Watch Out For The Trombone

Samuel Taylor Coleridge wrote, “Swans sing before they die---t’were no bad thing did certain persons die before they sing.”

The world is filled with unsuccessful singing careers, but many of those vocalists, with hope in their hearts and unrealistic expectations, continue to pollute the air with unpleasant sounds.

Two weeks ago, I attended a big band concert with my two best friends. The band was most entertaining, and the talented soloists made my heart sing. I enjoyed the evening immensely, until the bandleader announced that we were in for a big surprise. Ever since Pearl Harbor, I don’t like surprises. This one was a big man, who walked onto the stage without bending his knees—kind of like a mini-march. He stood in front of one of the trombonists, jerked his shoulders from side to side, snapped his fingers, and put the microphone into his mouth. Either he was going to swallow the thing, or sing.

I had driven several miles, paid good money to listen to a big band. Putting Herman Munster into the mix was like sticking a maraschino cherry into a dry martini. As he began to sing, the guys in the band were grooving and didn’t seem to pay much attention to the warbler. It would have been nice if this singer had at least pretended to keep up with them.

His performance reminded me of when George Burns said, “I love to sing, and I love to drink scotch. Most people would rather hear me drink scotch.” When the vocalist belted out “It’s almost like being in love,” he should have sung,” It’s almost like being alive.”

During one song, I think the trombonist stabbed him in the rear, but instead of bleeding, he pointed to the sky and hit a high note. The man had no rapport with the audience. As a matter of fact, he was so enamored with his own performance that he forgot there was an audience. My thoughts began to wander, but he got my attention when he snapped his fingers and shouted, “Come on Band!” I don’t know why he yelled at them because by this time they seemed to be doing just fine without him.

It was time for intermission. One of my friends (the kind one) suggested, “Maybe the singer is suffering from stage fright.” I replied, “Sometimes an entertainer has stage fright, but this is the first time I’ve seen an entire audience afraid that the guy is coming back out to sing.”

I read somewhere that music can make chickens lay more eggs, but I know chickens, and this character couldn’t even imitate a good cock-a-doodle-doo. After the break, the band returned and Herman Munster staggered in behind them. He had one more offering for the audience. He began to sing, “What a day this has been”---as if I didn’t know by now. He then beat his chest with both fists when he belted out—“A bell is ringing for me!” Scattered applause accompanied him off the stage. “Ask not for whom the bell tolls”---and all that stuff.

To paraphrase Thomas Beecham, “Some people don’t appreciate music, but love the noise it makes.”

Esther Blumenfeld (“Listen Edith, I know you’re singing, you know you’re singing, but the neighbors may think I’m torturing you.”) Archie Bunker

Thar She Blows

I don’t lose my temper often. As a matter of fact, in my adult life, I can think of only five times that I’ve let off steam, and I know it involved bullying, which I abhor. I remember that losing my temper felt pretty good at the time, until remorse set in over my loss of self-control.

When I was a child, I once lost my temper and it caused me great suffering. I was in fourth grade, walking home from school, when a big 7^th grade boy confronted me, and called me a “Dirty German!” A bit of history is necessary at this point of the story. When I was a toddler, my family and I escaped the Nazis by the skin of our teeth, and we loved the United States of America as only formerly persecuted immigrants can. So, when I was called a “Dirty German,” I stared up at my tormenter, made a fist, closed my eyes and screaming, “I am an American,” swung my fist as high as I could, and connected with his nose.

Everything went silent. Even the birds ceased chirping. I opened my eyes. The big boy had disappeared. Then I looked at my little dress and saw that I was covered with blood. I had killed him! But where was the body? It began to rain, and by the time I got home, I was soaked. Luckily the rain had washed away much of the evidence. I threw the dress into the bathroom hamper, told my mother that I had killed somebody and went to bed. Mother was upset that I didn’t want any dinner, but thought it was just another story told by her weird child, and assured me that I hadn’t killed anyone, because I was too short. I dreamed about the electric chair.

The next day, when I arrived at school, I spied the not-so-dead boy at his locker. His nose was a bit swollen, but otherwise he looked okay. I was so relieved that he was alive that I ran over to give him a hug, but he yelled, “You stay away from me.” So I did. On second thought, I decided that I didn’t want to hug him anyway.

I also remember losing my temper when I was twenty-five years old. My husband and I were visiting my parents, who lived in a small town in Indiana. They had a meeting to attend, so my husband and I went to dinner at the one nice restaurant in town. Our waitress was a woman with whom I had attended high school. In our yearbook, she was voted, “The most popular girl in the class.” Now she was a single mother, raising a young son, waiting tables in the small town she had never left.

