Uncle Pete

I didn't get to choose my first family. But I did get to choose my second.

And Pete Caubisens, who passed away a few days ago, was a huge part of it.

Many years ago my pal Richard introduced me to a friend of his named Rémi Aubuchon. I knew fairly quickly this Rémi character was going to fast become a new best friend. What I didn't know was how important Remi's family would become in my life. In some ways, with absolutely no disrespect to my own beautiful parents who had their hands more than full with me, Rémi's would often be my family of choice.

Living first in Brentwood then in Santa Monica when we met, I'd always look forward to driving (willing) my orange Super Beetle over the hill to the valley, then up the hill to Remi's house in Woodland Hills. It was always a welcoming, safe place, giving me many things I couldn't get in my own home.

Family, in the bigger sense of the word, was one of them.

Rémi's father Jacques was an accomplished actor. I was a theater arts major. Jacques didn't like flying. At the time I had a huge fear of flying. We'd sit for hours, talking about acting and how flight was still just a theory.

While we're here, one more thing about my major.

My parents were older when they had me, and like many parents of their era they had some old school thinking on what was a real job and what wasn't. Let's just say there wasn't a lot of love in my house for being a theater arts major (they were Jewish - doctor and lawyer were genetically programmed to be at the top of their list).

Where was I? Okay. Rémi's mom Denise, who looks like Ellen Burstyn, was an artistic, warm and welcoming presence. In my eyes she was always accepting and non-judgemental. It was like a breath of fresh air (perhaps I've revealed too much).

I was also close to his sister Danielle (the birthday girl in the picture above), and while his brother Philippe always marched to his own drummer, I constantly enjoyed his company and humor, and always loved hearing his take on things.

It was just good being around them. It felt like what a home should feel like.

Because of how I felt about Rémi's family, and the way I felt about my own at the time, for many years I spent Thanksgiving and Christmas at his house.

On one of those holidays early on, Denise's brother Pete was out from New York. Pete was an attorney for the airlines, so naturally with my fears I had all sorts of questions for him. I'd never met someone who knew so much about wind shear and bird ingestion (not the Thanksgiving kind, the jet engine kind).

Pete and I hit it off right from the get-go. He had a gentle brilliance and a sharp wit about him. He was funny as hell. He was worldly and sophisticated. He had a smile that lit up a room. And a laugh that let you know how much he was enjoying life.

He was New York cool.

I know what you're thinking: that he was also somewhat of a father figure to me. Is it that obvious?

The conversation turned to New York. Pete said I was welcome to stay at his place on the upper east side anytime I wanted. So I took him up on it. I was there about a week, using his place as my base camp.

I remember meeting him for lunch one day. He took me to my first real French restaurant. Escargot, rude waiters, the whole neuf yards. It was awesome.

Afterwards, as we were walking down 5th Avenue, it started to snow. It was the first time in my life I'd ever seen falling snow. It was magical. It's a feeling I'll always associate with Pete.

Time marches on and everyone's life gets busier. And while I talked to Pete less and less over the years, ironically I thought about him more and more.

When Rémi (here with the coolest uncle ever) let me know Pete was gone, he said one of the reasons he wanted me to know was because he knew how much I enjoyed him and his company.

But I don't think he really did. In fact, I don't think I did until I heard he'd died.

I don't know many things for sure, but I do know that Rémi's family, New York and my life are all better for Pete having been a part of them.

The other thing I know is, as of last week, heaven is a much more welcoming place.

Case of the blues

I only own one real piece of art. You're looking at it. Well, you're kind of looking at it.

The original painting, the family seated at the table, is called The Aioli Dinner by George Rodrigue. But when he added Tiffany (his corgi who passed on only to be reincarnated as the Blue Dog) to the painting, it was retitled Eat, Drink and Forget The Blues.

