One Missed Call

As I reflect back on my three months in New York, one of the highlights was reconnecting with an old friend.

Actually, he’s not old.

He’s 64.

And he isn't really my friend.  

He was my dad's friend.

But ever since my father died of a sudden heart attack nearly nine years ago, Joel became my friend.

We started talking on a somewhat regular basis last year as I was knee deep in my journey through unemployment.

And not only did he offer support, but he also offered answers.

Joel had worked in my industry for all of his adult life.

And he had more connections than an Apple computer.

I tried for a year and a half to get my name in front of a company in my hometown.

With no success.

Joel got my resume on the desk of the President of that company after one phone call.

While I didn’t get that job, I did end up getting a job in New York.

Joel’s hometown.

And I was barely there five minutes when I got a call from him.

“Where are you going to live?”

“Do you need me to take you around?”

“When is your family coming back?”

A week later, we spent a couple of hours driving around Long Island, as he took me from town-to-town.

Babylon to Syosset.

And everything in the middle.

When my family came out to visit, we made it a priority to get everyone together.

The first time it was at their house.

Plus a stop at Jones Beach.

The next time we all met in Chinatown.

If anyone was more excited than me about our move to the Big Apple, it had to be Joel.

He loved my dad as much as I did.

And I guess I came as a bonus.

When I got the sudden news of my job ending, Joel was one of the first people I told.

He was heartbroken.

For me.

For him.

For all of us.

But even before the ink was dry on my departure, Joel had come up with a handful of ways to move forward in my career.

And my life.

Unfortunately, that was a lot easier for him than for me.

This broken down roller-coaster ride has really hit me hard.

Much harder than I’ve ever let on in the blog.

In case you just joined my life in progress, here’s the shorthand version of the last few months:

I was unemployed.

I took a job in New York.

We sold our house.

A few days later, my wife quit her job.

The next day I was told my job was no longer needed.

That afternoon, my wife got her job back.

We moved into my sister-in-law’s basement.

My mom is currently in the midst of a bipolar episode.

I may be next.

With all that has happened, I have made it my priority to get my feet back on solid ground before doing anything else.

And goal number one is getting my family settled.

Back in the same city where we were settled before any of this happened.

Like Cher, I’m trying to turn back time.

At some point, thinking about relocating again may become a possibility.

At the moment, it’s just a line at the end of my To Do list.

The thought of pursuing another job, in another city, is really not something that I can process at the moment.

So when I got a voice mail from Joel on December 6, I pushed it aside.

It ran 20 seconds and sounded like this:

Hey it’s Joel.  I hope all’s well.  Give me a call when you get a chance.   Have you ever thought about a job with (Company X on the East Coast)?   I may have an in for you.   Give me a buzz.

That was 12 days ago.

And I still haven’t called back.

I planned to.   And I wanted to.   I just couldn’t do it.

I just didn’t do it.

It’s too late now.

In the middle of my daughter’s dance recital today, I got a call from an unknown number.

When the show ended I checked my voice mail.

It was from Jill, Joel’s wife.

Actually, Joel’s widow.

Yesterday he was riding the Long Island Railroad into the city when he had a massive heart attack.

Just as my dad did.

And like my dad, Joel was gone.

Just like that.

When my father passed away I never had a chance to say goodbye.

With Joel, I had 12 days.

And beating myself up isn’t going to change anything.

But it’s all I've been able to do for the last few hours.

I did speak with Jill tonight.   Briefly.

We promised to speak again in a couple of weeks when things settle down.

That is one call I can’t wait to make.

Say hi to my dad Joel.

I miss you both.

Idiot Wind

If you have read seven or more words from any of my previous 172 blogs, you’d probably have a pretty good idea that I love music.

I'm not totally sure where my love of music came from, but it has been with me forever.

I saw my first real concert in 1979.

It was Robert Palmer opening up for Heart.

Or was it The Babys opening up for Styx?

Either way, one of those was my first real concert, the other was second.

I guess if I said "I remember my first concert like it was yesterday," I'd be lying.

My love for music continued from there.

As a pudgy 12-year old Jewish kid, I learned all the words to Rapper's Delight.

It was beyond adorable.

If you were into West Coast Bar Mitzvah Rap.

In 11th grade, my English teacher introduced us to poetry.

He featured two poems from a great Jersey writer named Springsteen.

Bruce Springsteen.

The poems were titled Jungleland and Born to Run.

The words were cool, but when our teacher played the soundtrack that went with it, it became amazing.

In college, I was the lead singer in a U2 cover band.   We called ourselves, Me2.

Crazy college kids.

But even with all of that, one of my true downfalls in music is understanding what the hell a song is really about.

She-Bop by Cyndi Lauper.   No idea.

Little Red Corvette by Prince.  Must be about a fast car.

Fast Car by Tracy Chapman.  No idea.

I can remember falling in love with a great song by a great band, 10,000 Maniacs.

But even after listening to it 10,000 times, I could never figure out that "what's the matter here?" was about child abuse.

I can remember singing these words, like it was yesterday:

  If you don’t sit in your chair straight

  I’ll take this belt from along my waist

  And don’t you think that I won’t use it

My fingers were snapping and toes were tapping like it was a Dr. Seuss nursery rhyme.

Finally somebody clued me in.

Boy did I feel stupid.

I could give you some more examples of my lyrical lapses, but the hard drive on the internet is not big enough.

So I will fast forward to my latest duh moment.

Saturday night, with my wife and kids in town for a visit, I took the two older kids to their first broadway play.

My wife took our 7-year old home for a little R and R.

With a million and one choices on the board at the TKTS 50% off place, we zeroed in on "American Idiot."

That's the play taken from the music of the last two Green Day albums.

Even with all the profanity, the music is so good, I decided to introduce my kids to those CDs when they came out.

Those four-letter words were nothing different than what they hear at the breakfast table.

Father of the year, I am not.

Those records are among the best I've heard in years.

I've listened to those songs so many times, I  know all of the words.

Even if I have no clue what they mean.

I knew that there was a theme to the albums.

And I knew the theme had something to do with a love story.

And I knew that the music sounds amazing.

But I had no idea what the play was about.

I guess I should've known something was up when the ticket taker said "you are aware of the content, right?", as the three of us entered the theater.

Um, no.

But I am aware of how much these tickets were -- even at 50% off.

And we are going!

Within about one second of the curtain rising, I put my seat belt on and prayed that child services had the night off.

For the next 90 minutes the three of us watched a show about young men and women doing drugs, drinking alcohol and having sex.

Did I mention they were doing drugs?

I peaked over a few times to make sure my 13-year old daughter and 11-year old son were having fun.

Which they were.

After the final musical note of the night, I gingerly turned to my kids and said, “so, how'd you like it?”

Dramatic pause.

“I loved it,” they each said.

Ok, so far so good.

I figured they liked the music and I know they liked the show, but how about the story?

Well if this means anything, before I even asked, my son informed me that the play had a great message.

Don't do drugs!

Amen.

That was worth the price of admission.

Now if he could only explain to me the meaning of Bohemian Rhapsody.