2 Comments Posted on Uncategorized

Goodbye, Noble

This is a column I knew I would have to write one day, but wished I never would.

A few days ago, my wife and I had to say goodbye to Noble, our pit bull mix dog who has been a member of the Crosby household for almost 13 years.  I’ve never had a dog live that long which makes the parting that much more hurtful.

Combined with our previous family dog Buster who was with us for over 12 years, my wife and I have had a dog for 25 of the 29 years we’ve been married.  Except for the nine months between the two dogs, our two boys do not know what home is like without a dog.

We adopted Noble from the Pasadena Humane Society on January 19, 2011.  He was about a year old so still very much a puppy in terms of behavior.  One of the workers there pointed out that he had a blue sticker on his card that meant he doesn’t interact well with other dogs, a common trait of pit bulls. 

Unlike headline stories, the vast majority of these dogs are wonderful with people.  Neither one of our pit bulls every attacked a person including our sons when they were infants.

Noble had a strong presence so we nicknamed him Personality Plus and Mr. Intensity.  His habits were always entertaining.  Every time he went outside to the backyard, he’d turn left and proceed clockwise around the perimeter of the yard making sure the coast was clear for us to come out.

Like other dogs, Noble liked the sun and followed it inside the house from room to room, making sure his head was bathed in the warmth by continuously readjusting his position on the carpet or his pillow.

Noble could recognize the engines of our cars from the street as we approached the driveway.  He would bark incessantly until the back door was opened so he could greet my wife or myself.  Then, per usual, lead us to the laundry room for his treat (wheat bread with peanut butter).

Whenever we had a visitor, he’d be sure to greet them at the door, then head into the laundry room to receive a treat.

When my wife ate her dinner on a TV tray in the living room, Noble would be frantically rolling his body on his back on the rug next to her, twisting himself into a comma while waiting for the leftovers.

There’s a hilarious video of my youngest son using a bubble wand in the backyard with a younger Noble leaping high in the air to burst each one of them.  That’s before he tore his ligaments and lost power in his hind legs.

If I went to lay on my bed, Noble wanted me to get of the bedroom and go into the living room with him.  So, he’d poke his muzzle into my body to get me up.  How I wish I could feel his wet nose on my hand one more time.

The cleverest trick Noble performed was when my wife and I would stand with our legs outstretched, me in the front, her in the back, and he would walk forward through them, turning around and emitting a short “bark,” resulting in a treat.

Noble had an internal clock as good as any Swiss timepiece.  He knew when it was time for his morning feeding (6:00 a.m.), walk (10:00 a.m.), afternoon feeding (2:30 p.m.), car ride (3:30 p.m.), and time for my wife to stop working in her home office (5:00 p.m.).  When those times occurred, he barked his head off like an annoying rooster. 

He had the largest barking vocabulary of any dog we’ve had.  His barks, which occurred more when he was happy than when he was sounding an alert, would come in two rapid back-to-back alerts, characterized by volume and pitch. 

  • Reacting to people and dogs he saw through the front room window = high volume, high pitch
  • Going for a walk = low volume, low pitch
  • Going for a ride = high volume, low pitch
  • Getting his afternoon feeding = loud volume, high pitch; more like a “woof-woof”
  • Chasing squirrels = high volume, high pitch (non-stop)
  • Hiding in the house = low volume, high pitch

Noble would play hide and go seek.  You read that right.  He would find a hiding place in one of the bedrooms, squeezing his 60-pound body underneath a desk and behind a chair, or on the far side of our bed.  Then he would bark so we would know where to find him.  Once we turned on the light and made eye contact, he bolted towards the laundry room, waiting for his reward.  He had us wrapped around his little paw.

By far his loudest and most guttural bark was when he went for a ride in the car.  I would ask him, raising the volume on the word “ride,” “Do you want to go for a RIDE in the car?”  His eyes would light up and he’d paced rapidly until I pulled out the car from the garage.

My wife would hold him back, then release the screen door as I hurriedly shuttled from the driver’s seat to the passenger rear door, timing it so I arrived before he sprinted into the car.  Often his momentum would carry him on top of the bench seat.  As he got older, I’d have to give him a boost on his tush to get him up.

As soon as I drove the car down the driveway with both rear windows all the way down, the barking would cease, and his snout would be out, ears flapping in the breeze.

It was only 10 minutes a day, but Noble lived for that ride in the car.

Once I retired in 2020, Noble was literally by my side at home.  He kept his eye on me and my movements.  I’d get up from the couch and go to the kitchen; he did the same.  I took a shower in the bathroom; he’d lie down outside the door waiting for me.

