WATCH OUT FOR THE TROMBONE

Samuel Taylor Coleridge wrote, “Swans sing before they die---t’were no bad thing did certain persons die before they sing.”

The world is filled with unsuccessful singing careers, but many of those vocalists, with hope in their hearts and unrealistic expectations, continue to pollute the air with unpleasant sounds.

Two weeks ago, I attended a big band concert with my two best friends. The band was most entertaining, and the talented soloists made my heart sing. I enjoyed the evening immensely, until the bandleader announced that we were in for a big surprise. Ever since Pearl Harbor, I don’t like surprises. This one was a big man, who walked onto the stage without bending his knees—kind of like a mini-march. He stood in front of one of the trombonists, jerked his shoulders from side to side, snapped his fingers, and put the microphone into his mouth. Either he was going to swallow the thing, or sing.

I had driven several miles, paid good money to listen to a big band. Putting Herman Munster into the mix was like sticking a maraschino cherry into a dry martini. As he began to sing, the guys in the band were grooving and didn’t seem to pay much attention to the warbler. It would have been nice if this singer had at least pretended to keep up with them.

His performance reminded me of when George Burns said, “I love to sing, and I love to drink scotch. Most people would rather hear me drink scotch.” When the vocalist belted out “It’s almost like being in love,” he should have sung,” It’s almost like being alive.”

During one song, I think the trombonist stabbed him in the rear, but instead of bleeding, he pointed to the sky and hit a high note. The man had no rapport with the audience. As a matter of fact, he was so enamored with his own performance that he forgot there was an audience. My thoughts began to wander, but he got my attention when he snapped his fingers and shouted, “Come on Band!” I don’t know why he yelled at them because by this time they seemed to be doing just fine without him.

It was time for intermission. One of my friends (the kind one) suggested, “Maybe the singer is suffering from stage fright.” I replied, “Sometimes an entertainer has stage fright, but this is the first time I’ve seen an entire audience afraid that the guy is coming back out to sing.”

I read somewhere that music can make chickens lay more eggs, but I know chickens, and this character couldn’t even imitate a good cock-a-doodle-doo.
After the break, the band returned and Herman Munster staggered in behind them. He had one more offering for the audience. He began to sing, “What a day this has been”---as if I didn’t know by now. He then beat his chest with both fists when he belted out—“A bell is ringing for me!” Scattered applause accompanied him off the stage. “Ask not for whom the bell tolls”---and all that stuff.

To paraphrase Thomas Beecham, “Some people don’t appreciate music, but love the noise it makes.”

Esther Blumenfeld (“Listen Edith, I know you’re singing, you know you’re singing, but the neighbors may think I’m torturing you.”) Archie Bunker

I LIKE YOU--OR NOT!

There is a certain person who is always going to dislike you. It is a fact of life. Get over it! My philosophy is, “Go ahead and detest me. Just be quiet about it.”

I had a conversation with a clinical psychologist at a party. He said, “It’s a given that people like to be liked.” He also said, “A baby goose will follow the first creature that is nice to it.” I responded, “You are probably aware that some people don’t like psychologists.” “Yes,” he replied. “I have experienced that.” “So,” I said. “Have you ever considered becoming a goose-herd?” He started talking to someone else. Finding people boring is not the same as disliking them. I can escape into my own happy thoughts while they drone on and on.

Some people dislike their own body parts. If they dislike enough of them, they then end up loathing themselves. Why do that, when there are plenty of people around who are willing to do it for you?

Children are very good at manipulation when they are being reprimanded. Often, they will say, “You don’t love me.” That is the opportunity to teach the difference between love and like. “I love you, but I don’t like what you did. Lunch boxes are for sandwiches, not for hitting Johnny in the head.”

With computers, you can be instantly “friended” or “un-friended” on Facebook, and you don’t even have to know those people, before they decide to dislike you.

Some people make snap judgments when they first meet someone. They don’t know why they dislike that person, but it’s a “gut feeling.” Of course, if he’s holding a gun and demands your wallet, the snap judgment is acceptable.

I prefer when people I dislike are far away. I don’t wish them bad. I just wish them distance.