We chatted a bit about days gone by, when suddenly the door opened and four boisterous men, who smelled of beer, entered the restaurant and plopped down at the table next to ours. They began to insult and hassle my former classmate, who avoided their groping hands while she took their order. I remembered that she had always excelled in Dodge Ball in P.E. class.

When she went into the kitchen to place their orders, I turned to them and said,  “The four of you owe that woman an apology. How would you feel if she was your mother, and four buffoons came in and hassled her? That woman is working hard to raise a child on her own. You jerks should be ashamed of yourselves, and you need to make up for your rotten behavior. Give her a big tip and straighten up!” Then I noticed their Notre Dame Football jerseys and added the coup de gras, “God is watching you!” Which I thought was a really good touch.

The men fell silent. I turned back to my table and noticed that my husband had slid down so far in his chair that he was practically under the table. “There are four of them,” he hissed. “I can’t take on four drunken Notre Dame football fans.” “Well,” I responded, I know how to make a bloody nose or two.” That didn’t console him at all.

When the waitress returned with their orders, the four men were perfect gentlemen. They said “Please” and “Thank You” in their best Altar Boy voices. She didn’t know what had happened, but was obviously pleased. My husband was so relieved that he wouldn’t be beaten to a pulp that he also left a big tip, and the “bloody nose” remark gave him something to think about for the next 40 years.

Esther Blumenfeld (A push too far. Not a pretty sight)

I Like You---Or Not!

There is a certain person who is always going to dislike you. It is a fact of life. Get over it! My philosophy is, “Go ahead and detest me. Just be quiet about it.”

I had a conversation with a clinical psychologist at a party. He said, “It’s a given that people like to be liked.” He also said, “A baby goose will follow the first creature that is nice to it.” I responded, “You are probably aware that some people don’t like psychologists.” “Yes,” he replied. “I have experienced that.” “So,” I said. “Have you ever considered becoming a goose-herd?” He started talking to someone else. Finding people boring is not the same as disliking them. I can escape into my own happy thoughts while they drone on and on.

Some people dislike their own body parts. If they dislike enough of them, they then end up loathing themselves. Why do that, when there are plenty of people around who are willing to do it for you?

Children are very good at manipulation when they are being reprimanded. Often, they will say, “You don’t love me.” That is the opportunity to teach the difference between love and like. “I love you, but I don’t like what you did. Lunch boxes are for sandwiches, not for hitting Johnny in the head.”

With computers, you can be instantly “friended” or “un-friended” on Facebook, and you don’t even have to know those people, before they decide to dislike you.

Some people make snap judgments when they first meet someone. They don’t know why they dislike that person, but it’s a “gut feeling.” Of course, if he’s holding a gun and demands your wallet, the snap judgment is acceptable.

I prefer when people I dislike are far away. I don’t wish them bad. I just wish them distance.

Entertainers have their own likes and dislikes. My friend, Robert Orben, who wrote for Red Skelton told me that, when on stage, Skelton couldn’t stand it when a member of the audience wasn’t enjoying his act. One evening he noticed a man sitting in the front row who wasn’t laughing, even though the rest of the audience was rolling in the aisles with laughter. So, Skelton played directly to that man. The fellow never cracked a smile. Dejected, Red Skelton came off stage and said, “What’s wrong with that guy? I gave him my best.” Later it was discovered that the man didn’t speak English.

Elizabeth Taylor hated to be called “Liz,” and Whoopi Goldberg said, “Most of all,  I dislike this idea nowadays that if you’re a black person in America, then you must be called African-American. Listen, I’ve visited Africa, and I’ve got news for everyone. I’m not an African.”

The extreme of dislike is hatred and bigotry. Bigots are really good at disliking people. It’s a dirty job, but I guess someone’s got to do it. I always say that you know that you aren’t a bigot, if you dislike someone for the right reason, such as; “He’s an ass!”

The best advice I can offer is to be happy in front of people who don’t like you. It will drive them crazy.

Esther Blumenfeld (“He has all of the virtues I dislike and none of the vices I admire.” Winston Churchill)

Out Of This World

In October 1959, the television series, The Twilight Zone premiered. Produced and written by Rod Serling, the program featured well-written science fiction, paranormal, futuristic and Kafkaesque-like stories, which usually had a surprise ending with a moral attached.

I hadn’t thought of the show for a long time, until I read that American Airlines had to cancel 44 Boeing-757 flights, because seats on their planes came unbolted, and suddenly developed minds of their own. Passengers were treated to a wild ride---the only free activity on the airplane.

My favorite show on The Twilight Zone was “Nightmare at 20,000 Feet.” The actor, William Shatner was the only passenger on an airplane who saw a gremlin out of his window. The creature was slowly destroying the wing of the plane. Whenever Shatner tried to get others to see the gremlin, the dang thing ducked out of view. Shatner was finally taken off the plane in a straight jacket, but at the very end of the show, someone did notice the damaged wing.

