This wing's on fire

Alternate title: That time I worked with Cliff Clavin's understudy, and Aaron Sorkin collaborated with B.J. Novak to script our workday

I used to work in a room with three* interestingly quirky people. Age-wise, we ranged pretty evenly from early-20s to mid-50s. Each person had a unique background, a distinct personality, and each had vastly different outlooks on life, in general. They came from different parts of the country. One was career Navy, one is a Nostradamus enthusiast,** and one is a rocket scientist*** ... it was a motley crew of a melting pot and we spent most of each day writing intsall/removal procedures for everything you could find inside a customized Bombardier business jet. 

Anyway, the room's dynamic often provided the perfect environment for spirited discussions. Most of the following is verbatim—a few minutes-or-so into it, I knew it was going to be a keeper and I started transcribing as it was happening:

RAQUEL: I went to Fire on the Mountain yesterday!

WILL: Yes, you said that, this morning.

RAQUEL: No, I didn't.

WILL: Yeah, you had an Asian salad and said it was the best you've ever had.

RAQUEL: Have you ever had it?

WILL: No.

RAQUEL: You should. Just don't get celery. Celery is bad.

DARREL: Where did you go?

RAQUEL: Fire on the Mountain! It's a chicken-wing joint over on—

DARREL: You know, that's named after a movie with James Garner.

WILL: (silence).

RAQUEL: It's a Grateful Dead song.

DARREL: I don't know about that. Where is this place?

RAQUEL: East Burnside.

WILL: There's also one on North Interstate. But we had this conversation—almost verbatim—about 2 months ago.

DARREL: No. I wasn't here for that.

RAQUEL: Yes you were—we all watched the Dead's Fire on the Mountain video on You Tube.

DARREL: No, I wasn't here.

WILL: (silence, possibly a small face-palm).

RAQUEL: Yes you were, we all were, and we—.

DARREL: I don't think so.

WILL: Yeah, we were all here. I distinctly remember you telling me that "grateful dead" was a literary reference.

DARREL: What? Me? Are you sure?

RAQUEL and WILL (in unison): Yes.

DARREL: Well, it is a literary reference.

WILL: No, it’s not. And, seriously, we’ve already had this whole conversation. (I put my headphones back on).

Five minutes later:

DARREL: (getting my attention) I remember now! We were talking about Lynyrd Skynyrd.

WILL: Huh? 

DARREL: When I worked for Alamo Car Rental, I used to rent to Lynryd Skynryd whenever they came to town.

RAQUEL: No. No, we were definitely talking about the Grateful Dead.

WILL: Yeah, she's right.

DARREL: That's crazy! I know nothing about the Grateful Dead.

WILL: I know.

DARREL: Well, I know about the Jerry Garcia ice cream.

RAQUEL: Cherry Garcia.

DARREL: Yeah, I never understood that. But "Leonard Skinnard" was the name of one of the band member's wrestling coach in high school.

(I put my headphones back on)

Five minutes later:

DARREL: (getting my attention again and pointing to some Web page .pdf that has "Grateful Dead" written in the header) See, it's a literary reference.

WILL: Okay, fine ... but "grateful dead" was a dictionary entry that they randomly—totally arbitrarily—picked when—

DARREL: You mean "grateful" and "dead" . . . 2 different entries.

WILL: No.

DARREL: Oh, you mean, it's one entry?!

WILL: Yes.

DARREL: So it is a literary reference.

WILL: Okay. 
(I knew he was all kinds of wrong, and I wanted so badly to keep challenging his mind-numbing illogic, but this conversation was already exhausting—especially since it was the second time around.)

DARREL: Yeah, I don't want to come off as some kind of "poseur." ****

WILL: No, Darrel, it's all good.

DARREL: Do you know where the term rip off came from? I know approximately when it was first said and who first said it: See, in the 15th century, when the vikings . . .

(I put my headphones back on before he could finish the sentence.)

* Tim was the fourth person, and I'm sure he's grateful to have missed this entire episode.
** Seriously. Actually a self-proclaimed expert and unpublished author. He is a hardcore Nostradamus (and other "futurists") type of guy. You know the kind. Or perhaps you don't. But you get the picture.
*** Also seriously. Aeronautical engineering degree.
**** Yes, he did the air quotes when he said it.

