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          ”Good morning Lucy Bohrer—
           Every day’s like an open door
           Every night is a fantasy
           Every sound is a symphony…”

Living in the moment allows me to share one luxury with Lucy: we each thrill to a new morning. Yes, I may bolt out of bed and sure, she is carried, but both of us revel at it all.

There is indeed something special about watching a baby waken at dawn. Standing next to Stacy I saw the eyes of a five-month old open wide to another day.

I marveled at her wonder.

Lucy’s growing. Geometrically.

Stacy says her eyes are gray. I say blue. Stacy says she looks like Jason, (at least his dad). I say she favors me, (at least the eyes). It matters not—the baby’s beautiful and, better yet, she follows me with her eyes.

I wonder what infants absorb. What do they comprehend… just sitting there? Take Lucy, for instance:

Does she see what we see? When she coos and smiles, is she truly enthralled, or is the lass silently asking herself “Who’s the schmuck dancing like an idiot?” More aptly put, does my granddaughter feel in her heart what I view through my eyes? I hope so.

Stacy reminds me—perhaps too often—that I’m a headline kind of guy. Rarely, she notes, do I push for details. I’m happy to listen, happy to share, but all I really need to know is if everything’s OK.

In Chicago, everything’s OK. I saw this last week.

Never, when I’m with my kids, is it about the activities; it’s always about the company. Just being there—just being together—that’s what works.

It was standard fare then, in The Windy City, just to be…just to interact….just to watch.

I saw MY baby cradling HER baby (carefully tilting the bottle), my son-in-law gingerly bathing their queen….and the little one, (dare I say “The Little One’s ‘Little One’”?), joyfully kicking bath water, as if prepping for the Olympiad.

And yes, I saw smiles….on everyone.

As a grandparent there’s not much to do with an infant. You can look at it. You can hold it a bit and you can walk it. (Not unlike my first weeks with Adam).

Or you can sing to it.

(“She’s not an ‘it’, Dad,” I hear my daughter shrie).

I sang to Lucy. Others played Pass The Baby, but I sang. (It’s a simple deduction that singing is the easier softer way. Not only do all kids love melody, but whoever holds a baby runs the distinct risk the kid will cry. How deflating—having to turn the kid back to a parent. It’s like a football team turning the ball over on downs. Me? I sing; I croon. It’s not only safer; but an easy three points).

Moreover, all baby toys seem to come with soundtrack. Endlessly synthesizing, they roll from one toddler tune to another. As such, since my musical expanse ended with the birth of psychodelia, this stuff is right in my wheelhouse.

Even so, my daughter was surprised.

“I went to the animal fare, the birds and the beasts were there…” I crooned.
“There are words for that?” (asked my Phi Beta Kappa lassie)
‘Yeah,” I told her, “My father taught us.”

The best times, of course, were when I had her one-on-one—just Luce and me. That, you see, is when I lay foundation; that’s when I plant the seeds.

I have this theory, something I developed through Max. I believe—I truly believe—that a baby’s trust is built on sound. That’s why singing’s so important. (Think Mr. Rogers, for example). Who, may I ask, didn’t trust Fred Rogers?

So Max has his song which I sing in New York, AND, with apologies to Kate Smith, Lucy has hers (“God Bless My Lucy”). And both of them—trust now established—hear the gentle whispers of my single mantra: (“Grandma ___________ smokes cigars.”)

Sunday came last week, as it always does, and we did what we always do: debate the appropriate time to leave for the airport. (As usual, I lost. It’s turned, I might note, not so much into a debate as into a negotiation).

At the appointed hour I kissed their foreheads: Lucy’s, Stacy’s, and Jason’s. And we left.

Traffic slowed en route to Midway as the infant slept. No one, especially me, was talking. Stace was driving and didn’t want to disturb the baby. Good for her. Me? I was preoccupied, worrying ‘bout the lines at security. Besides, I had nothing to say…nothing to ask. Eyeing my granddaughter I knew what was important, what I needed to know: that everything is OK.

            “I love you Lucy Bohrer.
            Every day’s like an open door
            Every night is a fantasy
            Every sound’s like a symphony…”

                             Shaiman/Wittman (adapted from “Hairspray”)

‘Is this seat taken?”

From the corner of my eye I’d seen, low and behold, an opening on the aisle of the plane’s first row. Bisecting three seats was a college kid. Clean-cut as he was, his shoulder length hair would have, in the day, caused my father to call the Board Of Health. On the window, straddling a seat, was a monstrous case carrying (apparently), a musical instrument.

