Monday, May 29, 2006

Renovations


If you’re one of my regular readers, you’ve probably noticed that I changed the template to this blog. It’s not that I didn’t like the old design, it’s just that I was bored and I started playing around, pointing my mouse here and clicking my mouse there and before I knew it, my site had a whole new look. It was simple. Now if only renovating the house could be that easy.

This got me thinking. Wouldn’t it be great if you could take a USB cable from your computer and attach it to the exterior of your home? You could then go to your PC, surf over to the Benjamin Moore paint palette, point, click and Voila’! Your green house is now red.

Imagine plugging a laptop computer into your car’s cigarette lighter. You could visit the Maaco or Earl Scheib website, point, click, and before you know it, you’ve pimped your canary yellow Camry into a metallic neon blue funk mobile.

Rob a Bank? No problem. The cops have an ABP out on a White Bronco but like a chameleon, you've turned your truck fire engine red. Now, if O. J. had only thought of this invention, he’d be a free man today. (Oh wait! He is free.)

Women could point and click to coordinate their Mercedes with their outfits. Tires would be designed to go with shoes and the car’s interior with handbags. All of today’s hottest designers would be recommending accessories to match your car’s trim and jewelry would be made of hood ornaments, (oh wait! They already do that.)

If we could only point and click our gray away, Miss Clairol would be on the unemployment line. Tanning Salons would be a thing of the past. Just imagine George Hamilton pointing and clicking his pale rawhide flesh, into a nice golden brown. Justin Timberlake’s epidermis would be a dark chestnut brown and Michael Jackson would turn his pale white (oh wait, he already did that.)

Spend money on lawn fertilizer? Fugettaboutit! Just bury your USB cable out in your lawn. Go to the Scott’s Lawn Products website, find the right color…say an Arnold Palmer Green, and Presto…. you now have your own golf course.

Even all your neighbors would be green…with envy that is.

You know? I might be on to something here.

Thursday, May 25, 2006

Happy Anniversary Baby!


It's hard to believe that my wife and I have been married for 17 years. What's even more frightening, is that we started dating 25 years ago. It doesn't seem possible.

Every once in a while my daughters will pull out our wedding video for laughs. They always comment on how much hair I had and how much younger we look. Watching this video brings me back to that day:

(imagine screen getting wavy for flashback sequence)

Being a man, I was more than happy to let my wife deal with all the minute details of our wedding. We had dated for eight years before we got married (I didn’t want to rush into anything!) so my wife had plenty of time to dream and plan for our pending nuptials. Sometimes she'd run her wedding plans by me but I was more of a sounding board. She really wasn’t seeking my opinion but rather bouncing her ideas off of me.

My only real wedding responsibilities were to:

1.) Show up. (Something she wasn’t sure I would do since I was a known commitment phobic!)
2.) Keep my mother happy by getting a Catholic Priest to co-officiate the ceremony.
3.) Pick out the wedding songs.

Tasks one and two were simple. Task three proved to be more of a challenge.

I thought of all the songs I’d heard at other people's weddings over the years: i.e. Paul Stookey’s “Wedding Song (There is Love),” The Carpenter’s “We’ve Only Just Begun” and Dan Fogelberg’s “Longer”. These were all great songs but it seemed they had been used ad nauseam. I wanted to be an original.

I have always been a big Dan Fogelberg fan and I had remembered a song on his Twin Sons of Different Mothers album. It was a cover of an old Judy Collin’s gem titled “Since You’ve Asked.” I loved the lyrics to this song and as far as I knew, no one had ever used it at their wedding. I played the song for my then fiance and she agreed that it would be perfect.

Jean, our wedding singer, sang this song just after we exchanged our vows:

Since You've Asked

What I'll give you
Since you've asked
Is all my time together

Take the rugged sunny days
The warm and rocky weather
Take the roads that I have walked along
Looking for tomorrow's time
Peace of mind --
As your life spills into mine
Changing with the seasons
Filling up the world with time
Changing time to reasons
I can show you all the songs
That I never sang to someone before.
We have seen a million stars
Lying by the water
You have climbed the hills with me
To the mountain shelter
Taking off the days
One by one
Setting them to breathe
In the sun.
Take the lilies and the Lace
From the days of childhood
All the willow winding paths
Leading up and outward
This is what I give
This is what I ask you for
Nothing more.

Who says I’m not a romantic?

My wife and I paid for the wedding ourselves, so we were on a tight budget. We couldn't afford a band so we hired a DJ from a company called Rent-a-DJ. Our DJ, they told me, would be Darren Murphy.

Murphy! I thought, that'll be great. He'll probably play tons of Irish music. I was a little surpised on the day of our wedding when we walked into the reception hall and discovered that Darren was actually African-American. I don't mean to disparage him but his playlist was a little heavy on the R&B/Motown side (at least for a crowd of Irish Catholics and New England Yankees.) This was especially true when Darren spun the Jackson 5 song, Mama I Found That Girl for my mother and I to dance to.

Mama, oh mama, I found that girl

Mama, oh mama, I found that girl

My new bride and I, chose the Stephen Bishop song It Might Be You for our first dance. We walked out to the dance floor as Darren spun the record:

Time...

I've been passing time watching trains go by

All of my life...

Lying on the sand, watching seabirds fly

Wishing there would be

Someone waiting home for me...

Something's telling me it might be you

It's telling me it might be you...

All of my life...

You might think it strange that I picked a song titled, It Might Be You, my wife however, thought that it captured my non-commital spirit.

Besides, the song ends on a more hopeful note:

I've been saving love songs and lullabies

And there's so much more

No one's ever heard before...

Something's telling me it might be you

Yeah, it's telling me it must be you

And I'm feeling it'll just be you

All of my life...

It's you..

It's you...

I've been waiting for all of my life...

Wednesday, May 24, 2006

It's A Bird...It's A Plane...It's...