Entertainers have their own likes and dislikes. My friend, Robert Orben, who wrote for Red Skelton told me that, when on stage, Skelton couldn’t stand it when a member of the audience wasn’t enjoying his act. One evening he noticed a man sitting in the front row who wasn’t laughing, even though the rest of the audience was rolling in the aisles with laughter. So, Skelton played directly to that man. The fellow never cracked a smile. Dejected, Red Skelton came off stage and said, “What’s wrong with that guy? I gave him my best.” Later it was discovered that the man didn’t speak English.

Elizabeth Taylor hated to be called “Liz,” and Whoopi Goldberg said, “Most of all,  I dislike this idea nowadays that if you’re a black person in America, then you must be called African-American. Listen, I’ve visited Africa, and I’ve got news for everyone. I’m not an African.”

The extreme of dislike is hatred and bigotry. Bigots are really good at disliking people. It’s a dirty job, but I guess someone’s got to do it. I always say that you know that you aren’t a bigot, if you dislike someone for the right reason, such as; “He’s an ass!”

The best advice I can offer is to be happy in front of people who don’t like you. It will drive them crazy.

Esther Blumenfeld (“He has all of the virtues I dislike and none of the vices I admire.” Winston Churchill)

SIMPLE SIMON

We have entered the silly season, and for the next few months we will listen to politicians make claims such as, “My Daddy is bigger than your Daddy.”

A knowledgeable guest on NPR (National Public Radio) informed listeners that the average reading level of people in the United States is between 8th and 9th grade, so now political strategists have advised their clients to “dumb down” language. They suggest that candidates who have graduated from schools such as Harvard or Princeton use simple words such as “duh” when trying to convince people to vote for them.

Of course, this advice extends to political debates. Beware when a candidate says, “I am speechless!” I can promise you that he will not be at a loss for
words---lots and lots and lots of words. So, in our future we will listen to political debates that will go something like this:

Candidate #1:  I started out dirt poor.

Candidate #2:  Well, I am filthy rich and proud of it, and people in this country want to end up as filthy as I am.

Candidate #1:  The cat is out of the bag. I care more about the middle class than you do.

Candidate #2:  You hurt my feelings. I like the middle class. As a matter of fact, I am head over heels in love with the middle class. You started out dirt poor, and I am filthy rich, and they are in the middle. Why wouldn’t I like people who stand between you and me?

Candidate #1:  I am concerned about the health of our citizens. They eat too much junk food.

Candidate #2:  Maybe if the Packers had a running game, they’d be more in shape.

Candidate #1:  You just lost Wisconsin. Yippee!

Candidate #2:  But I’m fit as a fiddle, so the Boston Pops will vote for me.

Candidate #1:  A little bird told me that the job market is improving. That makes me happy as a clam.

Candidate #2:  Fat chance you can make that claim. Tell that to the guy who doesn’t have a job.

Candidate # 1:  I just did.

Candidate #2:  Slim chance you are going to keep yours.

Candidate #1:  Beating you will be easy as pie. You are a bully.

Candidate #2:  That is the pot calling the kettle black.

Candidate #1: You are a racist.

Candidate #2:  I take umbrage to that assertion.

Candidate #1:  Ha! Ha! I made you use big words.

Candidate #2:  I will see you again at the next debate.

Candidate #1:  How about I send you an autographed picture instead?

Esther Blumenfeld (I approve this message)

MAJOR TRUST ISSUES

You can leave your estate to a college or your Beagle. When I see what’s happening on our college campuses I’d root for the hound.

No matter if you call it a will or a trust or a bequeath, it’s all relative to your relationships.  However, if you are a sour-puss, and don’t have any relationships, you can always consider being buried wrapped in your money. Of course, then your mortician just might retire to the Riviera. Being buried with your valuables isn’t a new idea. The Pharaohs of Egypt were mummified and put under with lots of gold and jewels only to be dug up and exhibited years later in museums around the world. I’ve never heard someone at an exhibit say, “He must have been a really nice guy.”