“It’s yours,” smiled the kid. .
“This seems too good—like First Class,” I told him. “Why don’t people want to sit by you?”
Sensing instantly that he knew I was joking, a bond created, and on a 57 minute flight to Chicago, friendship was born.

“What’s in the box?” I asked him, eyeing the plastic.
“A cello.’
That’s when he told me they didn’t make him store it underneath, that he’d paid for two seats.
“Did you ever think of playing the flute?” I wondered (aloud).

His name was Jason and he was from Portland. Freshman year under his belt, he was heading home for the summer. And he shared….

About how his parents had given him opportunities to find a school he wanted— that it was about two years ago they were scouting schools—that he’d chosen the College Of Wooster.

How great it was, I thought…his having such fervor for music that he’d fly ‘cross the country in pursuit.

“It’s great to have passion for something,” I lamented, (but not in a sad way). I told him how at Ohio State I’d thought of going into show business, perhaps writing or something. I spoke further of the real world setting in, my falling in love, going on to grad school, and how while I enjoy what I do, it’s not like I wake up everyday and can’t wait to get there.

“What do you want to do with your music?” came my inquiry.
“I’m also taking German studies,” he shrugged.

Our talk slowing, I turned to my book. Soon, though, he broke the silence.

“Are you happy?” he asked.
“Better than that,” I told him. “I’m content.”
Pensively he rejoined: “Good answer.”

We talked some more. He spoke of a twelve hour flight he’d taken. “My trips are short,” I mentioned. “New York or Chicago. “
“How long’s your layover?” I asked.
“An hour.”
It would still be evening, said Jason, when he’d land in Portland. “I’m chasing the sun,”

I recounted of Alan, how he’d fallen in love on line, resigned a tenured chair, and moved out to Portland. I spoke too of Chuck from Chuck’s Diner…how he’d also moved there a few years back.

We spoke about television (“Portlandia’), life, and people. He told of a homeless guy and how the man had refused aid. Oddly, we sensed, people shun the homeless, almost fear them. Still, I told him, “Most people are nice” He agreed.

We were in final descent and I kept thinking how lucky this kid was. His whole life lay in front of him. He had, as Ben Selzer would say, “The world by the kalooms.” I thought too of how, (gut-level honesty), I’d never have had the stones to leave Ohio in search of fame and fortune. How it’s just easier, cozier…to say so. How if I couldn’t stand the solitude of one summer at Michigan State…..

The plane touched down. With a thud. Instinctively my friend held his cello, nurturing it

“Stick with the music,” I said. “Stick with your passion.”
He nodded.
“Enjoyed the talk,” he said. “I love talking to strangers.”

(And then I couldn’t resist):

“Do you know how you get to Carnegie Hall?” I asked him.
“No,” he said, looking at me as if I was The Yoda, as if I knew.
“Practice,’ I told him. ‘Practice.”

(The joke was old, of course.  ‘ First heard it from my grandmother.  Still:  being able to share it, all these years later, left me not only happy, but—BETTER YET—content).

Dear Mom,

There won’t be anything profound in this note—nothing special going on—but with Mother’s Day approaching I wanted to thank you once again for your greatest legacy: a sense of humor.

As you know, Mom, The Comedy Awards aired Sunday. I watched them alone (go figure), but was thinking of you. In my mind’s eye it was post-Sam, pre-Ed, and you were not only smiling, but laughing…at everything.

Well, not everything.

There were the times you’d look at me in angst. With eyes of love, still voicing frustration, your refrain would repeat: “Bruce, it’s not funny!” How often did you, holding back your own laughter, admonish that “Everything’s not a joke” or “Your father wouldn’t think this is funny”?

When not saddled by depression, Mom…when you faced your days, your sense of humor was bountiful. How you howled at TV, at me, and most of all, at yourself! Indeed, you found humor where others feared to tread. Heck, as close as I was with my Dad, it would have been you, Mom, with whom I’d have watched the show last week. As such, it’s to you, Mom, that I first announce MY Comedy Awards. (From start to finish, it was you—always you—that may not have gotten the joke, may not have understood the premise, but would have cried tears of laughter just watching me tell it).

So here goes, Mom: MY COMEDY AWARDS. Not an annual event, necessarily…but some of Lifetime Achievements.

In the categories of media:

BEST SILENT MOVIE: The old 8-millimeter film, (circa 1958), starring Cousin Gary unintentionally running the bases backward out at Wiegand’s Lake in Novelty, Ohio. (Available now on DVD through Hal; see “The Bogart Chronicles, Volume I”).