One snowy January evening circa 1993, actor Christopher Reeve came running down the platform of track 25 in Grand Central Terminal in New York. He was dressed in a parka and a wool cap. On his feet he wore a pair of oversized snow boots.

“Do I have time to run and grab a beer,” he asked.

“What are you worried about?” I said, “You’re faster than a locomotive.”

He smiled, looked down, pointed to his boots and said, “Not in this weather!”

Friday, May 19, 2006

Seat Checks


Did you ever wonder how conductors keep track of all the people who board and exit the train?

One trick of the trade is the seat check. Seat checks are rectangular pieces of cardboard, 1 inch wide by 4 inches long. They are divided into 11 fare zones boxes so we conductors, depending on how far a passenger is traveling, can punch holes in their station’s corresponding fare box. We then stick this piece of cardboard in front of the passenger in order to remind us:

A.) That they paid.
B.) How far the passenger is going.

This is the railroad handbook’s official use for the seat check. They do however, come in handy as bookmarks, toothpicks and to squeegee sweat off of bald men’s heads, (at least that’s what I hear!).

Another great use for the seat check is to pacify screaming kids on the train. You would be surprised how calm children get when given little slips of paper to hold in their hands. It really keeps them preoccupied and quiets them down. Other passengers in the car, thank me profusely, and ask if I’m a childcare expert.

A few years back, seat check art came into vogue. A conductor with too much time on his hands got creative with his hole punch and cut out a smiley face on a young passenger’s seat check. Word must have gotten out in daycare centers in the greater metropolitan region, because now all the children on the train want them.

It took me a while to master the smiley face. In my initial design I was spacing the mouth holes too far apart. This made the smile look more like a bunch of random holes in the paper or possibly that my seat check person was British.

I could tell by the expression on my young passenger's faces that I had somehow failed them and they never would ask me for a second seat check, like they did with the other conductors.
After some much needed instruction from co-workers, I finally mastered the smiley face. Kids, no longer satisfied with just one seat check, now wanted handfuls.

A few times, I've made the mistake of giving one child more seat checks than his/her sibling. Whenever this happens it starts a big brawl. One kid will start taunting their brother or sister…“I have three smiley faces and you only have two-o-o!” Physical violence then ensues and the crying kid cycle starts all over again.

So much for me being a child-care expert!

The latest trend in seat check art involves seat check paper dolls. I believe my friend Scott may have started this. A reporter from the Stamford Advocate Newspaper was on one of his trains and wrote a column about how gracious his conductor (Scott) was, and how his kids just loved their seat check paper dolls.
(My daughters think that the following story is the funniest ever!)

This past Christmas, I saw an adorable five year-old girl looking out the front window of the train. As I approached, she turned around and began staring at me with her big brown eyes.

“Hi!” I said.

No response, she seemed to be in awe.

“Would you like a seat check?” I asked.

Blank stare.

Wow, I thought. This girl must really be enamored by my uniform.
I took a seat check out of my ticket pouch and punched a silly little face on it and handed it to her.

“Do you like that?” I asked.

She said nothing. Just two big brown eyes staring up at me.

“Mister,” she spoke finally. “You have a real long hair sticking out of your nose.”

Monday, May 15, 2006

Bobby Gump


“Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get.”

Last week my family and I were watching Forrest Gump on UPN or TNT or one of those cable stations in the high double digits. Anyway, I couldn’t help but notice a similarity between Forrest’s bench at the bus stop and my humble little blog here.

You, the reader, sit down next to me as I babble on and on. I offer a piece of my life here and a piece of my life there. I tell you about my brush with celebrity and some of the funny and touching things that have happened to me along the way.

I hear that I make some of you laugh, some of you cry and some of you just want to get on the dang bus (figuratively speaking of course). It feels somewhat cathartic to share these stories (sometimes it’s darn right draining) but I guess it’s cheaper than paying $100 an hour to a therapist.

“And that’s all I have to say about that.”

Sunday, May 14, 2006

Author! Author!


I’ve seen the author Dominick Dunne on my train several times over the years. He is always very impeccably dressed and looks as if he is headed to a polo match or some swanky country club. I recognized him from his eyeglasses, which are horn-rimmed and round. They make him look oh so much like a senior member of the Harry Potter fan club.

The first time I met Mr. Dunne was on the eve of the two-year anniversary of the Nicole Brown Simpson slayings. He had a garment bag slung over his shoulder when he got on the train in New Haven, which is about a 40 minute ride from his home in Old Lyme.

I knew Mr. Dunne’s work mostly from his coverage of the O.J. Simpson trial in Vanity Fair Magazine. During the trial he always sat with Nicole Brown Simpson’s family and became more than just a reporter—he became a friend to the Brown family. I was addicted (like much of the rest of the nation,) to the O. J. trial. I worked nights at the time and I spent my days glued to the TV, watching gavel-to-gavel coverage.

The opportunity to speak with Mr. Dunne was very tempting and although I usually don’t like to bother celebrities, I just had to talk to him.

After exchanging pleasantries, Mr. Dunne told me that he was on his way to New York to do the Today Show live the next morning. He said that he was in the process of writing a book on the O. J. trial.

“What happened to the NASA satellite photos of Nicole’s neighborhood on the night of the murders?” I asked him, “I heard they were going to present them into evidence.”

“You know,” he said, “ I’d heard that too, but for some reason they never presented it as evidence.”

We continued to discuss the aspects of the trial, but it was soon time for our train to depart and I had to make announcements and close the train’s doors.

I noticed that when I collected Mr. Dunne’s ticket, he was recording some notations in a small green journal. I wondered if he was recording our conversation and if it would make it into his new book.

Several months later I came down with pneumonia and ended up in the hospital. Before entering the hospital I went into a bookstore to pick up some reading material. Mr. Dunne’s new book about the O.J. trial was on display. It was titled, Another City Not My Own.

