Happy Father's Day To Those Whose Fathers Never Grew Old

Freddie Rumsen from "Mad Men"

Father's Day has been a bittersweet day for me ever since my dad passed away when I was fifteen. My mom was concerned about me and my brother not having a father figure to help raise us since we were both teenagers.  My brother found a mentor in college, but I didn't think I needed one. Even though I was so young, I felt my personality had fully formed by then, and I knew that I was the person I was because I had my father to teach me for fifteen years.  My brutal honesty comes from him.  Probably part genetics and partly from observing his behavior.  My mom used to say to him, "Why can't you put on a smile for our friends? Why do they have to know you're in a bad mood?" and my dad would answer, "Because I AM in a bad mood.  Why should I have to be phony and pretend?"  Whenever we went out for dinner, and the waitress was OVERLY bubbly, my dad would raise his left eyebrow inquisitively as if to ask: "Is she for real?"  I immediately knew exactly what he was thinking.

Besides being honest, my dad was also very moral. His best friend, Hans, told me a story once of how my dad got upset when one of their mutual friends had a girl sitting on his lap.  He exclaimed to Hans, "Why is he letting her sit on his lap?  He's engaged to another woman!"  I share his love of music, and he helped me study for the Co-Op Test so I could ace it and get into Hill, the highly-esteemed high school of my choice. After that, I believed I had truly completed my childhood, so I found the idea of a replacement dad insulting.  I would never want to replace my father. I would never need to.  I felt that way for a really long time.

Speaking of Hans, he was very helpful to me when my dad died. When my father went out of remission, Hans brought in some cassettes of my dad's original songs into the hospital. He played a song called "Shadows Falling."  It had lyrics that reminded me of my dad as a young boy growing up: "Wish I could return somehow to walk upon the sand, catch the wind and rainbows and feel a welcome hand."  The lyrics made me cry after we left the hospital room, and all the way down the elevator, continuing into the parking lot.  No one knew how to comfort me.  Hans said, "Joan and I have fixed up the house.  We have the guest room finished.  You should come over and stay with us on weekends."  He, his wife, Joan, and son, Eden, took me in for many weekends, and Hans told me endless stories about my dad.  But I knew he couldn't replace him. 

Hans and I always remained in and out of touch.  A few years ago, we hadn't spoken to each other for a while.  We'd let too many years go by.  I didn't even know if he still had the same phone number, so I did a Google search.  I found a picture of him outside a school where they were testing for asbestos.  He was wearing a Bluetooth. Cellphones and Bluetooths were still new.  I asked my husband, "What is that thing people wear in their ears?  They're like cellphones, right?" and he answered, "They are Bluetooths.  Old men wear them."  Something about that statement just got to me: "Old men wear them."  I kept on recalling the image of Hans wearing his Bluetooth, and I knew then I had to get back in touch with him, and I was lucky to find him on Facebook.  We've been in touch ever since, and I now call him my Second Dad.

Another example of my longing for a father comes from an unlikely place:  My favorite TV show, "Mad Men." I've been faithfully watching since Season One, and I've seen most episodes at least twice.  One of my favorite characters, Peggy Olson, had started Season One as a secretary, but one day after participating in a focus group where the secretaries tested lipsticks, she makes a comment in front of "old-time ad man" Freddy Rumsen. She hands him a wastebasket where women had dabbed their lipstick onto tissues, and she tells him, "Here's your basket of kisses."  He asks her where she had heard that, and she says "I just thought of it."  Then she tells him that she didn't choose any of the shades of lipstick because someone already took her shade, and she says, "I don't think anyone wants to be one of a hundred colors in a box." Freddy sees potential in Peggy and suggests she be promoted from secretary to junior copywriter because she is creative and has a natural way with words. Peggy's career has soared since Season One, and it was really all thanks to Freddy Rumsen.  Even late in the current season, Freddy and Peggy have dinner, and he encourages her to go for a better copywriter job at a competing ad agency.  Their friendship has lasted.  I never knew why I was so drawn to this story until I realized that, in my mind, the Freddy/Peggy friendship/mentorship is like a father/daughter relationship.  Freddy is considered old-fashioned and out of date. My dad never became that.  He was always young. I never thought I'd have a need for an older father, or even a father figure at all since becoming an adult.  But between Hans's Bluetooth and Freddy Rumsen's belief in Peggy, I realize it must be something innate.