BEST SILENT MOVIE MOMENT: Four second clip (1970) of Al Bogart and his sons in the parking lot at 20 East 14 Columbus. Rivaled only by the earlier Zapruder film of ’63, it memorializes Bruce spitting at his brother, the wind catching it and thrusting it into their father’s eye, and the father wiping his eye all-the-while glaring at Bruce in disgust. (Also available on DVD).

FUNNIEST MOMENT AT BRUSH HIGH: Unanimous: Randy hitting the north and south urinals with one shot.

FUNNIEST MOMENT ON “FABULOUS BOOMER BOYS”: Fans (and there were three) of this old radio show that first hit Cleveland’s airways in March of ’93 will recall the time that Stuart chose to do a movie review. He was discussing “Sliver”, Sharon Stone’s follow-up to “Basic Instinct”. Bobby had just teased about how the two of them had gone with their wives to see it but that I was excluded because I hated scary movies.

“Don’t worry about it, B”, Stu said on air. “The movie stunk.,,,And to all our listeners, I’ll save you money. It was Tom Berenger. Tom Berenger did it.”
(And then…some time later…just as we were signing off, he announced it again: “In case you tuned in late, Tom Berenger is the killer in ‘Sliver’”.

In the personality categories, Mom, I’ve been blessed. I’ve been surrounded, always, by so many people that make me laugh. From core friends and their “mock fights” to Fenton who, to this day, “stirs the pot”…to life’s acrobats I meet in recovery…to the clowns that I meet on stage….No one, though—-and you want to talk about irony, Mom—no one, has brought greater laughter to us all than your former sister-in-law. Has she not provided the best material for all of us? (How often has Maynard told Hal and me: “You boys should write it down. You’re sitting on a gold mine.”)?

Which leads me to my final category, Mom. PERSON WHO MOST OFTEN MAKES ME LAUGH. (This Mom, will make you cry). The winner, hands down, is Harold. To this day, he will always make me laugh. Remember how George Burns could always break Jack Benny up? It’s that way with Hal and me.

Even the nonsense. (OK…especially the nonsense).

Let me share with you his recent mishigos. (Eyes may roll in New York and Chicago but YOU Mom…you’ll get it. You’ll laugh).

What follows is a transcript of text messages H sent me this week, all within a two hour period. He’d been summoned by Aunt Helen to run her to Macy’s, a block away, as she needed “one item”.

11:19 AM We had to stop at Target first to pick up Rx
11:19 (still) Now in Macy’s”
11:20 She wants to know what is wrong with their pajamas?
11:20 (still) Now we are in “girls 7 – 16”
11:21 She is trying on 2 pairs of pants. Neither will fit
11:21 (still) Next stop Petite Department
11:22 Why would we be in the bikini waxing department again?
11:28 Size 8 and size 10 don’t fit. Now trying a 12 and a 14. With a little luck you might be returning a 12 or a 14 next week.
11:32 She is still in dressing room
11:33 She is still in dressing room
11:34 She bought the size 14
11:49 Now we are downstairs in Petites
11:49 (still) Keep the receipt
11:50 She is trying on a size 4 Petite
11:50 This isn’t good for Boomer
11:50 She is still in the dressing room
11:51 She is still in the dressing room
12:16 PM TOUCHDOWN. She bought a size 4 and a size 6 to try on at home. At least one will be coming back.
1:01 Dropping her off. Shopping is over. Pulling out of her driveway.  Oops! So excited that I am done that I almost had an orgasm at Cedar and Fenwick.
1:01 (still) This whole experience is like sex. Time for a cigarette.

So Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. You gave us life, love and laughter—in other words: everything.

Bruce

Physical appearance is the one thing I might control. Maybe. This makes, therefore, my issue with weight all the more troubling.

Last night I struggled. Needing that Fourth Meal, I dared not. Slowly this year I’ve been losing—not like ’06—but losing.

I have (they tell me) a “disease of perception”.

Too often I view things better than they are or worse than and never…quite….as they are. Same with people. How often do I trust one more than I should, yet another not enough? And with food. My lifelong battle with weight drags on and, even now, I have no idea what a “portion” is. Never thought it mattered. Frankly, though, I come by this honestly.

It remains…a disease of perception.

As a kid it was simple:

Our bungalow on Bayard had no dish washer yet it mattered not.

“Eat everything. Clean your plate,” Elaine Bogart would urge. So I did. As no one in 80+ years would ever accuse our mother of being a good cook, her lesson was clear: quantity over quality. It was a lesson well-heeded.

So I wore my shirts out and “huskies” for pants.