Despite the fact there are several of these paintings around, each one is unique. Rodrigue created a limited number of direct image transfers from the original and mounted them on masonite. Then he repainted the entire work again over them, adding nuance and variance to the colors, contrast and shadings each time. In every one, Tiffany is in a slightly different position with subtle differences in her expression.

As you can see, on the one we own she's sitting more to the right, just in front of the older blonde man looking to the left at the head of the table. And in case you were wondering, yes that is the frame the picture came in (they can't all be adman black now can they?).

This picture of the picture was taken with my iPhone 3GS. I can't believe I'm still using that relic - I need a new one if for no other reason than the 8 megapixel camera. I'm going to wait for the iPhone 5 though since it's only six months away. And I know I'd hate myself for not having the bigger screen.

But I digress.

I fell in love with the Blue Dog a year before I actually bought it. The wife and I were visiting her family (don't get me started) in Carmel. As we were strolling the quaint blocks of the seaside town, looking for Mayor Clint Eastwood and seeing if we could find a restaurant open after 9PM, we found the Blue Dog Gallery.

Among all the Blue Dog paintings on display, I couldn't stop looking at the Aioli Dinner.

We spoke with the curator of the gallery, Wendy, who wound up years later being the next Mrs. Rodrigue and the subject of many of his paintings like this one to the left. (She also has a wonderful blog called Musing's of an Artist's Wife). I asked her how much it cost, and she told me. It's probably worth noting that at this point in my life, the only things hanging on my walls were my Springsteen posters. And the Blue Dog cost way more than those.

I told her we'd think about it. So we thought about it. For a year.

When we walked in a year later, two great things happened. One was that Wendy remembered us. The other was that George Rodrigue happened to be at the gallery. Wendy introduced us and we all talked for a bit.

Then the discussion turned from art to commerce. She broke the bad news to us as gently as she could: the price of the painting had doubled in the course of a year. But because she recalled how much we'd loved it and how badly we'd wanted it, she generously offered to split the difference between the prices.

Rodrigue also happened to be in a particularly good mood, so he threw in this Blue Dog lithograph.

He put it on the counter, picked up a silver marker, and started drawing on it (I particularly like the Groucho glasses). My wife went into a panic, leaning over to me saying, "He's ruining it!" To which I replied, "Are you serious? He's just made it even more valuable. Now it's really one of a kind."

He signed it and gave it to us.

I don't know if it's still there, but at the time the Blue Dog Gallery had a layaway plan called the Kennel Club. They held onto the painting until it was paid for. No minimum payments. No time limit. I was extremely diligent about sending a check up whenever I could spare it.

I couldn't wait to see it in my home.

I waited four years to see it in my home.

But that's not the point. The point is it's here and we love it. Just like my wife, I still feel the same way about it as when I first saw it (can you say "marriage points").

One thing I particularly love is how much it's appreciated (the painting and the wife). The other thing I love is just how damn happy it makes me.

Especially when I'm the one who's blue.

Visiting Paula again

It's been a little over a year since I posted about visiting my friend Paula who has Alzheimer's. Judging by the comments I received both here and on Facebook, it was a post that seemed to strike a chord with a lot of readers.

Ever since that visit I've been meaning to go back. I've thought of her often, looked for a time and day and tried to organize my schedule around a trip to that part of L.A. so I could do it. I suppose had I wanted to badly enough I would've found a way.

But the truth is that, in equal parts, I wanted to and I didn't want to.

My visit with her last September was so unsettling, I didn't know how I would bear up doing it again - even though afterwards I was extremely glad I'd been there (and, ignoring all evidence to the contrary, hoping on some level, somewhere in her failing mind, she was too).

I went to see Paula for the second time yesterday. And I have pastrami and my longtime friend Ned to thank for it.

Ned and I have been trying to get together for awhile, and we finally did yesterday. Ned suggested we meet at Langer's Deli on 7th and Alvarado right across from MacArthur Park. Langer's is "home of the world's best pastrami sandwich", and for years Ned has told me how great it is. Come to find out he wasn't kidding. I imagine it's what pastrami in heaven must taste like.