Staring Out The Window

This week's blog post is about staring out the window.  Yes, you read that right.  I'm writing my blog about staring out the window.  In Banana Yoshimoto's latest translated-into-English novel, "The Lake," the female lead meets the male lead because they both have a habit of staring out the windows of their apartment buildings which are across from one another's.  When I read that, it reminded me of a Juliana Hatfield song from over a decade ago called "Outsider" where she sings about seeing an interesting guy from her thirteenth floor hotel window. 

Sometimes, people look for other people when they stare out the window, but other times, it's just a creative person needing some space from everyday realities.  My friend, Bella, once wrote this to me in a Facebook message: "You know, I'm having one of those days where I really enjoy just staring out the window."  To some, that may have sounded strange, but I knew exactly what she meant.  She had diverted her attention from the things she had to do that day, the chores and paying the bills, and she decided to just be and let the thoughts flow.

What do I think of when I stare out the window? Sometimes,  I'll stare at a particular tree that is just beginning to bud.  It will start to get dark outside, turning into dusk, and I'll wonder how people I don't see very often are doing.  I remember one time recently, I took quick peeks out my window while I watched that "Twilight Zone" episode called "The Jungle."  The background music sounded like it came from an action movie of the sixties -- when soundtracks used actual band instruments and not just a guy with a synthesizer.  The music took me back, and I thought about my dad's friend, Hans, and how he told me that he still has my dad's picture displayed in his house, and he often likes to reminisce about the good times they had when they used to travel on the road and go to different shows of bands they worked with.  Some nights, I'll have my glass of wine, stare out my window and wonder what Hans is doing right now.

That evening, I remembered all the hours Hans and I had spent many years ago, just listening to my dad's club band's reel-to-reels, him telling me about the music scene in the seventies, while my father's voice sang that song, "The Lady Is A Tramp," over the reel-to-reels which made Hans mention how much my dad really loved Marilyn Monroe.  If I hadn't been staring out the window just then, those details may have gone from my memory bank forever.

Parents are finally realizing now that it's not a good idea to overschedule kids with a bunch of activites, lessons, and playdates. When we were kids, we had more alone time, time to do "just nothing." People are now agreeing that "nothing" time while you are alone helps kids become more creative.

One brilliant example of this is the legend of how 1920's biologist, Alexander Fleming, was daydreaming, staring at a petrie dish and drawing pictures of the specimens, when he observed that the colonies of bacterium in the dish were being destroyed by a mold that had grown there.  Growing mold was not the purpose of the experiment, and his practice of daydreaming prompted the discovery of Penicillin.

Just like I had written a few months ago in my "Santa Claus" blog, immersing yourself in fantasy from time to time is essential for your mental health. Too much reality can destroy a person.  We all need moments of "unreality" to feel refreshed, so never feel guilty about spending a part of your day just simply staring out the window!

I Should Have Gone to the Fame School

It seems like every teenager wants to be an entertainer these days.  Some are happy just chasing fame, but others want to do it the right way by actually learning how to sing, dance, act or play an instrument.  When I was a teen, my passion was singing and songwriting. There was no "New Directions Glee Club" at my high school, and even though I grew up in New York City, it never occurred to me to audition for the "High School for Performing Arts," made famous by the "Fame" movie and TV show, both popular at that time.  Though it would have been nice to have had a bunch of friends I could feel connected to who also wanted to be performers, I thought the only option for me was to go it alone.

First, I enrolled in group singing lessons in a building that also housed our local DMV.  There, we practiced the most bizarre vocal exercises I'd ever encountered in my life (both before and since).  There were "Ya-EEs" and "EE-Yeh-EE's."  One girl's voice was so high and screechy that as she went higher and higher up the vocal register, it was hard not to plug our ears.  I can't even write the syllables "Ya-EE" without thinking of her!  The next year, I quit the "Ya-EE" group and joined a singing workshop for adults.  I was the youngest member since I was only 16, and the man who ran the group promptly distributed his original 45-record to us.  It was enclosed inside of a sleeve that had a picture of him where he looked just like Tom Jones -- curly-headed, shirt open, gold chain, holding the microphone in full Tom Jones stance!