My Dad, of course, had no problem with this. “You’re supposed to be big,” he’d assure me. (The man weighed 300 by then. I’m thinking maybe a second opinion was called for).

Mark or Bobby might remember, but I don’t recall being fat in high school. Shy? Yes. Nerdy? Yes. But not fat.

In college things changed; things opened up. Working meant money. Unlike most college kids, though, I spent not on clothes drugs or booze. Money, therefore, meant freedom…and food. Never let it be said that this cowboy cooked in. In four years I hit every restaurant in Franklin County. More than once (I’m sure), and never alone.

But like I said, my issue with food comes honestly.

I loved my father and everything he stood for. He was to me, like the old E.F. Hutton commercial: when he spoke: (silence…I listened). Still, I’m sensing he wasn’t the best influence when it came to food.

Not that he forced me to eat. Not that he took the food and jammed it down my throat. But still…

My Dad too lacked portion control. Even in the ‘70’s, when he’d drive north for family dinners: En route to his mother, he’d hit Corky’s at Cedar and gobble down a corned beef sandwich as he drove until, ultimately, when pulling in the drive, Harriet would wipe food from his lips. “They eat like birds,” he’d protest.

This beautiful man—who would walk into a drug store to buy Camels, see two bodies ahead of him, and leave abruptly to find another store with a shorter line—this beautiful man would stand endlessly awaiting David’s Buffet on North High Street in Columbus or (for that matter) any buffet in Las Vegas. (And he never played favorites. Though not a fish-eater, how often when I was sold Highlights on the road did he remind me that Fridays at Howard Johnson’s it was all-you-can-eat?)

My Dad, you see, didn’t just eat food—he romanced it. One could safely argue that next to Harriet food was the love of his life.

He’d wax poetic about Resche’s challah: “It’s better than cake!”

And marvel upon crafting his perfect sandwich: creamed cheese and jelly (Schmucker’s strawberry preserves only), on challah with sliced bananas inside.

And champion, ENDLESSLY CHAMPION, his favorite restaurants, locale by locale. (The Jai Lai in Columbus, Win Schuler’s in Jackson, Michigan, The Maissonette in Cincinnati, Carson’s in Chicago. Indeed, once my Dad found a restaurant he liked—I mean really liked—he never saw another kitchen in that town. Vividly I recall Harriet urging “Albert, why don’t you want to try something new?” Just as clearly I can hear his response: silence. He was, dare I say, the original Zagat.

So where, pray tell, does this euphoric memory leave me?

Fat, dare I say? Uncomfortable. In need of guidance.

I called my food sponsor today at 9:15. It’s our time. Three meals a day, he tells me, and nothing in between. I’m to phone him if itchy.

He says I can look like 2006 again. He thinks I can do it.

But I have to avoid Fourth Meal.

Woody Hayes used to say that when you put the ball in the air three things can happen and two of them are bad. ‘Tis true too of falling in love.

“Are you sending your ex a birthday card?” “I was asked recently.
“No.”
The response, void of anger or sarcasm, came not so much from the heart as from a cave of deep neutrality.

The Jersey Girl was my first. From winter quarter junior year (when romance took off), through final decree a quarter century later, it was a time of love, sweat, and ultimately tears. Only now, two decades after the fall, am I finding perspective. Only now—through a keener lens—do I see the inevitability of it all. What chance did Grace Slick and Richie Cunningham ever have…. really?

I was crazy about her, in the day. I was at once doting, insecure, possessive, smitten and naïve. What I wasn’t, ever, was confident—confident enough in myself to address our differences. And there were many. Even in those years of passion, there were many.

We came from different worlds; we wanted different things. Maybe.

She was east; I was midwest; she was cool; I was not. And those were just headlines. On good days she had insouciance, legs and looked like young Shirley Maclaine dating Ronnie Howard; in tough times it was more like her Moe to my Curly. Surprisingly—despite the contrast—it worked.

When we met she spoke of graduating and travelling Europe. My plans were different. I wanted to see Ohio—all of it. There was the time, indeed, that I urged her to move to Columbus. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” she cried, (and we settled on Cleveland).

And so we fought. Even in the good times—and there were many—we fought.

It’s an unfair equation—divorce. The folly of fighting lingers long after smiles fade. Unfair to all, perhaps. Seven progeny later, do not memories of good times deserve longer shelf life?

She was, though, a better fighter than me. Not meaner—just better. I fought defensively: afraid to show strength, to take stands—afraid to just be myself, to let the chips fall. Like the poker player sitting short stacked at a table, I played not to lose. Indeed, a bit more confidence in myself, a bit more confidence in our pairing….

