an alley behind the row to access small garages under the houses. Clothes lines run back and forth across the alley. They are strung high on pulleys, so the clothes can be hung and retrieved from the kitchen.

They were row houses then. Now, they call some rehabbed ones “townhouses” and charge about thirty times as much for them.

Few people had televisions when I was a child. Entertainment was sitting out on the stoop in warm weather. It was there that goings on in the neighborhood were observed and discussed. You either sat on your stoop or circulated around the street to congregate at other stoops. In colder weather, activity moved to the lodges or civic associations which were, in reality, bars. Forget about secrets. Everyone knew what you were up to, so don’t think your parents wouldn’t find out.

While adults and young children clustered on the stoops, adolescents hung at the corner candy store. Either on the corner or inside playing the pinball machines, which paid off. Not enough to compensate for all the nickels you fed them from your soda bottle return earnings or paper route. Or, you were in the alley, shooting craps.

You played stoop ball, wall ball, stick ball, half ball or street football. With stoop ball, the “batter” flung a rubber ball against the stoop, hoping the rebound would fall between fielders. Distance of an unfielded ball determined the type of hit it was. Wall ball was similar, except it was played against the houses in the alley. Stick ball employed a rubber pimple ball or pink ball, along with a mop handle. It was played in the street with base running. First and third were car fenders or door handles. Home and second, manhole covers or other markers. Half ball was similar, except the ball was sliced in half and skimmed sidearm for the pitch.

Nightfall or intruders meant a “patrol.” If outsiders were on your turf, and this was known within minutes, there was no good reason for it. They were either there for a crime or “testing the defenses.” Had to be dealt with by our “gang.” It was our job. We were the White Buffalos. The origin of the name predated me, so I was never sure about the buffalo part. Incursions had to be dealt with vehemently to discourage future attempts by them or others.

By the same token, intra-turf crime was not tolerated, and was dealt with. The exception would be the local “family,” who ran the loan sharking, protection, daily number, book, etc. But, they also maintained the neighborhood and kept other thugs out. Cops walked beats then, but they were usually on the payroll of the family.

These were low income areas, but no one went without. If someone hit a really rough patch, neighbors showed up with food and clothing. We took care of our own.

Saturdays, adolescents would ride the subway downtown to hang out. You were taught to stand next to a pole while waiting for a train (so you could grab it in the event someone tried to throw you in front of one) and not make eye contact with anyone. My kids grew up in the suburbs of Cincinnati and were taught to look both ways before crossing a street. There are differences.

Saturdays were for women to go to the Italian Market, an area of street vendors selling all kinds of delectable cheeses, meats, pastas, etc. Men went to the barber shops to smoke cigars, place bets and discuss how badly the Phillies and Eagles stunk.

Sometimes, we would cut school and hop a train to New York City. We’d find our way from Penn Station to Greenwich Village and eyeball the beatniks. Created a yen for bongo drums. In warmer weather, you cut school to go down to the Jersey shore.

Weekend evenings were for dances. Huge ones with hundreds and hundreds of kids. Lots of girls and lots of fights.

And, of course, there was American Bandstand. The regulars (favorites of the television show viewers) always got in. Few others did. You had to ditch school to be at the head of the line to make it in. Worth doing once.

The tacit assumption was that everyone lived like this. When televisions became affordable, “Leave it to Beaver,” “Ozzie and Harriet,” etc. seemed like pure fiction. Wally went to school without a switchblade or gravity knife? I’m doubtin’ it.

Most of the neighborhoods are no more. At least, as we knew them. Italians, Slavs, Irish, etc. have been displaced by Orientals and Hispanics. Things change.

But, it’s nice to remember.

An early Father's Day present

A couple days before Father’s Day, I was early for an appointment. I’m always early. It just so happened to be at a company where my son works.

Might as well use the facilities off the lobby. As I was addressing the porcelain edifice, another man entered. After a few moments, he asked, “Are you Mr. Dorfman?”