As Noble got older and had difficulty with his weak rear legs, whenever I had to get up to do something, I’d rush back so he didn’t have to rise up to see what I was doing.  I didn’t want him to budge from his comfortable Fibonacci-like circular position.

On the last day of his life, when we were transporting him to the vet, I couldn’t get him up onto the car seat.  Miraculously, during the drive, using only his upper body, he found the strength to pull himself up and put his head out the window one last time.

I was a little surprised at how emotional I got holding Noble, watching him and hearing him snore a bit as he drifted away. I told my wife, “I don’t want to have another dog” knowing full well as those words spit out of my mouth that I truly didn’t mean that.  I cannot imagine my life without having another dog.

Is it worth having a pet knowing the pain that will eventually come when they die?  Absolutely.

The thing about a pet is that you have to accept the terms of the agreement.  You receive years of unconditional love, but will have to see that pet die.

Imagine if children lived short lives.  Would people stop having children because of the intense pain of losing them? 

Think about parents with terminally ill children.  Even knowing they will outlive their kids, every one of them echoes the same sentiment:  I wouldn’t trade those few years for not having the child in the first place.

Life has joys and tragedies.  Without the sadness, there is no gladness.  Joy comes from moments that don’t last forever.

Noble enriched our lives close to 13 years.  Why deprive oneself from years of joy? 

Hall of Fame Dodger broadcaster Vin Scully described life best when talking about the status of injured baseball players.  He would say that so-and-so is listed as “day to day.”  After a pause, he would add, “Aren’t we all.”

When both of our sons left home for the first time last year—one for a job, the other for college—people would tell us, “You’re now empty nesters.”  However, that wasn’t accurate for we still had Noble.  Now, we are truly empty nesters, our house empty of dog pillows, dog food, pull toys, and lots of staring and barking.  Our hearts may be broken, but our memories are full.

1 Comment Posted on House Hunters

Grouse Hunters

Lately my wife and I have been binging episodes of “House Hunters.”  We first watched the show when we were house hunting ourselves many years ago.  At that time, it was a quaint show that depicted normal-type people on limited budgets seeking an affordable place to call their own, a piece of the American Dream.

It has been quite some time since we last viewed it until last month.  The show has become so formulaic.  Clearly, the producers prefer couples who do not see eye-to-eye on a house.  More conflict equals more viewership.  At the start of each show, we hear an off-screen host repeat the same teaser.  “She wants a single-story traditional ranch house with a formal dining room and a pool.  He wants a two-story new-construction open-concept floor plan with a basement.”

But that predictability makes the show bland and doesn’t represent reality.  I know, I know, “reality” TV is anything but real life.  But there must be a couple out there who are both seeking a craftsman bungalow with just 2 bedrooms and 1 bathroom and aren’t grumbling about the size and color of every little detail.

So many house seekers expect to pay low money for a turnkey house that fits their vision of the ultimate house on earth.  These “contestants” look petty, selfish and unappreciative.  So many people would happily accept any house that they could afford; however, these people frequently make comments like “this is a gut job” when looking at brand-new kitchens that have cabinets or countertops that don’t match their pre-conceived notions.

One couple who were independently wealthy chose the most expensive house of the three options (around $2 million) which was newly built and then gutted it (for at least $500,000)—so wasteful. 

I think of how people in other countries look at Americans who have an insatiable appetite for oversized houses.  Do people really need walk-in closets that are larger than small bedrooms?

Most couples seek out a three-bedroom, 3,000 square foot house that is supposed to look like a Mediterranean palace with hardwood floors, granite countertops, double-sink vanities, and high ceilings.

Why do two people need three bedrooms?  One bedroom for themselves, one for an office and a third for a guest room.  Just how often are they expecting company to spend the night?  Whatever happened to putting a futon in the office, or crashing on someone’s couch?

Many people frown down upon a small dining area saying, “But how are we going to have Thanksgiving with all of our families?”  Number one, Thanksgiving is one day out the year.  The other 364 days will just be the two of them.

For couples with children, it is mandatory that every child have their own bedroom.  Have they ever heard about bunk beds?

Completely overlooked is the amount of time to clean a large house not to mention the cost of buying more furniture.

I also don’t get this cockamamie idea of the open-concept floor plan where everyone needs an unobstructed view of everyone else in the dining room, the kitchen and the living room. 

Why not continue that concept and take down the walls between bedrooms?  No one is demanding the wall be taken down between the master bedroom and their en-suite master bath.  Funny how a couple does not want to see their loved one on a toilet in their private boudoir.  (By the way, when did the term “master bedroom” become “primary bedroom”?)