The novel was Dunne’s thinly veiled memoir about his experiences at the O. J. trial and how he, somewhere along the way, lost the objectivity of a reporter and became emotionally involved in the case. The novel’s protagonist’s name is Gus Bailey.

In the last chapter of the book, page 343 to be exact, gossip columnist Liz Smith asks Gus if he ever gets sick of discussing O. J.:

“Yes, I get sick of him. Deeply sick,” replied Gus………..
“I talk about him to Deb at the gas station when she puts gas in my car.
I talk about him to the train conductor on Metro North.”

Wednesday, May 10, 2006

Linc Link

If you had asked me what a Link was a year ago, I would have said that Linc was Clarence Williams III from that 1970’s “fuzz” show “The Mod Squad.”

If you had asked me 6 months ago what a hyperlink was, I would have told you about the episode when Capt. Greer took Linc, Julie (my first crush!) and Pete’s badges away from them. “Linc was really upset,” I’d say, ”but he was way too cool to be hyper”.

Now that I know the new millennium definition of link and hyperlink, I’ve decided to post a few of them here.

Cary Potts
www.touchingbassmusic.com

I met Cary when he was a regular on the 11:22 p.m. train (the theatre train) out of Grand Central. At the time he was playing bass in the Broadway production of All Shook Up (an Elvis Presley tribute show.) In addition to Broadway, Cary has appeared in several commercials and TV shows. He has traveled all over the globe, playing bass for Ben E. King, Chuck Berry and Elvis Costello (just to name a few.) Now that Cary has children, he wants to stay close to home. He has begun writing and recording his own music (sort of Jazz Fusion) on his home computer and hopes to market it as bumper music for radio, TV and video. Be sure to check out the sample tracks, I think you’ll agree…he’s quite exceptional.

Vinnie Penn
www.vinniepenn.net

Those of you that live in Connecticut, might recognize the name Vinnie Penn. For several years, Vinnie was the better half of the morning radio show on WKCI-KC101 in New Haven. I met Vinnie on the train a few years back when he was headed down to audition as one of Howard Stern’s new sidekicks on his morning radio show. Vinnie didn’t get the job but Howard didn’t forget him. On May 10th, 11pm, he debuts his own radio show, (a Howard Stern Production) on The Sirius Satellite Radio Network.

In addition to being a funny radio personality, Vinnie is also a great writer. He frequently contributes columns to The New Haven Register and recently had a short story published in the book Danger City.


Geoff Fox
www.geofffox.com

Geoff Fox has been our local weatherman at WTNH in New Haven for the past 20 years. Those of you that don’t live in Connecticut might recognize him as the substitute weatherman on Good Morning America. He and his family were on my train a couple of weeks back, returning from a day in the big city. I recognized him when I collected his ticket and I reminded him that we had met once before at Vinnie Penn’s book signing at a local Barnes and Noble store. He said that he remembered me…I know he didn’t.

I have watched Geoff’s forecasts for several years and knew he was a technophile and self-proclaimed computer geek. He seemed surprised when I told him about my blog (I guess I don’t look like the blogger type.) He told me that he also had a blog and it has something like 1700 posts (where does he find the time?) We exchanged our web addresses and he promised that he would visit my site. I figured he was just being polite. The next morning I awoke to find that he had left a comment on my Victoria Jackson post. I was thrilled!

As Linc would say..."Solid!”

Friday, May 05, 2006

Foot In Mouth Disease



Last week I was boarding my train in Grand Central with a co-worker named Abby. Abby had just come back from vacation and was thumbing through a pile of pictures she had picked up from a one-hour photo store.

“What are the pictures of?” I asked

“Jamaica,” she said. “We just came back.”

“We?” I said inquisitively. “Who are we?”

“Me and Gary,” she said, “You know, Gary…the ticket agent.”

“Oh yeah,” I said, “He’s that flamboyant gay guy...right?”

“I hope not,” she said, “He’s my fiancé.”

“Uh! Er! Um” I fumbled, not knowing what to say next. I tried to redeem myself, “I just assumed… he’s older and…Uh! He’s never been married and…Er!

Open mouth...Insert foot!

One afternoon, I was collecting tickets on my train when I noticed a bearded man placing the classic David Brubeck CD “Time Out” into his portable CD player. I wanted to show off my great celebrity knowledge, so I said, “David Brubeck… he’s dead…isn’t he?”
The bearded man took off his headphones and smiled. “No” he said, “He’s very much alive. I should know…He’s my dad.”

“Uh! Um! Er!” I didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry,” I said, “I was thinking of Vince Guaraldi, ”(another great jazz pianist). "Yeah that's it, Vince is the dead one."

My favorite “put your foot in your mouth” story doesn’t involve me (that’s probably why it’s my favorite) It was told to me by my sister Sheila.

Sheila and her then-boyfriend Vinnie had a friend named Bill. Bill had made a fortune franchising restaurants in Connecticut, so he decided to retire early.He and his wife Sally moved to a palatial home somewhere in California. A couple of years after moving, they invited Sheila and Vinnie on an all expense paid vacation to visit them in their new home.

On a hot California summer day, Sheila and Vinnie arrived at Bill and Sally's home. Sally answered the door. The last time they had seen her she was model-thin and in great shape. The woman that now stood before them was 40 lbs over weight and had more chins than a Chinese phone book. They were shocked.

Sally said that Bill was out running some errands but he would be home soon.
“Since it’s so hot,” she said, “Why don’t you get into your bathing suits and hop in the pool. They thought that this was a wonderful idea. Sally served them drinks while they floated around on rafts in her luxurious kidney shaped in-ground pool. After awhile, Sally excused herself to go and change into her bathing suit. After she left, Sheila and Vinnie paddled their rafts next to each other.

“Do you believe how much weight she’s gained? Sheila asked in a hushed tone.

Vinnie mumbled back, “ I can’t believe it. She’s twice the size she used to be.”

A few minutes later Sally appeared poolside in a one-piece bathing suit. She was obviously self-conscious about her weight and began to pull at the spandex in order to conceal the rolls of fat that were now peaking out from their hiding spots.