Because Langer's is about a five minute drive from the facility where Paula lives, it was the perfect time to pay her a second visit.

Walking into the place brought back a rush of memories from the first visit. The pale blue hallway walls, the locked doors of the Alzheimer's wing, the vacant eyes of the patients staring at me from the doorways of their rooms. Some smiling at me. Some screaming.

The first time I was there, Paula was walking down the hallway on her own. This time, I had to speak with the head nurse, tell her who I was there to see, and then she had another nurse walk Paula out to me.

When I saw her, it was startling for a few reasons. Despite the fact it's only been about a year, Paula seemed much more fragile than the first time. Her hair, which on the first visit had been somewhat close to the way she used to wear it when we worked together, except a little grayer, was now long, stringy and not entirely clean looking. Where before she walked fairly normally, in fact even rapidly, she now moved in slow, shuffling steps on the linoleum floor.

When she saw me, she smiled and said, "How are ya?" The disarming thing about it was I could tell it had no connection to seeing me or greeting anyone. They were just words that didn't register any meaning for her as she spoke them. In the same way longtime coma patients will suddenly open their eyes or blink rapidly, Paula asking the question was a reflex from a life and mind long gone.

As before, I took her hand and we walked in circles around the ward. The only way I can explain the conversation Paula was having with herself, even though occasionally looking at me, is that she seemed to have more strength in her dementia. Her words were clear and articulate. She'd ask a question and wait for an answer. Then follow up with a comment that had no relation to either.

There's a wooden handrail that runs on the walls between each of the rooms. As we walked, occasionally Paula would stop, turn to the handrail, and not lean on it but hold it and talk to it for awhile as if it was the one thing in the place that could really understand her.

Then we'd move on.

I've said it before, but it bears repeating: the people working at her facility are angels on earth. I can't imagine coming to work everyday knowing nothing will get better. In fact knowing it will eventually go the other way. But day in and day out, that's what these caregivers do. And while in real life it's not as neat or sensitive as it's sometimes portrayed in the movies, it is remarkable to see the affection and attachment they have to their patients.

At one point in our stroll, we met up with the activity director at the facility. We spoke for a bit about the person Paula used to be, and maybe still was somewhere neither of us would ever see. The conversation then turned to Roy, the man Paula lived with for years and who bailed on her when she started going downhill. But not before ripping her off financially. Paula, Roy and I worked together at an agency, and even back then he was riding on her coattails. He was an account guy, but in reality he was a fraud - a talentless hack who specialized in ass kissing.

Roy is a story for another post. But I will say it's going to be an extremely bad day for him if we ever run into each other again.

On this visit I spent about 45 minutes with Paula. She got tired and agitated towards the end. A nurse had joined us in our walk, and Paula led us to the locked door of the ward. She wasn't trying to get out, and I don't even know if she understands the world she's left is on the other side. I hope not.

I've promised myself I won't let so much time go by between now and my next visit. It's a promise I'm going to do everything I can to keep. Paula won't know the difference if I do or not.

But I will.

You're breaking up

It's not exactly a contest, but I'm thinking this is definitely going to be an audience participation post.

I don't know why this is on my mind (Note to wife: really dear, no reason), but I was thinking about break-up songs. Not the crappy, syrupy ones that have too many strings and A minor notes (impressed aren't you?). Not the teen heartache or poppy Neil Sedaka-esque ones either.

I'm talking about the ones I listened to over and over that either perfectly captured the misery of the moment, or said what I wished I had.

Break-up songs are like fingerprints: everyone has one that's unique to them and their situation. Some are wistful. Some are vengeful. And some just kind of tell it the way it is. That's the kind I usually gravitated to because those songs were always the hardest to argue with.

So not surprisingly, here's the one that was always my favorite.