(Thinking back: did I always run scared? How often—in all parts of life— was I ruled by fear?)

I recall one time, even before the wedding. Selling Highlights in Indianapolis… insecure…my mind started playing the “What if?” game. Stopping at a payphone, I dialed: 1 201 973 6617
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
I didn’t believe her. Aware her east coast friends felt she could do better, I panicked. I don’t know what others do with anxiety, but here’s what I did: Stopping work on a dime I drove eleven hours straight through to Jersey. From Indiana to Ohio to PA—-I 80 wasn’t done back then— to her steps in Passaic.

“Ha, ha…Bruce, my boy,” her Dad greeted me. It was dark by then. “Sherry’s at Roberta’s. She didn’t say you were coming!”

Even with real issues, (and not my imagined ones), she fought better. Not meaner, —just better.

When we tussled then, I craved closure. Immediate closure. I just wanted to know that everything was going to be OK. Not Jersey though; she’d wait. So we’d have a blowout, let’s say, moments before going out with another couple. And then, twenty minutes later, over dinner with the Mandels or Fentons, she’d be smiling, chatting, laughing—as if nothing had happened, as if nothing was pending. Me? I’d be aching inside, studying her facials, wondering just what shoe would fall.

Then it ended. Not immediately, but over time. Not with a bang, but with a whimper. Out of the bedroom in ’91; out of the house in ’93; RIP in ’95. Overnight the loving didn’t matter, the fighting didn’t matter, who was right didn’t matter….and all the kings horses and all the kings men couldn’t put…

I was reminded the other day just how awkward I felt as recently as Michael’s engagement. There we were, mother and father of the groom, in tandem. Long past the last bullet, years into cease fire—yet awkward.

Alas, this too has passed. Time, as it always does, works wonders.

Today I stand in a place of serenity, neutrality. Forty years after she was my first, I feel peace. Yes, our differences, pronounced as ever, remain. And yes, we’re night and day. But there is peace.

People ask me, time and again, “What’s with your ex?”
“I never see her,” I say, “Except for life cycle events.”
(Once, I’m reminded— it was years ago—I walked into Zin with Rolo and the hostess shooed us downstairs quickly—the ex was in the rest room). Rarely though, do our paths cross.

Which is fine.

Today I laugh at the past and if nothing else, accept its unfunny. Three kids…four grandchildren later, it makes for a pretty happy ending.

Exhausted yet exhilarated, it’s good to be home. A wondrous weekend concluded, I am resting…’til the next one.

The pendulum swung east last Friday, and exiting La Guardia, nuzzling the “ziskeit” in the car seat, I spoke:
“He’s the straw that stirs the drink!”
“I like that expression!” said Meredith.
(Honorable man that I am, I confessed: “It’s Reggie Jackson’s line. Can’t believe you’ve never heard it.”)

There can be no greater joy than WATCHING a child-like innocence in a park.  Eyeing it all, Max ambled from swing to slide to teeter totter…smiling all the way. I’m thinking Meredith and I have been in three parks now with Max, (not counting the one upstate with coyotes; we went there Saturday; I didn’t leave the car).

Max loves the park. There wasn’t a time this weekend when in field goal range he didn’t announce it. (It sits, in fact, a block from the Great Neck Diner).  Me? I’d have been announcing the upcoming restaurant. Not my Max, though. He’s evolved.

“Paa…paa”
“Later Max. We’ going to eat now.”
“Paa…paa”

Nor is his growth limited to greenery. Most babies point to their body parts: “Where’s your mouth? “Where’s your nose?’ “Where are your ears?” Elementary!  Others, too, can “Make a muscle.”  Permit me to brag:  Max makes two.  (Big deal, you say? That’s two more than I’ve ever made—and I’m SIXTY-2). Yeah, he’s come a long way since New Year’s Eve—when all he did was stuff a nurf ball.

Ten weeks later, I see the change.

The kid eats avocados, for one. I’m not thrilled with this, of course. The next thing you know they’ll have him eating olives. Let it go, Meredith; he’s a Bogart.

And the kid dovens—on demand.

“Max, show me how you doven,” anyone may ask. Immediately, be he sitting or standing, his neck jerks down, as if in a Sholem Aleichem tale. And the crowd roars…and someone else says “Max, doven!”…and the crowd roars, and….

The kid cares about me, though. He showed it. (I’m not certain he knows who I am but he cares!). Consider:

It was last Friday. Done with the lunch, the swings, the teeter totter, it was nap time for all. Max took the crib, Meredith the bed and me? Worn from an early flight, I hugged the floor. Gladly.