Needless to say, I was getting frustrated. At the rate I was going, not only was I not learning how to sing,  I also had no hope of getting the handful of pop songs I had just written recorded on my own 45-record or at least onto a taped demo! My dad's best friend, Hans, who was working as a playwright/filmmaker at the time, told me that if I was really serious about singing, I should answer an ad in "Back Stage" magazine which was THE magazine for out-of-work actors and musicians in New York City in the '80's.  I found an ad where you could work with both a vocal teacher AND with a record producer, kind of like a "two for the price of one" deal. I quickly called the phone number on the ad, and a man with an Italian accent answered.  He said his name was Victor, and I told him I was interested in taking singing lessons with the teacher and also in working with the producer on my original songs.  He said that we could start with singing lessons and later make some rough sheet music arrangements to give to the producer so that I could record my demo.  He gave me directions to his studio in Manhattan.  "Right next to The Gustino," he said.

Being a cautious 16 year-old girl, there was NO WAY I was taking the subway and going to some strange man's studio in 1980's New York City, so I dragged my forever indefatigable best friend, Ania, to come along.  When we got off the subway at Columbus Circle/59th Street, we looked for a building labeled "The Gustino," but we couldn't find one.  "Maybe," Ania began, "he meant the grocery store, D'Agostino.  There's one right over there."  "Yes, that's it."  We found the address and took the the elevator up, but when we got off of our floor, it looked like a regular apartment hallway where people lived.  There was no large door that opened up to a studio!  We found the door to his "studio," and I almost ditched the whole idea.  "Should we knock or just go?"  I asked Ania.  "No," she said.  "Let's try it out." Indefatigable or insane? You decide.  A gray-haired man who looked like he was in his sixties opened the door and introduced himself.  "You can call me Victor," he said.

I studied singing with Victor every Saturday for several weeks.  He accompanied me on vocal exercises that were not nearly as crazy as the ones from my group lessons with the screechy singer.  He let me bring in whatever songs I wanted to learn, mostly by singers like Sheena Easton or by groups like the Bangles and whoever else was popular at the time.  Victor LOVED to talk, and as I became more familiar to him, he'd often stop playing, mid-song, and turn to me and tell me all the things that were on his mind, i.e., "This song was obviously copied from the Beatles.  But you know, the Beatles didn't write their own music anyway. No, not at all.  Their producer, George Martin, wrote all their songs for them.  Bet you didn't know that, huh?"  Another time I brought in "Live To Tell" by Madonna, and Victor again took his hands off the piano keys, turned to me while I was in mid "singing" sentence, and said,  "You know, Madonna, she's really popular now.  But she's not going to be around in another few years.  Yeah, that's right.  A few years from now, no one is even going to remember Madonna!"

But still, I always tried to be polite.  One time, Victor wore two pairs of eyeglasses stuck on top of each other, both hanging down the bridge of his nose, scotch taped heavily.  He began the lesson and played the piano as I practiced my vocal exercises, only to suddenly stop playing and start laughing uproariously.  "You didn't notice!" he exclaimed.  "I broke my bifocals!  I had to do SOMETHING so I could see during your lesson!" 

It was around this time that I thought I should mention the record producer.  "Oh, yes, the producer," Victor said.  "Let's get your best three songs written out on sheet music, and then you can set up a meeting with Mike to see if he'll record those songs for you in his studio."  Finally, I thought.  The three songs we chose were "Lemon Meringue," "Rainbow Ice," and "Cinnamon Wishes," -- remember, this was the 80's!  Once Victor got the three songs arranged on paper, he played them for me and I sang along.  I sounded like Cyndi Lauper being accompanied by Liberace, but still, I felt I was ready to meet the producer.

Judging by my experience with Victor, I should have known that Mike the Producer would probably turn out to be somewhat similar to Victor since they both advertised in "Back Stage" as a pair.  Sure enough, when my mom and I sat down in the studio to have our meeting with Mike, he was also gray-haired, in his 60's, and was more interested in telling us all about this new girl he was recording than discussing the arrangements of the songs I'd brought him.  He told us that she was a teenager around my age who sang country-western music. He played us the demo he had just recorded for her that he was trying to shop around to record companies.   "I don't know what to do," he said.  "She's a really talented singer, and I know her music could sell. It's just a matter of getting her to the RIGHT record company."  I know the feeling, I thought to myself.  It's also just a matter of getting me to the RIGHT vocal teacher!  I should have gone to the Fame School!