Do you remember the first time?

Alternate title: Half-lies, the Holly Theatre, and Sweet Home Alabama

"Where were you when you first heard this song?" I heard her ask, as I wandered in. She and her coworker had AC/DC's You Shook Me All Night Long turned up loud in the otherwise-empty neighborhood shoppe.* 

I'd walked up from my house on this gorgeously Portland sunny, June, Thursday evening, mainly for some exercise and to kill some time. At first, I didn't realize she was talking to me (and not to her coworker).

"I don't know ... This was off Back in Black, right?" I didn't wait for an answer. "Whenever that came out—I was probably in grade school. Why?"

"Didn't you just immediately know, like, how great it was?!" 

My situational awareness suddenly kicked in. I was (at least) 20 years older than both young ladies in the room.

"Yeah," I half-lied.  (While AC/DC is musically important, nothing song-specific was particularly life-changing for me.)**

"1980," she said, looking up from her phone.

"Oh, I was in junior high," I said, feeling super-studly that I wasn't that old—and then immediately realizing I was absolutely that old.

"I wish I'd been alive then," she said, unwittingly twisting the knife another quarter-turn. "That would have been so cool! There was, like, so much good music back then!"

Cut to the following night: I was visiting my good friends, the Lammers' (Kurt and Megan), and a never-ending string of 1980s videos ran in the background all evening. For some reason, so many of them sparked oddly-specific memories. Actually, that's not that odd. The point is, I chose this night to articulate them:

• Tainted Love and Fascination—I was introduced to both these songs while working with a classmate on the playlist  for our 8th grade semi-formal.***

• Steve Miller's Abracadabra—everyone was talking about it at school one day, and I remember laying out in the backyard after school, with a radio, waiting for the song  to come on KBOY. I probably heard it a half-dozen times that afternoon-evening because, well, that's how radio works. I probably also tape-recorded it off the radio that day.**** (For the record: this song is so horrible, on so many levels.)

• Journey Escape (or E5C4P3, as it appeared on the album cover). Yes, the whole album. Christmas day, 1982. 

And blah, blah, blah. Anyway, after having painfully bored Kurt and Megan with these (and several more) stories, I continued reminiscing as I drove home, thinking about how music can trigger things in the brain's deeper recesses. That's when a familiar riff belted out of my 1997 Acura CL's stock speakers ... It was Sweet Home Alabama. 


I'd normally dismiss this iconic Lynyrd Skynyrd cut because of its decades' of over-saturation and commercial, crossover appeal.  But something stuck in my craw. I almost can't remember not knowing this song. How could that be? I grew up in Medford, OR, where, at that time, the aforementioned KBOY's top-40 format was the only alternative to country or classical on the FM dial. SHA broke big in 1974, and of course re-surged years later, but I felt like I knew this tune from the years in between. Then it hit me.

It was 1978, I was 10 or 11 years old. I wasn't musically illiterate (thanks mostly to my friends' older siblings), but I'd barely discovered the radio. I had, however, discovered movies.

I was with (I'm pretty sure) Tommy Gilsdorf, at the Holly Theatre, for a matinee. The movie ... it might have been Grease ... it might have been Heaven Can Wait ... it could have been Hooper (!)—I don't remember, it's not terribly germane to this story.

Instead of the obligatory previews or cartoons, they showed a short film/documentary about a band. As I recall, the only take-away for a couple of  5th-or-so graders was in the closing credits, where they explained that 26 people (including four band members) died when their plane crashed in a "swampy forest." There was also a song with a catchy refrain, simplistic enough, turns out, for an otherwise disinterested kid to remember.

A few weeks later, I heard Sweet Home Alabama on something—perhaps the radio, or it could have been one of those old TV ads for some fantabulous compilation album (like  K-Tel's  Music Express!) I don't remember. But I distinctly remember connecting the dots back to that mostly-boring rockumentary (a term that didn't yet exist).

I was so excited, I called Tommy.

"I just heard that song ... you 'member from that preview movie?"

"What?" he (probably) asked.

"You know, that song that goes, "Sweet home Al-bama ..." from that thing we watched about the band that got killed in a plane crash in the swamp?"