It couldn’t have been an hour later, though. Not certain who woke up first, but it wasn’t me. What I do know is that, eyes closed, face in carpet, palm over forehead, I heard noise.  (It was Meredith).

“He’s OK, Max…Bruce, get up. Show Max you’re OK!”

Peering out I saw the wince of a child staring at some lug on the ground. He looked scared—puzzled at least.

“Get up Bruce.  You’re scaring him.”

Rising like the phoenix:  “I’m OK, Max.”

It was, clearly a weekend of fun and family, all set against an angelic child. All-but-speaking, he directs traffic and misses nothing. By Monday he heard his mother read stories (all of which she knew by heart), learned a grandfather loved Stooges, and yearned for more time with his “best friend ‘La la’”.

And he would have reminded me—as all the children do— he would have reinforced—as (from Michael the oldest through Lucy the youngest) they always do, that it is the time together that matters.

And that we can’t take time for granted.

That it moves too quickly.

But that if I’ve time to be with my children…and my grandchildren…and my family…that I am truly blessed.

And rich. And satisfied. And grateful.

And now, Max:  Let us doven.

For time.

Twin grocery bags emerged through the rear view mirror.  Inside them, days after Pesach, were ten big boxes of matzoh.

I must be mellowing. For whatever reason, I handle Aunt Helen better these days. My mouth stays shut; I let things pass.  Sometimes I even laugh.

This, by the way, is no mean task. Two months shy of 98 she remains one tough lady.

It’s not so much that she’s preferred Hal to me. “”Why wouldn’t I?” she’s said to all. Or that she’s criticized entities as disparate as Cleveland’s Institute Of Music (“I tried to help them. Why don’t they want my list of composers?”) and Giant Eagle (“Don’t tell me how many stores there are. They don’t know how to merchandise.”). It’s not even her discord with others, a constant in all her relationships. No, this is just one tough broad.

Ask Cousin Norm about their recent lunch.

“We’ll go to First Watch,” he said, helping her in the car. “It’s two minutes away.”
“Might we go somewhere else?” she insisted at her passive-aggressive best. “Please. I get out so rarely.”
“What did you have in mind?” he asked—oblivious after all these years.
“Let’s go to the First Watch by Eastgate. The booths are softer.”

No good deed, of course, goes unpunished.

Still I laugh these days and, gazing back at the matzoh, I revel at her nonsense.  At least today.

It was a week ago you see. I was leaving  Jack’s  Deli with Jacobson when a big sign caught my eye. “MATZOH $3.00”.

Immediately I thought of my aunt.  We shop each Friday and as she mistrusts non-kosher bakers, each week she picks up matzoh. Like clockwork.  What a good nephew I might be by jumping on this sale.

I made the call.

With my aunt, though, it’s always what you don’t expect.  Always.

“Aunt Helen,” I said, “Matzoh’s on sale. Should I get some?” (Mid-sentence, the owner Alvie walked by. Clearly, he’d heard our discourse).
“How many you want? Today’s the last day…” he shouted. “I’ll give’m to you for $2.”
In my other ear shried Helen: “Three boxes. Get me three.”

I hung up the phone when my ego took hold.

“How many, Bruce?” urged Alvie.
“I’ll take them all, ” I proclaimed. “Whatever you’ve got!”

I had it all planned out, big shot that I am. Helen wanted three boxes and figured to spend $9.00. I could give her TEN boxes—I would tell her they wound up being a dollar apiece—and for the extra dollar she’d be thrilled, she’d have matzoh through the summer and best of all:  I’d be a hero.

Alas, like I said: with my aunt, it’s always what you don’t expect.

I wasn’t even out of Jack’s lot when my cellphone buzzed. It was her. This, (I knew), could not be good for the Jews.

“Aunt Helen?” I said. “Is everything OK?”
“Where are you?”
“At Jack’s. We just talked. Is everything OK?”
“I’m glad you’re still there,” she said. “I changed my mind. Don’t buy me the matzoh.”

Tongue deep in cheek I turned to my aunt. “Harold and I are going to the Three Stooges movie. Do you want to join us?” Her silence was deafening.

I’ve read that the world is made of two types of people. There are those who think The Stooges are funny—and those who don’t understand why others think so. It’s a dynamic not limited to Larry, Curly and Moe and a paradigm that reminds me of Stuart and yes…myself.