Vinnie could sense she was uncomfortable and wanted to pay her a compliment. His mind wanted to say:

“Wow…look how tan you are!”

But his mouth said:

“Wow…look how fat you are …UH! ER! I mean TAN…Look how Tan you are!

It was too late. The damage was done.

Sheila quickly paddled away from Vinnie, trying to disassociate herself from him. She bit her lip in order to avoid bursting into laughter. She even tried to think of sad moments in her life, but she just couldn’t contain herself. Her body began to convulse, sending ripples along the pool’s surface. She finally decided to roll off her raft, so she could break down underwater.

It made for a very long vacation.

Sunday, April 30, 2006

Wiener Beach


This is the third and last installment in the Connecticut Cruisers trilogy.

We had some misgivings about bringing our families to Orient Beach because we heard it was clothing-optional. We’re a pretty conservative group (and we had our children with us) so we wanted to keep our bathing suits on. We did a little research and discovered that the beach had a nude side and a prude side. So as not to be embarrassed, families could choose to go to the prude side. We thought this a splendid solution and piled in a taxi at the St. Maarten docks.

Our taxi, which was actually a van, climbed narrow dirt roads on the Dutch side of the island, past small pastel colored homes and several roadside fruit and vegetable stands. As we crossed into St. Martin, the French side of the island, we discussed our trepidations about exposing our children to a hedonistic beach and we worried about causing some kind of Freudian damage to their little minds.

As we pulled into the Orient Beach parking lot our Taxi driver spoke:

“ I’m not one to judge mon,”he said,” but I don’t understand why all dese people come all dis way to spend dere vacations in dere birtday suits.”

All the men in the van chuckled like 6th graders.

“ Now mon, If you want ta let it all hang out, you go to da right,” said our driver, “through dis hotel. I’ll drop you off right dere.”

“ I’m not one to judge, mon.”He repeated.

“Now if you folks is a little more modest,” he continued, “then you can go to the left side… or the ‘prude’ side as they call it”

We told the driver that… yes; in fact we were prudes and would like to go to the beach on the left.

“That’s good,” he said, “I know all da cabana boys over dere, and I’ll get you good deals on the beach chairs.”

We followed our driver across the parking lot to a small wooden hut at the edge of the white sand beach. It was there that he introduced us to Ludwig, our cabana boy.

Ludwig looked like a tanned, blond haired, blue-eyed California surfer dude and we were a little surprised to hear him speak with a German accent. The only bit of clothing he wore was a pair of brown cargo shorts that hung from his thin frame and a strand of puka shells that he had around his neck. He waited on his customers shirtless to better display his six-pack abs, which assured him good tips from the ladies (and by the looks of it, some men too!) He made what I professed to be my eye-candy, look like an eyesore.

While Ludwig was positioning our chaise lounges on the beach, we looked around and noticed that half the women on our “prude side” were topless. “I guess the Caribbean definition of “prude” differs from the American one,” I said.

My wife caught me staring at a woman in front of us who obviously had breast implants. I knew I was busted because I got her, “stop leering” look. I recognized this look from 13 years earlier, when we (before kids) were on vacation in Aruba. One day a topless woman lay in front of us at the beach. When she got up on all fours to adjust her blanket, her breasts, which resembled two long water balloons, dangled and began swaying back and forth like a hypnotist’s pocket watch. My eyes soon glazed over, and I couldn’t help but stare straight ahead at her swinging pendulums. It was then my wife gave me “the look.”

Ludwig served drinks, while the men stood and enjoyed the scenery. The ladies were slathering sunscreen on their daughters while two island women wove cornrows in their poker straight hair. The boys, who were all around eight years old, were busy building sandcastles and totally oblivious to what was going on around them.

I tend to get restless sitting in one place too long, so I asked a fellow dad if he wanted to go for a walk along the beach. After strolling for a while we came to the infamous clothing optional sign, a virtual Mason/Dixon line of modesty (some might say morality). We opted for clothing and crossed into unknown territory. It is said that on nude beaches, the people who are nude shouldn’t be…and the people who should be nude, aren’t. As if to prove this point, the first nude person we ran into was an obese woman in her sixties. Let’s just say that gravity has not been kind to her. A few feet away from her stood six bikini-clad college co-eds who were posing for a photo with a 50-something man whose only bit of attire was a Panama hat. As we walked on we saw naked surfing, naked fishing and (most disturbing) naked Frisbee.

It was time to leave.

When we returned to our beach chairs, the rest of our group reported that they had seen several old naked men walking past. My wife snapped a photo of one of these men's behind as he was waiting to be served at an outdoor café. His gluteous maximus was now more of a gluteous minimus and when he turned around and displayed his shriveled “package,” our whole group burst into laughter.

This is why the Connecticut Cruiser kids now refer to Orient Beach as Wiener Beach.

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

CT Cruisers pt. II -San Juan


Today’s post is the sequel to “Connecticut Cruisers.”

On the third day of our cruise, we pulled into San Juan Bay in Puerto Rico. We were getting dressed in our cabin, when the spires of Fort San Felipe Del Morro suddenly appeared out our cabin window. The Spaniards built El Morro (as the locals call it), in 1539 to protect the island from the likes of The Dutch, Sir Francis Drake and the bands of Caribbean pirates that sailed the open sea. It’s cannons were now trained upon The Carnival Victory and it’s own band of scurvy dogs…The Connecticut Cruisers.

The weather clouded over as we prepared to disembark from the ship. By the time we walked down the plank, a fierce thunder and lightning storm had begun. The wind whipped and the thunder crashed as we ran down the cobblestone streets of Old San Juan. Suddenly, a bolt of lightning pierced the sky. I said, “OK, now we can say we’ve been here.” We took refuge in one of the port’s duty free shops and then, like soaked rats, ran back on the ship.

Once again the island was saved.