One young newlywed seemed aghast to see an older home with a toilet across from an enclosed shower.  She thought that was unpleasant.  Gee, how many houses has she ever been in?

And what’s with the farmhouse-style thing?  One man upon entering a white house actually shouted, “I love the color!”

And if I hear one more woman say that she wants to whitewash the natural wood beams or change the kitchen cabinets and hardware to farmhouse-style black on white, I’ll smash my remote on the floor. 

The one positive take-away from watching “House Hunters” is how appreciative I am that I own a modest house and that achievement alone is good enough for me.

My five-member family could only afford to rent 1,000 square foot houses with two bedrooms and one bathroom.  Do the math.  My parents had their own bedroom as did my sister.  My brother, nearly 10 years older than I, shared a den with me.  And one bathroom for five people.  Yet we made it work.

There are other people with even larger families and smaller dwellings who somehow make their living conditions functional.  Believe it or not it can be done.

Leave a comment Posted on Los Angeles Dodgers, Major League Baseball, World Series

It’s Time for Dodger Crumble!

As a lifelong Dodger fan, every year I struggle accepting the randomness of Major League Baseball (MLB) playoffs where regular season success often doesn’t carry over to playoff success. 

For over a decade, the Los Angeles Dodgers have had a dynasty in terms of regular season victories, having won their division 10 out of the past 11 years, yet only one World Series championship to show for it.

Look at their win-loss records:

2013    92-70

2014    94-68

2015    92-70

2016    91-71

2017    104-58

2018    92-71

2019    106-56*

2020    43-17 (pandemic-shortened)*

2021    106-56

2022    111-51*

2023    100-62

*best record in baseball

In total, the Dodgers have won 61 percent of their games during this stretch, an amazing long-term stretch of success which makes it heartbreaking when they lose so often in the playoffs.

While people want to believe that the World Series victor is the best team in baseball, all the playoffs really prove is which team plays the best over the course of a few weeks.

This year, three teams—Baltimore Orioles, Atlanta Braves, Dodgers—won at least 100 games.  All three teams lost in the first Divisional round of the playoffs. Winning more games and playing on one’s home field are no advantages or guarantees that the team with the better record will prevail.

For the first 65 years of the World Series, MLB pitted the best teams from the American and the National leagues against one another.  That’s when a team had a 50 percent chance of winning.

From 1969-1993 when there were two divisions in each league, adding a second playoff series, only 29 percent of the teams with the best record won the World Series. 

Over the past 28 years with the addition of wild card teams and another playoff series, only 25 percent of the teams with the best record have won the World Series. 

However, where the wild card format has hurt the best record teams is that fewer of them make it to the World Series.  During the division format, 75 percent made it; during the wild card format, 50 percent made it.

In other words, teams without the best record over the course of a season have an equal chance of making it to the World Series, but a whopping 75% chance of winning it.

This postseason, the American League has the sixth best team, Houston, playing the eighth best team, Texas, while the National League has the seventh best team, Philadelphia, playing the 13th best team, Arizona. You read that right–the team which was almost in the middle of the 30 teams in baseball is four victories away from entering the World Series. That’s madness and puts a stain on the six months of superior play that the other teams accomplished.

It seems that Major League Baseball ensures that an underdog will usually win its vaulted trophy. 

The worst example of an average team being proclaimed as The Best were the 2006 St. Louis Cardinals who won 83 games and lost 78 games, only five games above .500.

So, you see, it is a waste of emotions for fans to hold on to the notion that if their team is the best, they will be champions.

The system is fixed to make sure that doesn’t happen that often.

And that’s baseball.

Maybe it’s time for MLB to inaugurate a new type of trophy that recognizes excellence not just in a three-week period but the six-month period regardless if they win the World Series or not.  Otherwise, the 162-game season diminishes considerably in importance.

Leave a comment Posted on Public Education, students, teachers, teaching

Teaching is Hard but Necessary

Every time the new school year commences you can count on two things:

  • Impatient parents honking horns as they drop off their children at school.
  • A newspaper op-ed piece talking about how hard teaching is.

Almost without fail, the piece is written by someone who has never taught.

As someone who has taught for 31 years, I can vouch for how hard teaching is.  But it’s not necessarily because of unruly students, demanding parents, or overreaching politicians.

For me the hardest part of teaching was the demands that I put on myself. 

I cared deeply about teaching.  It saved me when I was a child.  It saved me when I didn’t have a career.  And it saved me with a decent pension in my retirement.

Most of all, it gave me such a profound sense of importance.  Here I was with 150 kids each day, with the responsibility of taking care of their minds.  That is incredibly stressful.  Except, the nervousness was a good nervousness.