To this day, Fenton makes me laugh; (I’m in the minority). Decades down the road his nonsense, repetitive as it is, breaks me up. Years after the first phony phone call I roar as he gives French lessons by phone. Indeed, it’s a gift that keeps on giving. Was I not (just weeks ago) reciting his foreign gibberish in Great Neck? I love too, STILL, Stu’s “agitate and aggravate” game plan. How often in Vegas a few years back, did Snyder demand of me “B, why do you have to egg him on?” Indeed, Arthur wasn’t laughing, Ermine wasn’t laughing. No, these two lifelong friends, frustrated, just stared at two schmucks from Bayard…laughing.

Maybe it IS us? Does it matter?

It was 1972. Out east for my wedding, my eightyish grandmother unpacked at the Jersey motel. Looking up, she found, hanging proudly, a framed watercolor painted years earlier by her niece. Perplexed, this grand lady, fluent in seven languages, turned to my father:

“Albert, why is this here?”
“Bruce,” he chortled, perhaps even putting down his cigarette. “Are you responsible for this?” Triumphantly I recounted sneaking it from her duplex to my suitcase to the wall of the Howard Johnson’s.

My dad laughed of course, and I laughed— but his mother just stared. Not only did she not GET the joke, but she didn’t know there was one.

Some bits never get old.

Adorning the stage of my recent show was a massive framed photograph of yours truly. It was, perhaps, 12 by 18. Moreover, final curtain having fallen and its value gone, they gave it to me. What to do…

Days after we closed Stacy came in. As I stopped to see her (she stayed with the ex), opportunity knocked. Hard. Readying for dinner, The Little One erred leaving me alone downstairs. What better to do than pull the picture from my trunk (it might have stayed there a year), gingerly replace the dusty framing of three barefoot kids that Ms. Jersey had in her living room, and keep quiet?

There is nothing as powerful as an idea whose time has come. There is, moreover, no greater aphrodisiac than positive reinforcement.

Enthralled by my nonsense, Stacy not only took a picture of my picture on her mother’s wall, but put it on Facebook. As if that wasn’t enough, days later, some 350 miles away, my brother-in-law responded:

“…That reminds me…” he posted, “…of when either your father or Uncle Harold brought a picture from your Great grandmother’s (and Aunt Helen’s) house and hung it in their hotel room at your parent’s (sic) wedding….”

Joel’s validation, his memory some forty years later, spoke volumes.

As far as I can tell, my visage hung at the ex’s for days—at least through their first Seder. I sense this because at the SECOND Seder, the subject arose. At the hind end of the table, away from the madding crowd, I sat there listening. Innocently listening.

Stacy regaled them, sharing the story of the picture on the wall, and how the night before the Seder guests had laughed… and how no one knew YET where the picture of the children was.

“Where is it Bruce?” demanded my ex.
“Trust me, it’s safe,” I said. “Still on the property site”
“Just tell me where it is,” she repeated, (more frustrated than mad).

They were laughing, my brother and crew. They’d seen the movie before but still they were laughing.

“It’s in your garage,” I told her. “Protected.”
“Thank you,” she said, and turned to the masses.

“You think it’s funny?” she asked rhetorically. “You try living with him!”
And then they laughed harder. Much harder.

(Not all of them, I must say. I didn’t laugh. At all. Not only didn’t I GET the joke—I didn’t know there was one).

With his familial warmth my brother, sitting at the closed end of the table, held forth. On his left elbow Friday night, in the only seat not requiring a place card, was Aunt Helen. Bill James had it as her 195th Seder, (recalling with her how she’d been suspended from a second Seder years back). Me? I sat at the other end—the open end. It was away from the heavy-hitters—almost another zipcode in fact—but a better seat. On my elbow, cradled as a bundle of bliss, was Lucy.  Unfazed, 760 Passover nights behind her great, great aunt, she watched the show.

You’re not missing anything if you’ve never been to a Bogart Seder, (unless of course, you have a sense of humor). We sing in Hebrew, read in English and revere our heritage. Still, as much as anything else, we laugh.

I love this holiday; I specifically love the meals. In a common foxhole, Jews congregate, recalling, remembering what Pharoah did to us.

“Seder” means “order”. In proscribed fashion we run through liturgy honoring old traditions, creating new ones….and speak to the past.

Each family, of course, has its own NONSENSE: matters funny only to that clan—doings that would not and could not be appreciated any place other than under that one roof. Upgrading this narishkeit, we dub it tradition. This gives it street cred.