"Yeah," he half-lied. (As I recall, he either he didn't really remember or didn't care.)

"Okay, bye." That was how phone conversations went back then.***** Regardless, I was so proud of myself for recognizing the song—it felt very adult, or at least very teenager-y. The song has always held a special place in my life's playlist, but until a few weeks ago, I couldn't remember exactly why.

Does anyone else remember seeing this short film, as a preview before a late-1970s movie?! Apparently, it was somehow a Pepsi commercial (from a time when presumably ads lasted 15 minutes and barely mentioned the product name). I don't think I saw it ever again. And I don't think I've ever even heard anyone speak of it. But sure enough, You Tube remembered it:

For years, while I knew Sweet Home Alabama (and later, Gimme Three Steps, which still makes me chuckle every time I hear it), I'd pretend I knew the legendary band and their music way better than I did. I don't think I ever heard an entire Free Bird until post-college. I didn't fully appreciate or understand Skynyrd (or any Southern rock, at all, for that matter) till probably 20 years later.****** Truth be told, upon finally re-watching this short film, I gained more trivial knowledge and even more appreciation for the band. But that song strangely hooked me at an early age.

Anyway, returning to where this journey started: I finished my browsing, made a small purchase, and was about to leave the shoppe.*******

"The Beatles would have been so cool, like, you know, in real time?" said my new, young, music friend. I'm not sure whether it was a statement or a question.

"Uh, you know I'm not that old, right?"

"Yeah," she half-lied.

* In your head, you pronounced that "shop-pee," didn't you?  I know Jeff Cervantez did. (And Jeff, I know you also mentally added a "ye old-dee" in front ... and then said "ye old-dee shop-pee" out loud to further your amusement).

** Although, hearing Hell's Bells blast from an ominously dark Beta House as we returned from freshman study tables that one winter night might arguably be considered life-changing.

***  Where I mostly ignored my (out-of-my-league) date—Teresa Clark—under the guise of having utterly vital Student Council/DJ duties, coming off the stage only for a slow-dance song. No, I don't remember the song.  Also, I was super-busy avoiding Mom, who was a parent-chaperone for the dance. 

**** We didn't need no iTunes back then. The radio was our Napster. I was going to say more here, but had to yell at some damned kids to get off my lawn and forgot what I was going to write.

***** Today, of course, my phone convo's—on the rare occasion that I actually answer my phone—are much shorter. 

****** Maybe it wasn't until even later, when I met a particularly pretty Southerner who schooled me in the Southbound ways of the Allmans, Skynyrd, the Marshall Tucker Band, and the like. (Note, for the record, that .38 Special is not included by name and should not be inferred as part of "and the like.")

********Shop-pee. See—you did it this time.

Thanksgiving with my always-amusing family, Jackie Gleason, Frank Sinatra, and a King

Alternate title: I love my Mom. And my Uncle. 

Just before Thanksgiving dinner, I noticed my favorite* uncle slink out the front door for some air or something. I not-so-stealthily followed him out in the chilly November evening. I always enjoy his candid insights into our amusing and interesting family gatherings. Whether it be relevant to the situation, or not. Somehow, Frank Sinatra's** name came up, which reminded him of a story.***

He began telling me how a 29-year old, relatively unknown Larry King, who had a three-hour, local, night-time radio show in LA, somehow connected with Jackie Gleason. Gleason apparently liked King and invited him to his house for dinner.

So Larry King arrives at Gleason's house for dinner.  It's not a star-studded event, just some of his non-celeb friends (doctors and businessmen and their wives) over for an evening of good food, drink, and cheer. During dinner, Gleason asks each guest to give him a seemingly impossible challenge—something he apparently did often, just to see if he might be able to perform the impossible or just impress people with the power of being an A-Lister. The doctors ask for medical miracles—synthetic blood, for example—and the business folks ask for similar things that probably sounded outlandish, especially for the time. Gleason just nods to each request, as if to say, "Okay, I'll see what I can do." 