I could not wait to get to work each day.  Teaching kept my mind running at high revolutions.  It’s why once I retired I knew I’d have to find other ways to keep my mind sharp.  Nothing I’ve come up with so far has matched the intensity of working in a classroom.

After a half a year into my retirement, I began working as a university supervisor of student teachers.  It allows me a way to keep a toe in public education by working with young teachers, something I have always enjoyed.

As I sit in a classroom observing the teacher in training trying to figure out if the lesson is working or not, I look at the youngsters sitting in their desks and think to myself how lucky these kids are to have a magician in the room—the educator who is doing her level best in keeping them engaged with material she feels deserves their attention.

The job of teaching has definitely gotten more difficult for myriad reasons.   For me, the attention span of people not just children has diminished precipitously due to technology making it difficult to capture students’ focus and keep it there for extended periods of time.

The trick to teaching today is figuring out how best to keep them involved in learning about things they don’t yet understand nor care about.  The teacher is a guardian of knowledge that she passes down to young people.

That knowledge may be subject matter-based—math formulas, scientific theories, world histories—but more importantly is value-based:  goodness, kindness, decency.

I’ve often said that the classroom is a sanctuary, a place that does not resemble life as it is, rather life as it should be.

That is what drove me to work as hard as I could.  I had a very limited time—180 hours in a year—to get kids to improve themselves as people.

And that is what makes teaching so difficult yet at the same time so rewarding.  Teaching is not for everybody, and certainly not everybody who teaches is effective.  Still, parents should thank heaven for the army of teachers out there who do care, who do give their all, making sure the time spent with their children will be fruitful.

If only a small number of students grow up to be better versions of themselves due to a nurturing teacher, it positively impacts all of us.

Leave a comment Posted on "Quarterback", Kirk Cousins, Marcus Mariota, Netflix, Patrick Mahomes

Human Element in “Quarterback” Scores

Football doesn’t interest me.

To me, it is a team sport equivalent to boxing due to its brutality of athletes pummeling each other until their opponents get knocked down to the ground.  Often concussions happen.  Several of those who play football or box end up with permanent brain damage.

That’s not a fun spectator sport to me.

And yet, I highly recommend spending time seeing the Netflix limited series “Quarterback” especially to those, like me, who are not football fans.

I was a little leery when I heard about it because I didn’t like Netflix’s tennis show “Break Point.”  The first episode focused on notorious “bad boy” Nick Kyrgios.  His behavior, attitude and language were so unpleasant I couldn’t finish the show.

Why should I waste an hour of my life learning about an idiot who doesn’t respect others or even his own sport?

Unlike Kyrgios, “Quarterback” showcases three people worth getting to know.  It follows Minnesota Vikings’ Kirk Cousins, Kansas City Chiefs’ Patrick Mahomes and Atlanta Falcons’ Marcus Mariota during the 2022 NFL season.

Produced by Payton Manning, the show reveals the tenacity of these men as they strive to succeed on the football field at the same time holding on to their humanity off the field.

Mic’d for every game, the viewer can hear loud and clear the “oomphs” and “owws” each time they get hit by the opposing defensive players. 

One comes away with increased respect for all three quarterbacks.  All of them are committed to being the best that they can be, and all come across more intelligent than one would think.

More compelling than game highlights is what the quarterbacks do during the days between Sundays.  They have personal trainers, chefs and chiropractors.  You can see why these guys get paid tens of millions of dollars a year (well, sort of). 

With Mahomes and Cousins, you get a tour of their mansions.  People often forget that famous pro athletes are millionaires.  As much as you want to relate to these people, they are living a lifestyle that none of us will ever share.

Of the three quarterbacks, Mahomes and Cousins are the stars while Mariota is a supporting cast member.  Mahomes especially exudes intensity in all caps, in bold in 48-size type as does his wife.  It’s remarkable they get along considering both are type AAA personalities.

They both scream and drop f-bombs.  His wife is shown watching games from her luxury suite spewing expletives with children present which is off-putting.

Intensity does not have to mean being foulmouthed.  Case in point:  Kirk Cousins.

He’s the real reason to watch “Quarterback.”  He is as down home and “normal” as it gets for someone of his wealth.  He comes across as the most mature and grounded of all three quarterbacks. 

For example, he takes Tuesdays off to spend time with his family.  That is a sacrifice he has pledged to whereas Mahomes is so consumed with preparing for the upcoming Super Bowl, he skips out on the Feb. 2023 ceremony where he received the Most Valuable Player award.  

However, a couple of days later, Cousins won the Bart Starr Award “for outstanding character, integrity and leadership on and off the field.”  And he showed up.