Someone once said, “We cannot inherit the earth—we can only take it out as a loan.” My Mother used to say, “It’s better to give with a warm hand than a cold one.” I had a friend who decided not to leave anything to her beloved daughter-in-law, who had always been so kind to her because, “If my son dies, she might re-marry again, and that fellow would get my money.”
At that, I suggested to my friend, “It’s also not a good idea to leave your money to your cardiologist.”

Money can be the “root of all evil” but it doesn’t have to be. My husband, Warren used to say, “There’s never too much money, but at some point there’s enough.” I’ve never seen a headstone that says, “Joe Schmo—owner of a big stock portfolio.” However, I have often seen,
“beloved husband, father and friend.”

When Leona Helmsley died in 2007, she left $12 million to her Maltese pup, Trouble. That’s $12 million more than two of her grandchildren received. Those two contested the Will in court leading a judge to cut Trouble’s inheritance down to $2 million, and hand the grandchildren over $6 million. Not only was the Will contested, but I suspect that the Grandmother was detested.  I’m sure this ended up with major trust issues.

“ The meek shall inherit the earth.”  Ever try to tip a waiter with a handful of dirt? It’s probably a good idea not to count on an inheritance, but rather build a good life and then be pleasantly surprised.  

To quote from the book “Minx,” by Julia Quinn:  “How delightful, Dunford had just come into an unexpected inheritance. She rather hoped it was something good.  One of her friends had just unwillingly inherited thirty-seven cats.”

Be careful what you wish for!

Esther Blumenfeld

HOW OLD ARE YOU?

Yesterday, I met a friend for dinner and as we looked at the menu, she said, “I need to order something that will help me lose 5 pounds by tomorrow.” I suggested that she order a cake made of Ex-Lax.

 Later we went to a club that featured a new comic who was quite funny. I noticed that everyone in the small theatre was laughing heartily except one woman whose face was frozen. Her eyebrows were locked in the up position, her eyelids couldn’t blink or wink and her mouth resembled the grimace worn by Batman’s nemesis, The Joker. “What makes her face so tight?” I asked my friend. “Botox” she replied. “That woman is chock full of Botox.”  Ouch!

Children are eager to grow up. “Can’t wait to be 16 so I can drive.” “Can’t wait to graduate from high school so I can go to college.” “Can’t wait to be 21 so I can drink beer.” Then the desire to age comes to a screeching halt. “Oh, my God, I’m 40, and only have 50 or 60 years left.” Most people love Mother Nature’s elixirs that promise eternal youth, but they intensely dislike Father Time.

A few months ago, while hiking up Heartbreak Hill, I saw a man stop and gasp for air. I took one look at his grey complexion, gave him my bottle of water and forced him to sit down on the nearest boulder. He said, “ I feel faint,” so I made him put his head between his knees. When he came up for air, his color was better, but I noticed a heart monitor. “Do you want me to call 911 or your wife?” I asked. “He begged me not to call either one of them. “My wife would be worse than 911,” he said as he admitted, “My doctor told me not to do this yet.” “So why are you doing it? I shouted at my patient. “Because I have been hiking to the top of this mountain since I was 17-years-old,”he replied. “Well,” I said, “Obviously, you aren’t 17 anymore.” I insisted on accompanying him to the parking lot, and scolded the “Bloody Fool” all the way to his car. I also threatened to call his wife if he ever did anything so stupid again. Turns out that my charge was the CEO of a big corporation, which did not prevent him from being a 70-year-old birdbrain.

I met a nurse who used to work for a plastic surgeon. She said, “I had to quit when I saw an 87-year-old woman crawl across the parking lot to get yet another face lift.” As my mother would say, “She might look like a gymnasium from the rear, but she looks like a mausoleum from the front.”

Old age is not contagious but it is inevitable and carries no shame.  It is smart to maximize on our genetics with healthy habits (you know what they are), but the body is a wondrous machine that will, with time, wear down and out.  In the meantime remember that the best face-lift is a smile, and the best diet is a dose of laughter with friends. Being the thinnest, unwrinkled person in the cemetery is not a memorable accomplishment.

Esther Blumenfeld (one day older---so what!)