It finally gets around to young Larry King. He has nothing. He finally says he wishes he could interview Frank Sinatra on the air, live, for 30 minutes. Now, this was 1964 and Frank Sinatra was at the height of fame and prestige, and he was not giving any interviews at the time, especially not to a no-name kid on a local LA station. To put this in perspective, creating synthetic blood that cured cancer was a more likely stunt Gleason could pull off than getting Ol' Blue Eyes to sit down with Suspender Boy. Anyway, King finishes his request, still thinking the whole exercise might be just a game that Gleason plays with his dinner guests.

"Done." Gleason says.  

King can't even muster a response and looked awkwardly at his host.

"Consider it done," says Gleason. "End of conversation." 

Astounded, Larry King, thanks him. He still doesn't know whether to believe him (and wonders if Gleason will even remember).

The next day, he tells his station manager that he thinks he's landed Sinatra for a 30 minute interview. 

The station goes nuts—they run promos, 24/7, telling Southern Californians to tune into the then-unknown Larry King's Monday night show, at 9 pm. They even take out a full-page ad in the LA Times. 

When Monday night finally arrived, every radio station employee, from execs to janitors, was lurking about the studio. People were lined up outside, just hoping for a glimpse.

8:30: No sign of Sinatra.

8:45: No Sinatra. People are getting nervous. 

8:55: Still no Sinatra, no phone call, no nothing  ... they begin scrambling to make up something to do for 30 minutes and to come up with an excuse for the false advertising.

8:59: Limo pulls up to front door; Sinatra beelines for studio, and is seated in front of the mic at exactly 9:00 p.m.

Sinatra not only honors the 30 minute commitment, but he stays for the entire 3 hours, giving an absolutely once-in-a-lifetime, completely endearing interview that ultimately helps springboard Larry King to national prominence. 

King and Sinatra in 1989, recounting that night in 1964.

Sinatra later explains that several years before, he'd come down with laryngitis on the night he was supposed to play some big gig in New York City. He called Jackie Gleason at the last minute and Gleason went on for him and absolutely killed it with his comedy. Sinatra asked him what he could do to thank and repay him. Gleason said "You owe me nothing, but I will ask you for a favor in the future and you will oblige." So, years later, Gleason called in his chips with Sinatra for an unknown, 29-year-old radio kid with giant glasses. 

Toots Shor, Sinatra, and Gleason in New York City, circa 1960-something

It was an interesting, touching story. But it was cold outside. And it was time to go back in to eat our Thanksgiving feast.

So now we're back inside Jen's wonderful new house, getting seated for dinner. Someone wanted to go around the room and have each person stand up and say what they are thankful for. This is a typical #quistmountyerkovichfergusonstiner family Thanksgiving, so it's important to understand that around 30 people (aged from 8 to 97) are gathered around tables. And I'm hungry, sitting there with a plate full of food and thinking this is going to be hellishly drawn out—it's all going to be super-genuine and deeply-heartfelt (and probably worth it), but it will lack much variation. After the first two toasts to how wonderful our family and our Thanksgiving traditions are****, my uncle gets up and walks to the middle of the room, presumably to be heard clearly by all three tables.

Imagine the food is cooked, the room is packed, and all three tables are in the picture. That way, you get a better visual of the situation. 

He proceeds to tell the entire Gleason-King-Sinatra story, which takes slightly longer than it did with me, just prior. As he begins to finish the peculiar tale, even he now realizes this story has absolutely nothing to do with our pre-dinner "thankful toasts" and he somehow—brilliantly—wraps it up with something about how you never give up hope, and good things happen to good people,  and we all should be thankful for good people and good families. I'm cringing a little—thoroughly amused, but still in mid-cringe. However, though mostly confused, everyone thought it was a wonderful and interesting story, which it was. (And it effectively put an end to everyone else's "thankful" toast, which I was quietly celebrating.)

He makes his way back to his seat. As he's sitting down, my Mom gets her brother's attention from directly across the table.

"George, that was just such a wonderful story!" she said, with a tinge of emotion, pride, etc. "But who is this Jerry King guy?!"

* No disrespect to the memory of my other uncles; sadly, none of whom, though, are still with us.  