Thursday, April 20, 2006

Connecticut Cruisers


This time last year, my family was on a Carnival Cruise in the Caribbean. We had just finished putting a major addition on to our house and really couldn't afford to go, but it was one of those once in a life time chances and we really didn't want to miss it. Four other families from town, (all who had daughters on my youngest's softball team), were planning on going and they were kind enough to invite us along. We decided that this would be a good opportunity to get to know these families better and do a little bonding. My wife hates boats and gets sea-sick very easily but she decided to suck it up, take Bonine (which after considerable research on the internet outdoes Dramamine), and give it a try.

In preparation for the cruise, my wife and I joined the gym and went on the South Beach Diet. We each lost about 20 lbs. Since we are both melanin challenged, we also started going to a tanning salon to get a base tan before laying out in the Caribbean sun. After two months of primping and preening, I started telling the softball moms that I was going to be "eye-candy. "

"Wait 'till you see me in my Speedo!" I kidded them. "You won't be able to keep your hands off me!" This usually got a big round of chuckles from the ladies--Especially from my wife!

After several weeks of preparation, the departure date finally arrived. Our friend Nancy (otherwise known as Julie McCoy, our Cruise Director) and her husband, Kevin, made up yellow tee shirts for all of us. On the shirt's upper left hand corner was a logo that read "Connecticut Cruisers." These shirts served a dual purpose. It helped us stay together and also made us all feel like one cohesive unit.

I remember feeling pretty FRESH as I stood in line waiting to board our ship, the Carnival Victory, at The Port of Miami. I was TAN and I was BUFF. I had even "Naired" the hair off my back. Yeah, I was looking GOOD!

My ego was quickly deflated when one of my fellow Connecticut Cruisers approached me and said, "You really should have tried a tanning bed to get a base tan before the cruise." I told him that I just spent the last two months, three days a week, at the tanning salon and I pulled down the waist of my shorts to show him evidence of my Irish tan. Being Italian, he found this VERY amusing and he doubled over in laughter.

This would not be the my last humiliating experience on this cruise.

After boarding the ship and checking out our cabins, the next thing we Connecticut Cruisers did was put on our bathing suits and head up to the Lido deck for a little sun. All of the ladies quickly laid claim to the nearest row of chaise lounges, a Margarita in one hand and the latest bestseller in the other.

Before I took off my shirt, I thought it only fair to warn them:

"Are any of you diabetic?" I asked. "I don't want to send you into sugar shock when you get a load of this eye-candy."

They didn't even bother to look up from their books.

This was our first cruise and we were a little apprehensive about going. My wife has always hated boats and worried that she would get sea sick. Everyone I talked to about cruising promised us that we wouldn't feel a thing. "Nothing to worry about! Wait until you see the size of the ship," my friend Carl told me. "It's a floating city. You won't feel a thing."

I thought of Carl's statements later that first night of the cruise (right at dinner time) when our ship, heading straight into an enormous storm, swayed up and down while at the same time pitching back and forth. Magically, out of nowhere it seemed, there were strategically placed barf bag holders throughout the hallways and elevators. My wife sat down, head between her knees, crying on the Lido Deck--too dizzy to get up and walk. "What was I thinking?! How am I ever going to survive the week?" She cried. About an hour later, frozen but finally feeling a little better, we headed to the buffet line where she quickly downed the forbidden carbs--bread and rice--with a few others from our group who had never made it to the dining room earlier either.

A little later we went back to our cabin where the room continued to sway. We tried to get some sleep, but my wife grabbed hold of my arm digging me with her newly manicured fingernails, every time the ship smashed into a wave. The metal of the ship seemed to groan and twist. We could almost picture the rivets popping. Water crashed against the picture window. Needless to say, it was a long night!

We awoke the next morning to hear reports on CNN how the Norwegian Dawn had been hit by 80 foot waves that had taken out windows and flooded cabins from the same storm. The rest of our friends, knowing how my wife had reservations about going in the first place, tried to hide this fact from her--not knowing she had already seen the reports. Interestingly enough, she was one of the few in our group who did not actually throw up! She attributes that to her research and the wonders of Bonine!

The second day of the cruise the seas calmed and the cloudless sky turned a deep blue. I met up with my friend Art, who was wearing a green tee shirt that read: I AM THE MAN FROM NANTUCKET (this referred to the limerick about a well endowed man). He told me that while he was standing in the breakfast buffet line, a portly middle-aged woman stood in front of him. She kept turning around, looking at his tee-shirt and smiling. As he piled his plate with scrambled eggs and sausage, the woman turned around and whispered in his ear, "Why don't you come up to cabin 232 and prove it." Being that Art is a happily married man, he didn't take her up on her offer, but she haunted him for the rest of the cruise.

While standing on deck, Art and I discussed our plans for the week. Half of the Connecticut Cruisers had made reservations to go on a catamaran cruise off the coast of St. Martin and Art asked us if we wanted to join them.

"No," I said. "I think my wife has had enough of boats."

"So...What do you have planned for St Martin?" He asked.

"Nothing,"I said.

"You should go to Orient Beach," he said. "It's a nude beach!"

"Oh, I'm sure my wife and daughters would just love that!" I said sarcastically.

"Hey, you're on vacation!" he said.

"Then why aren't you going? I asked, now pointing at his "Nantucket" tee shirt. "Are you worried about getting charged with false advertising?"

After breakfast he changed his shirt.

Monday, April 17, 2006

Kay's Ashes

“All your baby pictures were lost in the fire.”

This is the story my mother, (Kay) told me…and I believed her.

There are various versions of how the fire started, each implicating different family members. Over the years, these conflicting stories have given our family countless hours of entertainment. After a few drinks, different family members start pointing accusatory fingers at one another, but in the end, nothing is resolved.

The one thing that can be agreed on is that my grandparents were called from next door and quickly formed a bucket brigade. It is said that the smoke from the fire turned my grandfather’s white hair yellow. The fire destroyed my parent’s bedroom and all of our family photos.