Evidence of why he deserved such recognition is on display in several scenes.  His politely asks for assistance when shopping at a Barnes and Noble, he helps feed needy families and graciously poses with them for photos, he writes responses to fans whose lives aren’t go well, after a playoff loss that finishes his season, he stops his SUV while exiting the parking lot to sign autographs, then ends the day saying a goodnight prayer with his son.

Cousins is a strong reminder that some celebrities are decent people.  And that makes “Quarterback” must-see TV.

Leave a comment Posted on Home movies, Kodak

Home Movies of Old

In the summer of 1960, my father won a contest based on sales commissions he earned while working at Dorn’s Department Store in Van Nuys.  His reward was a complete package of Kodak Brownie products:  a Hawkeye still camera with flash, an 8mm movie camera, an 8mm movie projector (model A15), and a projector screen.

Considering how erratic my dad’s employment was during his lifetime, this prize, especially the movie camera, was the best thing he ever got from any job he held, a godsend, enabling my father to chronicle our family life for the next dozen years.   While no film footage exists of my parents’ first 12 years of marriage or the early years of my brother or sister, as the youngest, I can still watch myself at age 2 splashing in a kiddie pool (my sister was 8, my brother 11).

These silent films, each roll 2 and 1/2 minutes long, are a precious archive documenting a typical American family in the 1960’s.  A stranger looking at these home movies would never suspect that lurking behind the smiles and hugs, financial ruin would soon obliterate the bank account of my parents, yet would not destroy the family.  One cannot detect any visual evidence that would reveal when we lost our cars and our house.  My dad still captured birthdays, graduations and random moments in the backyard.  We all still smiled and waved at the camera.  And really nothing was phony about it.  It is a true representation of the family structure my parents built.

They were fully committed that no matter what was happening with their finances, that we three kids would live a steady and stable life.  We didn’t go hungry, we didn’t become homeless.  We still celebrated birthdays with cake and gifts, still watched TV shows together in the living room and still had presents underneath the Christmas tree.

Every time my father held the movie camera to his eyes, I was transfixed.  I loved the look of it, a roundish rectangle of gray and black plastic that fit snugly into the palm of one’s hand.  It made this lullaby-like whirring that required rewinding via a built-in crank on the side of its body which you pulled out and wound clockwise.

I admired how important it made my father appear as he brought the camera to his face, one eye looking through the viewfinder, the other closed.  He was no longer Dad but Alfred Hitchcock. His deftness in loading and unloading the film, how easily he cranked the motor, then pressing the button that ignited the whirring of the camera—what magic!

Once in a while after pestering my father, yanking on his pant leg, to give me a chance to be the magician, he reluctantly would hand over the camera to me for a brief shot.  He was protective of those 150 seconds and did not want me wasting precious celluloid.  The stuff I shot featured unsteady panning that made the scene too dizzy to watch.  Dad had good judgment.

Of all the dozens of reels of home movies, there are a bunch of them shot in 1964 when my brother made mini-movies using his stable of Crosby actors including our dog, Champ.  Dad had no fear of his 15-year-old son operating the camera.

These flicks including colorful titles:  “Time Waits for No Villain” had an old-fashioned damsel in distress plotline, “Ghoul from the Black Pool” was a monster movie with a dramatic death scene in our swimming pool and “Gidget Meets Spade Coolie” featured me as a sick child whose doctor hurts not heals, turning me into a dog (a comedy).

My dad would drop off the exposed film at Albin’s, the local corner drugstore, where it would take a few days to be developed.

This type of delayed satisfaction is something people under 50 would not understand having been spoiled with the instant gratification of shooting photos and video on one’s cell phone and immediately viewing it.

When it came time for Dad to pick up the film, excitement would build waiting for the sun to go down so it would be dark enough to show the latest Crosby production starring us.  It was thrilling to see our images projected on the screen, literally larger than life.  We felt like movie stars.

The family would gather in the living room as Dad set up everything.  First, he’d put up the screen, extending the tripod legs down onto the floor, then lifting up the shush of the screen upward onto the small plastic ledge to keep the screen safely extended.  The screen’s silver sheen created anticipation as my dad took the projector out of its yellow cardboard box, placing it on a TV tray.  He would carefully thread the white leader that said KODAK multiple times and someone had the job of turning off the lights.  No film premiered without all five Crosbys in attendance.

The images on the film could be of a day at Disneyland or a day in the backyard.  It didn’t matter.  What mattered was this was an activity that bonded the family.  Often Dad would provide repeated viewings, then take special requests to show older home movies stored in shoeboxes in the hall closet.