** Not a family member.

*** I did not fact-check this story and may have taken the liberty of filling in some blanks, but that's not at all the point of this blog piece. I wrote it, based on how I heard it on Thanksgiving night.  If you're interested in the official version, here it is:Gleason, King, and Sinatra

**** It truly is something special. That's not the point.  I was hungry.

Memorial Day 2015

Alternate title: My family, Sally, Sweet Pete, and the Cemetery Gates 

Memorial Day  weekend started for me around noon, last Saturday. But the Memorial Day 2015 story began about a year ago, in 2014, at Joe's Burgers and Bar. I was sitting at the bar with Sally,* enjoying happy hour drinks and eats (and probably also awaiting a to-go order for her to take home to her mother), which seemed to coincidentally happen with semi-regularity. 

"Pete's birthday is next weekend, you should go with me," Sally says.

"Who's Pete?"  I ask.

"My great, great  friend—we were even housemates at U of O. I love Pete, he's so great! Sweet Pete!! You'll have a great time!" 

"Ummmm ...  why would I go to Pete's birthday?  And why exactly would I have a great time?"

"Because he's awesome, Will!" 

"You'll have to at least try something better than that—I'm sure he's awesome if you say so ... but that's not the hook I'm looking for." I was always skeptical of Sally's intentions. Wrongly skeptical, as it always turned out; but I was skeptical, nonetheless. 

"Garcia Birthday Band is playing. You'll have a great time."

"Where?"

"Southeast."

"Southeast? So are we talking inner southeast ... or like east Gresham/west Sandy? Or like Georgia or South Carolina?"

"I don't know,  I think it's by Reed College."

"It? What's the venue called?"

"It's his house. GBB will be there. You'll have a good time and I'm planning to go with you."

"Okay, I'm probably in." Even as I said that, I thought the odds of me actually going were slim. Either I'd forget, or she would. (Again, I had a long history of badly misreading and miscalculating Sally).

"You're in, Will. Plan on it." She made sure we made eye contact as she spoke.

The following Saturday (which was also the summer solstice), I pick Sally up at 6. Her brother, Chipper, happens to be in town and it takes awhile for us to leave the house, which is a completely insignificant part of this story. We finally get out the door and head toward I-84 East.

"So, wait, whose birthday is this again, and who might I know here?"

"Pete's—Sweet Pete!—my college friend. We lived together, Will! You might know some people—I don't know who."

We arrive. Cool, nice house, right on Eastmoreland Golf Course. Charming neighborhood. The makeshift entrance was a kind of tarp-and-tent setup that looked like any other outdoor event at a temp venue. But it didn't have that "big event" type feel (which would've been inappropriate, anyway).

Garcia Birthday Band is playing. But not many people are  there. It's early, but it still felt like a family picnic—groups of teens and pre-teens were scattered about the perimeter, yet keeping to themselves—they clearly had no interest in the music/party, but were digging that their parents were occupied (which brought back some instant childhood memories).

Sally introduces me to Birthday Boy Pete. He's all festive, clad in tie-dye. Seems like a good dude and already I can tell he knows how to throw himself a party. I also know what another friend paid GBB to play at his gala birthday event, and given the relatively few people here, I'm a little confused about Peter and this party. He says he has to go, but says to enjoy myself and have a good time. Then I meet his wife—gorgeous gal, decked out in a hippie-ish sundress. I meet another Sally friend, Clark, whom I've met several times before. Other than that, I knew nobody. 

GBB had been playing Must Have Been the Roses since we walked in. It sounded good, but not great—like something was missing. I finally gravitate toward the makeshift stage and notice there was no rhythm guitarist in this ensemble. Some guy, though, with his back to the crowd, was hunched over and plugging in and whatnot. Probably the rhythm guitarist, but I didn't stop to process it. I start groovin' to the music and checking out the still-sparse group of guests. The rhythm guitarist finally starts playing and turns around to face the crowd.

It was Peter.

So, it's not like "Sweet Pete" got GBB to play for his birthday, he was GBB** and he was playing at his own house. Anyway, they ripped until about 10 p.m.,with only about a 30-minute set break. It was incredibly fun. There might have been 50-75 people there, the whole night. The NFA>GDTRFB closer felt almost like a private serenade. It was surprisingly special. (As if it might have been my birthday.) Everyone I met was pretty cool. Peter and Jill Bach were extremely gracious hosts and by all accounts (first- and second-hand), are good, solid people. It was a fun, kind crowd. Plus there was Tang:

So we left around 11. The drive home was a typical ride with Sally. I drove while she turned up the music and opened all windows and started calling people. I don't think I ever drove anywhere with Sally without her calling her friend Cindy and/or talking with her other brother, Scott. Always on speaker phone. Which is amusing in retrospect, but I'm sure it was annoying in real-time for everyone involved. But that was Sally.