Now to the audience participation part. First of all, I don't think there's anyone who doesn't like to re-live one of the most painful times in their life over and over (Jewish, hello?).

Here's what we're going to do: let me know your favorite break-up song, and why. As they come in, an impartial panel of break-up and relationship experts here at Rotation And Balance International Headquarters will select the five most popular ones. Not only will they be posted here, but if you're the one who submitted it you'll also receive your break-up song as a gift from iTunes (I'll get your email addresses when we have the winners). That way, when the mood strikes, you'll be able to experience the excruciating pain of a failed relationship over and over again.

It'll be like you're an honorary Jew. Except without the bad wine and lackluster holidays.

You're welcome.

Big apple. Big regret.

New York is the center of the universe. You can argue that point, but of course why would you? You'd be wrong and you'd lose.

Pulsing with possibility, unlike L.A. or Detroit, New York isn't a one company town. Telecommunications, fashion, commerce, advertising, movies, television, theater, finance, art, publishing and more. It's all there for the taking.

One of the great rites of passage in anyone's life is their first trip to New York. The energy, the crowds, the buildings and architecture (not counting the Trump buildings), the lights - it's unforgettable.

This past summer my son got to experience it all. That's the good news. The bad news is he got to experience it without me.

I wanted to be the one to show both my kids New York for the first time. When I found out towards the end of last year that my son was going on a class trip to Washington D.C. and New York this past June, I thought it'd be great to take him there first. For starters, he'd have a leg up on his class. I'd show him things he wouldn't see with the class (get that thought out of your head). Plus he'd know his way around when he got there with the group.

And most importantly, he would have seen the city for the first time with me.

Long story short, if that's possible at this point, is like so much in life, it came down to timing. I couldn't make the days work for everyone's schedule so the family could go together. And the days we could all go, seats weren't available (I was going to cash in airline miles for the trip before the airline took them away or told me they "expired").

So he went with his class. And without me. It may not be a big deal in the scheme of things, but it feels like it. It's like someone else taught him to ride a bike or how to shave or drive a car. To me, New York is something you learn from your dad. Maybe it's because my dad was from Brooklyn that I feel so strongly about it. Even writing about it now makes my heart hurt. It kills me. I just should've poured gas on the credit cards, yanked him out of school and gone.

Would'a could'a should'a.

Rational or not, logical or not, big deal or not, I know I'll always regret not doing it.

Anyone who knows me will tell you I'm not exactly a glass-half-full guy. But, as many people have pointed out to me, after having said all this, there are a couple positive points to be made.

One is that I got to learn a lesson apparently I need to keep learning - only it sunk in deeper than ever before this time. That's if I want to do something, then do it. Find a way. Don't wait. I don't take no for an answer in many lesser parts of my life, I won't do it again on something that holds this much meaning for me.

Another thing is the trip he went on was an educational outing to those cities. The class was running around from sun up to almost midnight every night, and was actually only in the city for two days. Which means even though he did ride a subway, see a Broadway show and go to the top of the Empire State Building for the first time without me, there are still plenty of great New York experiences waiting for us to have together.

Ray's pizza.

Off Broadway. Off off Broadway.

Showing him Sparks Steak House where Paul Castellano got whacked (because what kid shouldn't know about that).

Taking him to a taping of Letterman.

Having a cannoli at Ferrara's (leave the gun, take the cannoli).

Seeing a show at and explaining the legendary history of the Apollo.

Seeing a show at Madison Square Garden, and showing him where I sat when I saw Springsteen. Twice.

There are also the many friends I haven't seen in so long, and who have never met my kids. We could fill up a week with that alone.

So, from now on I'll make a point of trying not to dwell on what could've been, and I'll start narrowing my focus to all the things I will get to show him.

And while I'm at it, I'll keep a smile on my face. Because I know exactly who's going to show my daughter New York for the first time.

Facebook feud

I think if I'm going to be honest with myself - which so rarely pays off - I have to admit that the thrill of Facebook has been gone for some time. I still have my account, but mainly as a way of linking my fabulous, intelligent, discerning and loyal readers to this blog.