Not until I got older did I realize how ingenious my father was in self-editing whatever event he was documenting.  He knew he only had 2 and ½ minutes of footage per roll, so he had to economize what to shoot and what not to shoot, figuring out how long for each shot so that by the time he took the roll of film into the drugstore to be developed, the mini-movie was already edited.  Another concept that would be hard to grasp for those under 50 who are accustomed to taking dozens of photos of one image and hours of video without regard to quality.

In the old days, limiting customers to a few minutes of movie time and 24 exposures for print rolls forced people to be selective.  Ever since I switched over from film to digital, the vast majority of images rarely get seen.  Unlike the older photo technology which was easier to share via photo albums, slides or movies, today’s huge inventory of material stored in the cloud requires someone to sift through it all and edit it down to a manageable viewing running time, an overwhelming task. 

All the Kodak Brownie equipment, including the 70-some rolls of film, remain with me, in their original yellow packaging.

The final time we used the Kodak Brownie movie camera was in 1973, six months after my father passed away. The four of us took a driving trip along Highway One. It was the last vacation we took. Dad would have loved the trip and he would have been happy to see that my cinematography had improved.

1 Comment Posted on Tony Bennett

Arrivederci, Tony Bennett

Al Jolson, Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra are considered the greatest male singers in popular music before the rock and roll era, with Tony Bennett, who just passed away at age 96, a close second.

When it comes to maintaining vocal quality at an advanced age, however, Bennett is all alone of the top.

Sinatra is my favorite singer of all time, but his last good performances came in his early 70’s.  As much I liked the “Duets” album which were recorded 30 years ago, his voice was an echo of what it used to be.  

Up until his late 80’s, Bennett could still belt out “Fly Me to the Moon” to the rafters without the aid of amplification.  He could still hold notes and move them around several octaves in “How Do You Keep the Music Playing” at age 89 just as he did at 59.

Father time finally caught up to him in his final years of singing, yet it overlapped with the onset of Alzheimer’s disease.

Sinatra often declared Bennett the best singer of his generation.  That is saying something considering the Chairman of the Board had Dean Martin and Sammy Davis, Jr. as best buddies.

Besides both men being Italian, both Sinatra and Bennett had careers that spanned seven decades, had times when the record labels dumped them, had second acts that revitalized their careers, and both kept recording and performing later in life, dying not as has-beens but as still vital superstars.

And both are mostly associated with songs about cities; “New York, New York” with Sinatra, “I Left My Heart in San Francisco” with Bennett.

Watch the two men sing “My Kind of Town” together in a 1977 TV special; it’s a magical moment.

Right around this time and continuing for the next decade, Bennett struggled with drugs and a music world where his kind of songs were no longer in vogue.

His son, Danny Bennett, became his manager and helped his father resurrect his career in the early 1990’s starting with the release of 1992’s “Perfectly Frank,” a tribute to Sinatra. 

His son scheduled his dad to appear on MTV and encouraged him to record with younger artists.  Suddenly, people under 40 “discovered” Bennett, resulting in his popularity skyrocketing for the final 30 years of his 70-year career as an artist.  Most of his albums in the 21st century were collaborations with other artists.

Amazing that this 30-year final act of his career was his most successful.  This last body of work superior to his first 40 years.

And even when it was formally announced the he was retiring, he still sang in a few videotaped sessions in his New York apartment with a pianist. 

See how moving it is when he sings “Smile”:

It is a remarkable testament to Bennett’s perseverance that he could briefly break the shackles of Alzheimer’s and show flashes of brilliance.

Leave a comment Posted on Bob Barker

Bob Barker

The definition of a barker:  someone who stands in front of a theater and calls to passersby to attract customers.

How apropos that legendary TV host Bob Barker was born with that last name.

For over half of a century, from 1956-2007, Bob has been getting our attention to “come on down” to watch him on television every weekday hosting “Truth of Consequences” (1956-1975) and “The Price is Right” (1972-2007).

He won 14 Daytime Emmys for Outstanding Game Show Host—a record.  And in 2004 he was inducted into the Academy of Television Arts & Sciences Hall of Fame.

I have always loved Bob Barker.  I first got to know Bob Barker when he was the host of “Truth or Consequences” (ToC) which was taped in Hollywood at KTTV, Channel 11 in Los Angeles and syndicated across the country.

What made Bob so special was his ad-libbing with contestants, his comic timing reminiscent of Bob Hope or Jack Benny.  He clearly enjoyed talking to people and he was so good at his job.

He also seemed like a genuinely nice man.