When I was in 6th grade my teacher asked us to bring in our baby pictures for the class bulletin board. He held a contest to see how many of our classmates we could identify by their baby pictures. The earliest picture I had was the family photo from my brother Emmett’s wedding album. I was four years old at that time and past the age limit for our class bulletin board.

I was very upset. I asked my mother if an uncle, aunt or family friend might have my baby picture.

“No,” she said. “All the baby pictures were lost in the fire.”

“Lost in the fire?!?” my brother Emmett said. “His photos couldn’t have been lost in the fire. The fire was in October of 1957. Bobby was born in 1962.”

My mother was busted!

The sad truth is that Emmett, the oldest in the family, had about 1000 baby pictures. My sister Kathy, the second oldest, probably had 200. Jimmy and Johnny (twin brothers), the next oldest, probably had 50. By the time they got to me, number nine; my parents didn’t even bother pulling out the camera.

About four years ago, Peggy, an old neighbor of mine, sent me this photo. That's me, age 2. Her mom had died and she was cleaning out a drawer when she stumbled upon it. She was kind enough to mail it to me.

I was thrilled!

Although the photo looks as though Matthew Brady took it in Appalachia during Reconstruction, it was actually taken in my neighbor’s yard in West Haven, CT in 1964. West Haven is a small city where the homes are only a few feet apart. Our street was bordered by railroad tracks on one end and one of the city's main thoroughfares on the other. Not rural at all. Mr. Chickla, (our neighbor) raised rabbits and apparently ducks in his backyard. I’m guessing that’s a piece of candy in my mouth and not a hayseed.

“You’re not going to post that picture on the Internet? My wife asked. “You look like a dirty little street urchin standing in front of your shanty in Ireland.”

“That’s what I like about,” I said. “In fact, someday I think I’ll put it on the cover of my first novel. I’ll title it… “Kay’s Ashes.”

Sunday, April 16, 2006

Happy Easter!


Tomorrow we’re having 30 people over for Easter dinner. My wife and I have spent the past couple of days grocery shopping, cleaning the house, planting flowers and generally getting ready for our Easter visitors.

My wife really gets into holidays. On top of my computer monitor sits a little white bunny. It must have already multiplied (as rabbits tend to do) because I also see three more surrounding our TV. Even the fireplace mantle is draped with rabbit garland (who knew they even made such a thing!) On the end table stands a duck carting a giant painted egg. Giant cardboard eggs are displayed on the window panes in our family room. An oversized chocolate rabbit sits atop the kitchen cabinet, making direct eye contact with “Sara,” the red goose that we bought at Home Goods yesterday.

We’ve set up three separate tables in the kitchen, dining room and living room. They are already adorned with tablecloths and cute little holiday centerpieces and candles. Yesterday, I purchased two-dozen tulips at Dahlias, a great flower stand in Grand Central. My wife tells me she’ll scatter these around the house to make it look extra festive. She even put daffodils in the bathroom!

Because we’re having such a large crowd, my wife has assigned everybody a dish to bring. She’s cooking three hams as well as cream cheese mashed potatoes. My sisters have been assigned things like; green bean casserole, baked beans and ziti. My brothers have gotten off easier; beer, wine, soda and stuffed breads from the local pizza joint.


My daughters and I just finished dying eggs,(do they ever get too old for this?) Tomorrow is also my older daughter's 14th birthday, so we'll be having chocolate raspberry buttercreme birthday cake for dessert.

With the exception of my brother Brian, who is going to his in-laws, all my siblings will be in attendance, (not an easy feat these days.) We’ll certainly miss his traditional holiday greeting:

“Happy Easter…Up your keister!”

Yeh, I know it’s sacrilegious…but it’s funny!

Monday, April 10, 2006

Live From New York...It's Victoria Jackson!


Saturday Night Live comedienne, Victoria Jackson, was a regular on my late afternoon train in the early 1990’s. She starred as one of the show’s Not Ready for Prime Time Players. She is as sweet and naive as she appears on TV and I always felt a little protective of her whenever passengers approached her for an autograph. At the time she was embroiled in a nasty divorce battle with her husband, a circus performer, who she described as “pure evil.”

Victoria often complained to me that SNL was a male-dominated show, and that it was hard for her to get any airtime. I suggested that perhaps, if she wrote some fresh ideas for the show, she would appear in more skits. Every so often I would try to come up with ideas in hopes that she would propose them during her weekly writing sessions. I remember one idea in particular, it was called, “Victoria’s Secrets.”

This skit had Victoria dressed in lingerie while interviewing celebrities. Each week she would interrogate a star and have them reveal a horrible, deep hidden, disturbing secret about themselves. The twist would be that the celebrity, both male and female, would also be dressed in sexy lingerie. I advised that the first episode should feature actor John Goodman, crying about some childhood trauma while dressed in a teddy.

Victoria half listened to my idea. Her young daughter Scarlet was spinning around the grab poles in the train’s bar car and she worried for her safety.

About six months later, I was watching Saturday Night Live when one of their satirical commercials came on. It featured Victoria, dressed in lingerie, lying seductively on a bearskin rug. “Hi, I’m Victoria,” she said, “and these are my secrets.”

When I later questioned her about this, she said that actor Jon Lovitz had written the skit for her. She hadn’t remembered our conversation at all.

Victoria asked me on several occasions if my wife and I would like to visit NBC studios and watch the show.

"We would love to," I said.

Months past and we never received tickets. I didn't ask because I didn't want to pester her. I assumed she simply forgot. Then one night when I was at work, Victoria called. She told my wife that she was leaving the show and she had tickets for me. Since my wife was pregnant with our first daughter, we thought it better to go sooner than later.

I called her back and made arrangements to go to the show on the following Saturday. We planned that we would drive to Westport, (Victoria’s station,) and take the train into New York. Victoria said we could join her on a chauffeured limo ride back to Connecticut. We jumped at the chance.