Kind of a breach of restroom protocol, so I didn’t react immediately. Not like you can face the person or offer your hand. “Yes,” I finally murmured.

He introduced himself as the CEO of the company. “I guessed that because he looks like you.” Lucky him. “He’s quite a young man.”

“Yes, he gets a lot of that from his mother.” Fortunately for him.

“I have two children and I just hope they turn out that well.” An early Father’s day present.

I am grateful about how well my son and daughter have turned out, but they are my kids. It’s always a delight to receive unsolicited affirmation, which does occur with both of them.

Like many, I became a parent before I had fully matured. Some question as to whether that has yet to manifest itself. It’s always more than you think it will be. And, you’re never sure if you’re doing the right thing. You’re quite certain you’re neighbors aren’t with their offspring.

Things always vary from plan and you experience guilt. To be a parent is to feel guilt. Marketers know this and capitalize upon it. Encyclopedia sales have been notoriously based upon this. You owe to your child, don’t you? This is one of those opportunities you have to know for sure you’re doing the right thing for your child. Anti-cavity toothpaste and other genres also apply this tactic.

But, nothing is finite with parenthood, so you just do your best and hope for the best. And, sometimes, someone tells you that you did a great job. An early Father’s Day present.

When the going gets easy...

It had been my intent to close out that phase of my life, but I've still got the itch. I used to say that when the going gets tough, the tough may get going. But, when the going gets easy, the white knights split. Since then, "white knight" has apparently taken on a new connotation, as reflected in this chat room excerpt:

"If you go to nerd forums you see the same thing, only regarding women. They refer to it as "white knight" syndrome, whereby fat, sexless nerds go to insane lengths to defend the "honor" of the girls who hang out there (typically to attention-whore). Nerds make it even more blatant because they are so desperate for female acceptance, but it's really the same social signaling."

I'll have to find a new metaphor but, whatever you call it, the "itch" is that I've always enjoyed taking over a failing business, turning it around, and growing it into something significant. I also liked to start businesses, but the bigger the challenge of an existing organization in trouble, the more satisfaction there was in flipping it. Not that doing a start-up is a walk in the park.

A turnaround is risky and stressful. When I took one on about four years ago, I told myself it was a human service thing more than a business, but that didn't alter how I approached it. I also told myself it was my last quest. I gave myself two years to right it and then go on automatic pilot. The first part worked out. The second part; not so much. Hard to back off the throttle.

There had to be others who managed the trick, so I looked for success models. I found people who had sold off successful businesses they started or acquired and went into a different paradigm, like academia or government, or getting lost in a big corporation. That didn't seem to be the answer. Most were driven crazy by it. They didn't fit the mold.

Then, I saw a newspaper article about Ed. He had had several companies, although the article wasn't about that. However, it did reflect that he was out of that scene and had gone cold turkey. I called him and invited him to lunch. I wanted to know his secret. I wanted the answers.

He had none. He had remarried a couple years ago and part of the deal was that he divest himself of the business and the 55-hour weeks. Seemed like a good idea at the time. But, not now.

"I know myself," he said. "Which means, I know you, to some extent. It's like water skiing. If you're clipping right along, there may be things flying at you, but you're up. If there's no speed, you sink. Challenge, risk and stress isn't your problem. It's your air. Go find another challenge."

Maybe he did have the answer.

Yep, it's dem darn oil companies

Another urgent call from my bank with an "attractive" new plan. Attractive for them. I signed on for a special package in 1984 and they neglected to build in their option to alter the terms unilaterally. They've gotten smarter since, but it doesn't stop them from trying to lure me out of it.

Out of curiousity, I did some research on bank profitability. With fee proliferation, especially those skirting interest limitations, they've got to be making a pile. They are. Most reliable sources put bank profits at about 20%. The same sources peg oil companies at 9%.

So, we're outraged by the oil companies for "gouging" us, but not the banks? We wail about gasoline prices, but gladly pay more for bottled tap water?

Never let the facts get in the way of a good rant.