People might question my sanity, if I told them that my seat arrived at my destination before I did. Often the truth is stranger than fiction. I have heard flight attendants say, “Be careful opening up overhead compartments, because luggage can shift in flight,” but I have never heard a flight attendant say, ”Be careful that your seat doesn’t run over somebody before we land.”

I recently read a book about the brilliant scientist, Galileo. Some credit him as “The Father of modern science.” He supported the Copernican theory that the earth revolves around the sun---not that the sun circles around the earth. For this and other scientific discoveries, the Roman Inquisition (1615) branded him a heretic.

One of the paragraphs in the U.S. Constitution begins with the words, “To promote the Progress of Science—.” However, once again, we seem to be entering the Twilight Zone. Some of the elected officials sitting on the Congressional Committee of Science, Space and Technology would have been very good at the Inquisition.

Paul Broun, a congressman from Georgia said that, “embryology, the big bang theory and evolution are lies straight from Hell.” I wonder if he can dial direct.

Representative Ralph Hall from Texas voted to cut funds for scientific research. He said, “I think we should listen to the scientists, but not do anything,” which he is very good at doing.

Dana Rohrabacher, a congressman from California said that, “Before the introduction of cattle, millions and millions of buffalo inhabited the Great Plains, and global warming came from buffalo flatulence.” He also said that before that, past swings in climate came from dinosaur flatulence. Mr. Rohrabacher is big on hot air and gave a really long speech about the subject.

The fourth member of note on the Science Committee is Representative Todd Aiken of the, “If it’s a legitimate rape, the female body can shut the whole thing down,” branch of scientific thoughtlessness.

If Rod Serling were still around, he’d explain it this way:

“There is a fifth dimension, beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man’s fears and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination. It is an area which we call the Twilight Zone.”

Oh, for the good old days when the earth was flat!

Esther Blumenfeld (“Infinity is still beyond me.” What’s So Funny About Science? by Sidney Harris)

A Friend Indeed

My mother once told me that I couldn’t go outside to play because it was too dark outside. Nighttime was the only opportunity I had to collect fireflies, so her admonition made no sense to me. I plaintively said, “Mary Lou’s mother lets her play outside when it’s dark.” Whereupon my mother replied, “If your friend, Mary Lou jumped off a bridge, would you jump after her?” I thought about it, and then said, “No, but I’d miss her a lot!

Of course, as the years passed, I lost track of adventuresome, Mary Lou. But I’ve managed to form other friendships along the way, and happily now I can play outside any time I want---with or without fireflies.

Americans use the term, “friend,” very freely. Just sit next to someone on a long flight to Timbuktu, and by the time you land, you will have become best buddies.

A few years ago, I was invited to give a talk to a group in Florida. The woman who introduced me did a credible job, but ended her introduction by saying, “Now I am pleased to present my good friend, Esther.” That was warm and folksy, however I still have no idea who she was.

When my second play, UNDER MIDWESTERN STARS was accepted for production at the Kansas City Repertory Theatre in 2007, the Producing Artistic Director, Peter Altman, came to Tucson to meet me and discuss the play. Before we parted company, he asked me a strange question. He said, “Do your friends think of you as a playwright?” I thought about it and replied, “No, my friends think of me as a friend.”  It took a long time for me to understand why he had asked me that question. I think he was asking, “How do you consider yourself in relationship to others?” Peter is a very clever man, and now I am sure that he was really asking, “How big is your ego?”

The rise of social networking websites has diluted the traditional meaning of “friend.” Now all you have to do is to get on “The List.” You don’t even have to know the other people.

Here’s how I define a friend:

  1.   Someone who steals a book from your library, and returns it six months later because he needs his lawnmower.

2.    Someone who isn’t related to you by birth but relates in ways that really count.

3.    Someone who realizes that a conversation takes more than one person.

4.    Someone who knows when to be there and when to back off, and

5.    Someone who laughs with me---not at me.

 George Carlin said it best: “One good reason to only maintain a small circle of friends is that three out of four murders are committed by people who knew the victim.” 

 Women need their women friends and a telephone. Men are different. As Jeff Foxworthy so aptly put it: “Once we become friends with another man, we may never say another word to him, unless it’s valuable information that needs to be exchanged. Things like, ‘Hey, Jim, your shirt’s on fire.”’

 Of course, men and women can be friends. You don’t always have to be on the same wavelength, you just have to develop selective hearing and give a knowing nod. Just be careful when you are asked a direct question such as, “Do these jeans make me look fat?” It’s always good to answer, “Oh My God! I’ve got something in my eye,” and then lock yourself in the bathroom until the next day.

 Esther Blumenfeld (I have no old friends---just friends of long standing)