All seemed to be going according to plan. We arrived at 30 Rockefeller Center in plenty of time to find studio 8H, (which is surprisingly small,) and find our seats. The guest host that evening was John Goodman and Garth Brooks was the musical guest.

The show was great, but we noticed that Victoria did not appear in any of the skits.
At the end of show the cast and the guest star came out on stage to say goodbye and to thank everybody for watching. Victoria was missing.

I hoped she hadn’t forgotten about our ride home, I thought.

My wife and I went down to the lobby of 30 Rockefeller Center where the show is filmed and waited for NBC security to clear us to go upstairs to the dressing rooms. While we waited, cast member Adam Sandler stood nearby surrounded by beautiful young women seeking his autograph.

Security finally gave us clearance to go up to the elevator to the dressing rooms. We went down a narrow hallway and asked a burly trumpet player where Victoria’s dressing room was. Just as he pointed to a door, I heard Victoria sob in the distance. We knocked on her door and with her voice choking back tears Victoria said, “Come in.” There sat Victoria, black mascara running down her cheeks and an empty wine bottle on the counter in front of her. It seems that during the rehearsal, the show’s producer, Lorne Michaels, had cut two of her skits from the show--she was very upset, and very drunk.

She carried her wine bottle and continued to cry as we went down the elevator through the lobby and into the waiting limo.

It seemed Victoria had offered a ride home to half of the shows’ cast and crew. A makeup artist and one of the show’s hair stylists took her up on her offer. She introduced everyone as we all piled into the limo.

We shuttled our new friends around Manhattan and she continued to wail. We each took turns trying to console her by telling her how funny and talented she was. “Nobody can do a handstand like you,” someone said. “You’re a great ukulele player,” said someone else.

Victoria said,"Lorne is a #%&*#."

Now, had she used this word on the show that night, the NBC censor would have bleeped her. Apparently, the censor was the only person she failed to offer a ride to, so the expletives flew.

When she was finished exorcising her demons, she asked, “Are you Christians?” Followed by, “I’m born again.”

She got on the limo car phone to call her boyfriend Rick in Florida. This was before we had cell phones, we were quite impressed. While she dialed the phone, she explained that Rick was an old high school sweetheart. He was now a police officer with the Miami SWAT team.

When Rick picked up the phone she burst into tears again. She cried through the Bronx and told him that she was leaving show business. She sobbed through Westchester County and asked him to marry her. In Connecticut she whined and told him that she wanted to live the simple life, just like the cute train conductor and his adorable pregnant wife who were sitting across from her in the limo.

I couldn’t help but remember this night, when on a recent evening, my wife and I saw Victoria on a new reality TV show. The show features overweight celebrities in a weight loss competition. The stars are separated into two teams, red and blue. Each week the teams clash in different athletic events. At the end of the each show, each team stands in one of two giant gold plates, which, as the camera pulls back, are attached to a giant scale of justice. The scale teeters and totters while we, the audience, wait to see which team has lost the most weight.

How low can you go?

Friday, April 07, 2006

Katie, Meredith and Me



They’re calling it the worst kept secret in broadcasting: Katie Couric is leaving The Today Show to anchor The CBS Evening News. It was such a poorly kept secret that even I knew about it.

One evening, about a month ago, I had two CBS executives riding my train. One of them reached into his briefcase and pulled out two 8x10 glossy photos of Katie Couric sitting behind a desk in front of the CBS Evening News logo. When I came to collect his ticket, he quickly hid the pictures. It was as if I was his mother and caught him looking at a Playboy Magazine. His partner laughed when he did this and said something like…“You have to be more careful with those.”

This week, when the news was released that Katie took the anchor job, I thought…Yea, I knew that!

The second worst kept secret in broadcasting was that Meredith Viera is taking over Katie’s position at The Today Show.

About five years ago, my older daughter and I met Meredith in a Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream Shop on Cape Cod. We had just left the beach and went to grab an ice cream cone. When we went into the shop, there were only two other people in line, a woman and her young son. They ordered frozen fruit drinks then stepped aside to let us order. It was then I realized it was Meredith.

It looked as though they also had just come from the beach. She was wearing a white tank top and a pair of gray sweat pants. Her hair was wind blown and she wasn’t wearing any make-up and yet she was still very pretty. Her voice sounded somehow different than one she uses on TV.

“Meredith Viera?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“Hi” I said, “My wife and I watch your show all the time... Do you have a house up here?”

“No,” she said, “My in-laws have a place down the road and we visit every summer.”

We bantered back and forth like this for several minutes while she waited for her fruit drinks to be prepared and blended. I was struck by how down to earth she seemed and how unforced our conversation was.

Before she left I told her that I couldn’t wait to tell my wife that I met her and I confessed that I had a little bit of a crush on her.

“Oh, you’re sweet,” she said.

When I returned to our motel, I told my wife how we had met Meredith and how I had confessed my crush to her.

“Oh great!” she said, “Now she probably thinks you’re a stalker.”

A few months after our meeting, I read an interview with Meredith in some women's magazine I found on the train. She told the interviewer that she sometimes wishes she could retire from broadcasting and move to Cape Cod.

For ten million dollars a year, I'd change my mind too.

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

First Annual Blogger Convention

The First Annual Blogger Convention was held at The Villa Bianca Banquet Hall in Seymour, Connecticut on Saturday. Conventiently, this was also the setting of my nephew John's wedding to his lovely bride Lindsay. Bloggers in attendance at this year's event were my nephew Justin, author of "Things I Like" and his lovely and charming wife Cara, author of "No Agenda".

We had a deep and profound conversation as the DJ played in the background:

SHE'S A BRICK-HOUSE

Me: I call to order, the First Annual Blogger Convention.

SHE'S MIGHTY MIGHTY, JUST LETTING ALL HANG OUT

Cara: What?