As we turned up from Macadam Ave. to Taylor's Ferry Rd., Sally blurts out, "I want to see my Dad!"

"What?!" 

"Pull over, up here, to the right, I want to see my Dad. Now!" 

I had no idea where this was going, but even though I was driving, I knew I had little choice in this itinerary audible.

We pulled over at Riverview Cemetery and parked. 

"Come on, Will, follow me," Sally said, as she leapt from my car. 

We walked back to the Trillium building and peered through the glass, where her father rests in peace, just inside the locked door.

She took a personal moment of silence, and then I told her that my Dad was also right there, about 12 feet away. In all the time I'd known her, this had never come up. 

We then found ourselves at the Crap Bowl*** on Barbur Blvd,  where I karaoke'd for the first time, ever. I sang Mama Tried, which seemed appropriate (we'd been listening to Dead tunes all evening and Merle Haggard had performed at the Zoo, that same night) ... and the lyrics and song are relatively simple. (Sorry, no video proof, but I killed it—or at least Sally made me think I did.)

After several drinks in that hellhole-of-an-upstairs bar that is now partially condemned, we wound up at Sally's for 2:00 a.m. hashbrown-bacon-onion-sour cream-and-ketchup feast that was beyond necessary and obscenely satisfying. Sally could cook, whether it be baking pies and desserts, gourmet meals, or the heavenly type of food that is so tasty at the end of the night. She cooked the way she did most everything else—loudly, flamboyantly-with-a-sense-of-ordered-chaos, but successfully on all levels.

So anyway, getting back to more of the present-day Memorial Day story ... last Saturday, I met my aunts (Marybeth and Olga) and my cousins (Lorene and Jennifer) to continue a generations-old family tradition of visiting our family members' grave sites on Memorial Day. Half of our deceased family lies at Riverview, and the other half lies among the gypsies at Rose City Cemetery in NE Portland. 

We met at Riverview and visited the outside family plots and arranged flowers. Mostly, the Kuzman branch of the family tree is settled out here. 

Then we went inside to visit Uncle Lon and my Dad. 

As we entered the Trillium building, I shared the story about how Sally's dad's digs were just a dozen feet from Dad's space. Since I wasn't going to make it out to Sally's cemetery, I dropped a couple of Dad's flowers in Mr. Vesley's vase–an impromptu gesture that seemed appropriate at the time. In retrospect, it might have been a little weird, but I bet all three of them somehow understood and nodded with approval.

Then it was off to Rose City Cemetery, where we were joined by my Uncle George and Aunt Jeanne to garnish the Yerkovich's (and others) with memorial bouquets. The Gypsies had apparently taken the day off.

The four lovely ladies and I capped off the afternoon at Stanich's on Fremont, which is also a family tradition, of sorts.****

Aunt Olga, Lorene, Jen, and  Aunt Marybeth enjoying our post-memorializing lunch. Coincidentally, a certain burnt orange and maroon pennant hangs in the top-center background—perhaps appropriately appearing in a photo of my favorite ladies. 

So, that's my Memorial Day story. It was a pleasant Saturday, full of love, sadness, joy, and memories. 

On Sunday, I woke up with pneumonia. 

-------------------

* This might be the first of many posts that include reference to full or partial Sally adventures. The world lost a (often brazenly) shining spirit and I lost a great friend, when  she died unexpectedly from a brain aneurysm on Labor Day weekend, 2014. 

**  Peter Bach, at the time, wasn't a Garcia Birthday Band member. But he is now a full-time, first-string, GBB rhythm guitarist and vocalist. He's killing it, and has an impressive musical resume - the latter of which I was oblivious to at the time, but probably should have known. At the time, I was just pleasantly surprised and confused.

***Yep, that was an intentional typo.

****Perhaps a controversial family tradition, depending upon whom you ask ...