The Haggadah, for example, notes ten plagues. Twice yearly our people dip pinkies in wine, methodically reciting “Dom, blood…Tsfardayah, frogs…” Our cutting edge family has eleven.  While globally members of the tribe build poignantly to that tenth affliction, (killing of the first born), Bogarts keep dipping. “Itzy,” we chant, “…Ed….”,  paying homage to our mother’s errant spouse.

I laugh. H laughs. Even Helen smiles. (If our mother had married only twice, IT WOULD HAVE BEEN ENOUGH!) “Dayeinu”, we say.

Not all new wrinkles find ready acceptance. Hal’s handout this year—the lyrics to “He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother”—met with mixed results. Yes, nearly twenty sang along, but yes too…it sounded like a dirge. My sense is he’ll speed up the audio next spring, in a make-or-break year.

A tired Lucy left mid-Seder, (actually, right after that song). By morning she was fresh. On a sunny northeast Ohio day (that’s why people move here!), two parents, two grandpas and a baby brunched in the ambience of Sara’s Place.
As our infant slept soundly, we spoke of health, of baby naming…and of the present. Lucy, to the side of our four-top, was at my elbow.

Then came Sunday.

They were leaving town, so I stopped to see her. The baby.

She was upstairs in her grandma’s crib. Sleeping.

I had never been upstairs at the ex’s house. Not in all those years. It wasn’t, frankly, on my Bucket List.

“May I go up?” I asked Stacy, (sensing a Yes).
“Of course.”
“Come with me.”

My Little One led me quietly to her little one. “Don’t wake her,” she urged, (like I was some idiot that would stick his head in and a la Jerry Lewis shriek “HEY LADYYYYYYYYYYYY” !

And then she left us alone and I was quiet, only softer. So not to disturb.
This child sleeping at my elbow? I had her back.

For ten minutes I stood there, staring at the crib—at the bundle. They don’t wrap’em like they used to, I thought. What if she got cold? (I wondered). Shouldn’t there be more cover?

We’ve all been there. Watching them—squinting hard…until we’re sure we see the chest expand, contract—until we see them breathe…

So we can breathe.
And smile.
And think of their futures.

Two brothers stared intently, their heads tilting at 45 degrees. Clearly, the hanging monitor offered a better, closer view of talent on stage. Eyeing the same screen, my bet is Hal and I saw different things. H probably focused on instrumentation. No doubt he studied the guitarists, their fingerwork. Try as I might, though, I saw the rings—the wedding rings. And I asked myself again: how is it everyone in this world is coupled, even these road-weary burnouts….but not me?.

I don’t care like I used to; I really don’t. But I notice; it’s hard not to. And I think about it too; it’s hard not to. That having been said, today, more than ever, I understand.

It bears mentioning that that the one common thread I’d noticed in Saturday’s acts, (from Sam Minus Dave through Creedence), was that all four fossils seemed to sense, to accept that their true glory days had passed. Still, they bled of gratitude, oozing joy at the opportunity to just be out there, in the arena…playing. They seemed to know their places in the grand scheme of things; they seemed content.

It’s occurred to me—just since the concert—that instead of worrying about why I’m not in a relationship, instead of counting the wedding rings, I’d be better served if, like the musicians, I just accepted my place in the sun. Fact is, when it comes to romance, I’m no kid anymore. Do I not, though, have value? I’m like the young pitcher that has a good career (the back of my baseball card would show 22 years with my first team), and then, relegated to the bullpen, finishes up bouncing from team to team, quite often at mid-season. But I still have value.

I am, in baseball parlance, the perfect “middle reliever”.

No longer young enough to plan a lifetime with someone, not fiscally up to the “closer” role, it occurs to me that, again…I’m the perfect middle reliever. Indeed: factor age and finance from the equation and who better than I to keep someone in the game until she gets to her late innings? ESPECIALLY when her starting pitcher got knocked out!

I’m not only reasonably nice, but with a modicum of charm, three or four innings? Cake.

Names aren’t necessary. We all get it. Run down the relationships (should I term them “interim interactions”?) that I’ve had since ’95. What did they have in common? Each and every lady had pulled her starting pitcher and after a while…there I was. Safe, (dare I say refreshing?), I’ve been their optimal middle reliever, their perfect pathway to final innings—their segue to times when, rebalanced, they again risked their hearts.

It’s not a bad gig…really. Middle relievers rarely win, but they never lose. They walk into messes, bring stability, rarely get Saves, but never get booed. And they make friends wherever the go.

They’re in the game…playing…like aging guitarists…playing.

Some middle relievers, by the way—in the twilight of their careers, get to the World Series.

And some of them win it.

And for that they get rings.