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 ... 

The birth of this blog  

Alternate title: The Lucky Lab: worst place on the planet?   

A few years ago, I met with some good friends to brainstorm a blog partnership-collaboration. Tim and Jeff are both talented writers; while we share many likes and have several other commonalities, we each bring a unique dish to our blogospheric table—not to be confused with the real, literal table at the Lucky Labrador Public House, in Multnomah Village, on a beautiful NW summer evening, where this meeting took place. 

I love Portland, maybe even more than ever, but the Lucky Lab (a.k.a. the Dirty Spaniel*) is nearly a perfect microcosm of all that I loathe about the City of Roses. I can't prove that the service is as intentionally bad as it is routinely bad, but the Lab can make McMenamins seem like a world-class hospitality and efficiency operation. It's also unnecessarily expensive. Almost everyone there (workers and patrons, alike) is laughably hipster, millennial-slacker, or some other form of extra-douchey.** The scene is not completely degenerate, though, like say, Cactus Jack's is, but it seems like it should be a classier joint that might feebly attempt to provide a nice customer experience. It makes little-to-no attempt. And people clearly don't care, it's usually packed. The other thing is that someone's dog might sidle up next to you and lick-taste your food if you turn your head for a second. 

Photo not taken at the Lucky Lab, but here's what a dog on a picnic table might look like.

Since it was unreasonable for a server to take our order, I went inside to grab a beverage. I waited in an agonizing line and finally reached the front. (Meanwhile, this was the first time Tim and Jeff had met; even though I knew they'd probably click, my history of friend circle-mixing is horribly unsuccessful, so I was a little concerned about being stuck in line while they chatted outside.) Anyway, Skyler,*** the 20-something hipster-millennial girl behind the counter gave me a blank stare—as if she's programmed to not  speak until another voice activates her.  I glanced up at the giant chalkboard beverage menu.  

Me: Um, hi; are these all ales?

Skyler: What?

Me: Everything you have on tap - are they all ales?

Skyler: You mean beers?

Me: What? ... Yeah, I don't really like ales and just wanted to know—

Skyler: Oh, 'cause they're too heavy or dark or—

Me: Yeah, ... just not a fan, generally.

Skyler: Totally understand  .. sure, we have a really good IPA.

Me: Doesn't the A stand for ale?

Skyler. Of course! 

Me: I'll have a cider.

So, I took my cider to the outdoor picnic table. Jeff and Tim seemed to be hitting it off famously, and we all proceeded to scheme our masterpiece of a blog that would likely change the entire Internet in 2013. We were energized and ambitious, even setting some tentative deadlines and benchmarks.

Nothing ever came of it. The dream died unspectacularly in the following days, and it remains dead.****

So really, the story of this blog dates back only to late April 2015, when I decided that I should commit to writing and sharing stuff that is too long or not appropriate for a Facebook post. One thing led to another and a few days later, my blog was born. It's part overdue, part premature. But it was natural—no c-section necessary. And I hope it will steadily and quickly grow and improve to be an upstanding citizen of the blogosphere. Or at least that will continue to entertain me and hopefully a few others.

* Credit Jeff Birney for coining the "Dirty Spaniel."  

**That's not totally fair. I'm sure other reasonable people were there, too, and were just as irritated as I was. Also, as I post more, you'll find I use "hipster" and "millennial" and "slacker" interchangeably, with little regard for demographic accuracy. Generalizing is fun, easier. Especially when I don't know the people. (I'm also sure I've now irritated 90% of my dog-loving, micro brew-sipping, Portlandia lifestyle-embracing friends.)

*** Not her real name. I suppose it could be, but it's purely coincidental if she happens to have the name that simultaneously annoys and amuses me enough to use it in a story like this (and others to come). 

**** Or at least dormant. As of 5/10/2015, anyway.  A bet on a future collaboration might not be a bad bet, though. Just sayin'. 

Mobile lounging: helmet required

(Alternate title: My half-hearted attempt to get a pretty store-owner's attention)

From:  williamcferguson@yahoo.com 

To:  "info@huntgather.com"

Sent: Mon, January 31, 2011 12 :26:53 PM

Subject: Customer Contact from huntgather.com

Hi, I've been depressingly unsuccessful in my search for a very specific piece of furniture. I was about to abandon my efforts, but I stumbled on Hunt & Gather's website and figured it was worth a chance to send an inquiry.

It's kind of hard to describe, but I'm looking for something very similar to the Orlando Sectional that I see in your online gallery. Everything about it—its style, a shape that suits my body, cushions—is nearly perfect. 

I want it in a camouflage motif. Not so much Desert Storm camo, but more of a cold-weather-type look—like snow-camo, I guess (like in the movie, Spies Like Us). Also, does the Orlando Sectional have wheels? I definitely want wheels. Especially if the wheels can be modified or upgraded. I wouldn't expect you all to be able to offer that service, but it would be a bonus if I could trick out the sectional wheels—maybe after I had it for a couple months or something. I'd probably have to get some custom rims, but I can deal with that during Phase 2.

Other than that, the only other deal-breaker is that ottoman-looking thing attached at the one end. Do you think that could be customized to contain a refrigeration unit? Or even just an icebox where I could keep things at a safe temperature for consumption? I usually like to have an ample variety of fish and fish-like food in pretty close range when I'm really relaxing. And I don't necessarily need helmet storage right now, but I'm sure I'll want it eventually—especially if Phase 2 comes together and I can drive it as I'm currently envisioning. Not to give you TMI, but sometimes I need to wear a helmet. Especially when I drive things.

Anyway, if you think you can help me, please let me know. Otherwise, thank you kindly for your time and have a very blessed day.

William

From: "info@huntgather.com"

To: williamcferguson@yahoo.com 

Sent: Tue, February 1, 2011 10:26:53 AM

Subject: Re: Customer Contact from huntgather.com

William,

What you are asking for is plausible in many respects but could be a bit costly....

I do actually have a sectional (not the Orlando) that has a storage in one arm that you could modify a cooler into.

please feel free to stop in as we really need to go over all this in person! It's sounds like an interesting challenge but that what we like here!

take care!

michelle

hunt & Gather

1302 nw Hoyt Street

Portland, OR 97209

503.227.3400