I was surprised to learn that only one book on Bob Barker has ever been published:  “Priceless Memories,” an autobiography co-wrote with Digby Diehl in 2009.  Honestly, it is not that engaging, hearing him explain how he got his jobs in television.  I got the Audible version with him reading the book.  While it’s pleasant hearing his voice, he is reading from a script.  Even if much of the book is from his own words, it comes across as stilted. 

A much better version of the same information can be found in a three-hour interview done on July 7, 2000.  One of the best sources of learning about TV history are these multi-part interviews called Emmy TV Legends that can be found on YouTube done a while ago; the interviewer is Fred Westbrook.

These are priceless interviews, capturing TV pioneers while they were still living.  For anyone interested in the history of television or movies, these are must-see interviews.

At the time of the interview, Bob was 76 years old.  He looks like he’s in his early 60’s.  His memory is sharp and he never stumbles as he speaks.  More importantly, the interview showcases his innate knack at telling engaging stories off the top of his head, the same skill that made “Truth or Consequences” and “The Price is Right” worth watching.  He comes across as genuine and funny.

It’s a shame that most of the “ToC” shows do not exist; you can find a handful online.  Unlike “Price is Right,” you don’t have to suffer through the over-exuberance of the contestants and frenetic pacing of the show.  There was a lot more of Bob being Bob in the “ToC” shows.

Fans have created YouTube videos such as “Best Moments of The Price is Right.”  Some of them are over two hours long.  Though the picture quality is often poor, you can’t stop watching these clips over the years just because of Bob Barker’s affinity with people.  You just have to fast-forward through the announcer reading ads for products to get to the few minutes of pleasure when Bob talks to the contestants.  Those impromptu moments that kept the show fresh and on the air for as long as it was, a reminder that these shows were taped live. 

Today Bob Barker is still around at age 99.  He hasn’t been seen in public for a number of years.  Here’s hoping his remaining days will be good ones.  This Dec. 12 he will turn 100.

Leave a comment Posted on Larry's Chili Dogs

Happiness at Larry’s Chili Dogs

If you had to put a price on happiness, how much would it be:  $100,000?  $1,000,000?

What if I told you that you could be happy once a week for $11, would you do it?

If so, head on over to Larry’s Chili Dogs on Burbank Blvd. in Burbank and for $11 you can get the best breakfast burrito in Burbank, maybe even the San Fernando Valley.

In every bite, your tastebuds are stimulated with potatoes, eggs, bacon, sausage, cheese, and if you are brave, hot salsa.  It will make you so happy that the extended smile on your face will hurt.

And for this joyful five-minute (or three if you have no patience) taste explosion at the princely sum of $11. 

I’ve had breakfast burritos that are good but often have one or more failings to their recipe:  too eggy, too much salt, not enough protein, uncooked potatoes or bacon, not the right kind of cheese.  Sometimes the ingredients burn through the tortilla making it impossible to eat with your hands.  Did I mention too much salt?

Here’s the best part:  the breakfast burrito isn’t even what Larry’s is known for.

Their signature dish is a chili cheese dog—mustard, onion, chili—and a cherry coke.  Not a pre-mixed one in a can, but a coke with cherry syrup pumped (hopefully several pumps) into it.

The chili recipe is mild and complements the snap of the high-quality hot dog.  This isn’t anything you’d find at Wienerschnitzel (do those still exist?).  And unlike a more famous chili dog in the L.A. area, Pink’s, this one tastes better and you don’t have to wait in line for 45 minutes.

John, the proprietor, whose last name I am embarrassed to admit I still don’t know, has run this Burbank tradition for over 20 years.  He is one of the nicest men I know.  He works very hard, six days a week, and loves his job.  He opens, closes, cooks, cleans, and answers the phone though he does have help from family members.

Larry’s opened in 1952 and John is only the third owner as far as I know.  Neither of the other men were named Larry.  According to John, “Larry” is the nickname of the original owner’s girlfriend.  If anyone out there can verify this, please let me know.

I first went to Larry’s when I was a teenager in high school.  Then it was located at 3111 W. Burbank Blvd. about across the street where it is today. It was an unusual space, steps from the sidewalk leading up to a landing where you would place your order; picnic tables spread around.  The space was so large that today a two-story office building has replaced it.

Larry’s is a reminder of Burbank’s past that isn’t a museum, but a thriving eatery, year after year after year.

I don’t know a businessman who works as hard as John does in a line of work that brings so much joy to so many regulars

I daresay that what John provides to the City of Burbank is worthy of recognition, do you hear that Chamber of Commerce?

More than that tasty diner-style food, the memories Larry’s evokes is worth the price of admission . . . and an extra inch in one’s waist size.