Don't get me wrong: sometimes, when the mood strikes, there's just no substitute for knowing what my friends had for breakfast, how they're feeling, what they're watching, who they're with, the latest new age quote they like, seeing pictures of their dog (cat, parrot, fish, etc.), reading which team they like/don't like, linking to their blogs, reading what they think of the weather and seeing that video clip from YouTube that's been posted to my wall ten times because, let's face it, my friends have the same sense of humor as I do.

But lately the mood for all that isn't striking very often. And after the Facebook experience I had over the weekend, I imagine it will strike a lot less.

Like most people on FB, I have different circles of "friends." There's the inner circle, the next to the inner circle, whatever the next circle is and then the one after that.

Then on the very last ring, way out on the periphery, are the acquaintances. People I've met once or twice, and in a casual trying-to-be-nice way, either invited or accepted their invitation to be friends. They're not the problem. The problem is they have friends I've never met who occasionally like to chime in on one of my comments.

One of these outer ring people, a very nice person I met once, decided to post this poster on her wall. I had an issue with the use of Steve Jobs image, and the implication of his responsibility for the starving and famine-stricken children in Africa. It didn't seem fair or accurate and I said so.

A friend of my acquaintance took strong exception to what I was saying, and we proceeded to get into a fierce, fiery, name-calling back and forth on her wall about it. During the course of the "discussion", this person made the point that she had a doctorate from Johns Hopkins and was a world history teacher.

Both impressive accomplishments. But she was still wrong.

Yet late into the evening she was still writing columns about why she disagreed. I admit for a good part of the day I couldn't wait to look on FB and see what babbling rant she'd posted so I could reply. I got sucked into the ramblings of a crazy person I didn't know.

With a doctorate from Johns Hopkins.

After she started calling me a sexist because I disagreed with her, it really became clear to me what I was dealing with. I'd given more than enough effort and time I'll never get back to this person. I decided it was time to stop the insanity. I said, "Wow, you're an angry elf. I wish you nothing but the best." Then for good measure, I blocked her on my FB account, and unfriended my acquaintance.

Sell crazy someplace else, we're all stocked up here.

So while I'm not done with FB entirely, I am done with getting so carried away I waste most of a weekend day waiting to respond to someone I don't know and couldn't care less what they think about the Steve Jobs poster or anything else.

I know she learned a lot at Johns Hopkins, because she told me she did. But apparently they don't teach the one bit of wisdom and advice that could've helped her avoid sounding like a raging lunatic to a complete stranger.

Shatner said it best in that famous Saturday Night Live sketch:

Get a life.

Know when to fold 'em

The man on the left is Kenny Rogers. So is the man on the right.

I'm not quite sure why I'm doing a post about Kenny Rogers' botched plastic surgery. I've never had any done myself (not counting that penis reduction procedure - it was just so freakishly huge I had to do something), and neither has anyone in my family. Maybe it's on my mind because I just did a post about Terri Hatcher and couldn't help but mentioning the work she's had done.

He said, "Son, I've made my life out of readin' people's faces, And knowin' what their cards were by the way they held their eyes. - lyrics from The Gambler

Rarely has a singer been so identified with a song in the way that Rogers is with The Gambler. And yet I'm going to go out on a limb here and say if anyone were trying to read Kenny Rogers face or eyes now, they'd have a tough time doing it.

There's an awesome website called Men Who Look Like Kenny Rogers. I used to think only a few of them were dead on, but the more the real Kenny's face changes, the more people on that site look like him. I guess bad plastic surgery (seriously, buck teeth? How does that happen?) leaves more room for interpretation.

When Kenny sang Ruby Don't Take Your Love To Town, years before he ever had his first nip or tuck, I'll bet he never knew he was predicting his own future:

And yes, it's true that I'm not the man I used to be...