Leave a comment Posted on Luther Burbank Junior High

My Oscar Moment

Half of a century.  On the face of it, quite a long time.  But when the 50 years relates to a special time in your life, it is shocking how short it feels.

It doesn’t seem that long ago, June 12, 1973, when my life changed for one minute.  I call it my Oscar moment.

Luther Burbank Junior High School in Burbank was holding its award assembly in the morning for its ninth grade students who were moving on to high school. 

I was serving as an usher, a person who handed out programs to parents, and who assisted them locating seats.  It was one of the duties I had as a member of the California Junior Scholastic Federation (CJSF).

I had a sense that I was going to be acknowledged in some way because my mother received an invitation to attend. 

The auditorium had two aisles which divided the seating section into three areas.  I was stationed in the back of the right-hand side aisle.  My mom and sister were sitting in the middle.

Mrs. Alice Nastasi, my social studies teacher in 8th grade, was on stage at the podium stationed on the left-hand side ready to announce the next award, the coveted Faculty Memorial Scholarship Award for Outstanding Scholastic Achievement.

Mrs. Nastasi was a short, dark-haired woman who was all business, from the tailored dresses she wore to her adult-like manner of speaking to students.  She was very strict in terms of the high quality of work she expected all students to do.  And her piercing brown eyes magnified through black-rimmed glasses seemed as if she were directly talking to you. 

She would start every class period at the very second the tardy bell finished.  She’d sit on top of a student’s desk and utter the famous words, “Please get out two sheets of paper with the proper heading at the top on the right.”  Boom, boom, boom.  The message:  learning is too important to waste any precious second.

Some students mocked her name, Mrs. Nasty, because they didn’t want to do all the work that she demanded.  I, on the other hand, admired her approach and emulated her style once I became a teacher. 

One of the few school projects that I cherish to this day was for her class when I wrote a business proposal on how to expand public transportation across Los Angeles to decrease congestion on the freeways.  It required me to do extensive research including receiving materials from government agencies.

Mrs. Nastasi was also the faculty advisor to the CJSF and, because of her, I had my first foray into a group to which I could belong.

When she announced through the loudspeakers “the Faculty Memorial Scholarship award goes to Brian Crosby,” it was as close as I’ll ever get to winning an Oscar. 

Like a dream, I floated down the aisle past my sister who was positioning herself for a good vantage point to take a photo.  The applause I heard seemed distant, my body moving but my senses dulled.

I proudly crossed the stage and saw a big smile on Mrs. Nastasi as she handed me the two and a half-foot high trophy.  I returned to the rear of the auditorium.  The whole thing lasted but a minute.  Oh, but what a minute. 

To this day I still think there was a photo of what my eyes saw, showing my sister standing in the aisle with the camera near her head—that’s how vivid the moment is to me.  Unfortunately, the photo that she took of me being handed the trophy does not exist; the flash on the camera wasn’t strong enough to properly process the dark photo.

The only photo I have of that day is after the award show concluded, my sister framing my mother and I with the trophy outside the auditorium. 

I look at that 15-year-old oddball kid with thick, longish hair, who instead of wearing age-appropriate attire wore grown-up clothes:   an unbuttoned long-sleeved chocolate brown sweater and matching dress slacks, and a pink and blue vertical-striped dress shirt buttoned all the way to my neck, my belly pressing tightly against the fabric.

I looked like I didn’t belong to the other boys, more like a foreigner.  I was the fat kid with bad skin that no one wanted to be friends with.  I was the kid who stayed inside during recess and lunch to help teachers, avoiding the loneliness of being on the playground with other kids, none of whom wanted to be next to me.

I may have been invisible to my peers, but to my teachers, I was seen.  They were well aware that my father had died four months earlier.  Some knew about my battle with out-of-control psoriasis which accounted for my strange haircut and wardrobe.   Surely some of this played a part in choosing me for this honor over an equally talented student. 

That two and a half-foot trophy composed of glued-together metal, wood and plastic represents the fortitude that the teachers, my role models, thought about me and how I held my life together at the time of despair.

And here I am at age 65, reflecting about my life, re-playing this moment again and again in my mind, as if the more times I remember it, the more real it becomes. 

To this day, it remains the only trophy I have ever won in my life.  Unlike most boys, I never received a trophy for a sport because I wasn’t athletic, or earned a merit badge because I wasn’t a scout.

I still have the trophy though it has broken into pieces.  For decades I’ve stored it in a box, but now I’m thinking of repairing it, polishing it and displaying it on a shelf, a reminder that sometimes the unpopular fat kid wins—even for just a moment.

Close-up of Brian with a smile on his face, then freeze frame.  Print it.

Brian standing next to his mother holding up the trophy, June 12, 1973.