SHE'S SUCH A BRICK-HOUSE

Me: I SAID...I CALL TO ORDER THE FIRST ANNUAL BLOGGER CONVENTION!

THAT LADY'S STACKED AND THAT'S A FACT,

Justin: OH!... I THINK WE NEED AN AGENDA!

AIN'T HOLDING NOTHIN BACK, OW SHE'S A BRICK-HOUSE

Me: NEED I REMIND YOU OF THE NAME OF YOUR WIFE'S BLOG?

YEA, SHE'S THE ONE THE ONLY ONE

Cara and Justin: WHAT?

BUILT LIKE AN AMAZON

Me: OH FORGET IT!...MEETING ADJOURNED. Posted by Picasa

Friday, March 31, 2006

How To Get To Sesame Street

When my daughters were young they would occasionally, like most children, watch Sesame Street. One day while watching along with them, I noticed they had introduced a new character named Ruthie, played by Comedienne Ruth Buzzi.

Buzzi was a cast member on the 60’s variety show, Laugh In. Her most well known sketch was that of an old women who sat on a park bench. Every week this character would use her pocketbook as a weapon to beat a dirty old man that sat next to her on the park bench. This skit always made me laugh, so I was very excited to see her late one evening on my train.

Ms. Buzzi could not have been more pleasant and struck me as more of a benevolent schoolmarm than one of the flower power hippies who regularly appeared on Laugh In.
I told Ruth how nice it was to see her on TV again, and that I had two young daughters who watched Sesame Street. After hearing this she demanded that I write down my daughter’s names, as well as my home address.

While I was doing this, she told me that sometimes, (now looking around to see if anybody was listening,) Big Bird loses his feathers, when this happens, a seamstress has to sew them back on.” “Every once in a while,” she said, now in a hushed tone, “ I can get my hands on one of those feathers, and if I do I’ll mail it to you. I doubt I can grab two so your daughters will have to share the feather.”

“That would be great,” I said.

I figured that she probably would forget about our conversation as soon as she got off the train, but a week later a manila envelope arrived in the mail. Inside the envelope was an autographed picture of Buzzi, along with an index card with two small yellow feathers taped to it.

Ruthie had come through.

I raced into the kitchen to show the girls the package. They would have been much more impressed with dead scales from the hide of Barney the dinosaur, but they seemed to like the feathers all the same.

Well, I said, we’ll have to send Ruthie a thank you card.

A week passed and we hadn’t sent a thank you card, then a month, then six months.

Six months or so, after receiving our package Ruth Buzzi appeared on my train again. I was extremely embarrassed that we hadn’t sent a thank you card and wondered if she would remember me. As I collected her ticket, I reminded her of our history, the Big Bird feathers and the failed thank you note.

Apparently Ms. Buzzi is a stickler for manners. When I apologized, her eyes flashed in anger and her lips pursed. She turned her head away from me as if to say, “ you’re dismissed.” I felt much like the old man on the park bench and half expected her to start beating me with her purse.

Some years later I recounted this story to Marty, one of my regular commuters and an actor/puppeteer. He held two jobs at this time. One as a man eating Venus Flytrap in the Broadway production of Little Shop of Horrors and his regular gig, appearing on Sesame Street as the giant wooly mammoth, Mr. Snuffleupagus or Snuffy as the kids call him today.

In recounting this story to Marty, I had hoped that he would diminish the value of the gift and make me feel a little less guilty for not having sent a thank you card.

Big Bird feathers! Marty said. Do you know how valuable those things are?

No, I said, I guess not.

‘I wonder what the statute of limitations is on a thank you cards?’ I asked.

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

Top Ten Reasons I Failed On The South Beach Diet

(drum roll please!)

10. Belatedly discovered Milk Duds NOT on diet...Go figure!

9. You can't deny an Irishman his potatoes.

8. I figured...if gaining it all back is good enough for Oprah, it's good enough for me.

7. When they said "no starch," I thought they were talking about the collar on
my shirt.

6. Krispy Kreme: Nuff said!

5. Apparently, blogging not considered a cardio workout.

4. "Give us this day our daily bread"... Who am I to argue with the Lord.

3. I'm not only the Girl Scout Cookie salesman... I'm also a client.

2. Three words: Cadbury Mini Eggs.

1. Me love me them carbs.

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

Shocking e-mail


Hi Bobby,
It is so nice to hear from you! I cant believe that it has been five years since we communicated via email in which you gave me some very interesting information about you father e.g. that he actually had a heart condition which he died from a few years after participating in the obedience exp.I was able to use that information in my Milgram biography "The man who shocked the world" (p.76) and credit you as the source of the information in the Notes section of the book(p. 317) I don't know if you have read it, but it has generally gotten a good reception from critics, and Discover magazine judged it one of the top books of 2004.
I enjoyed reading your piece about the experiment and your father's part in it.
Thanks for getting in touch.
With best wishes,
Dr T Blass
University of Maryland

See the biography of Dr. Thomas Blass:http://www.stanleymilgram.com/blass.php

Friday, March 24, 2006

SHOCKING!




Something shocking happened to my brother John one Sunday night in 1974. He was at his girlfriend’s house watching the CBS news show 60 Minutes and half paying attention to the screen when correspondent Morley Safir started a segment titled “Following Orders.” Safir introduced the piece by showing black and white footage of a psychological experiment that was conducted at Yale University. John was about to turn the channel when he noticed that one of the men in the film looked exactly like my father. My father had died nine years previous to this broadcast, so he was perplexed. He jumped off the couch in order to get a closer look.

As Safir narrated, the film showed a short, stocky and bespectacled man. He was middle-aged and wore suspenders. He was seated in a stark white room while a man in a long white lab coat attached electrodes to his arms. When he finished connecting the wires he asked the man if he had any questions or concerns.

Man in suspenders: About two years ago I was at the Veteran’s Hospital in West Haven.
While there, they diagnosed me with a heart condition…nothing serious, but as long as I’m having these shocks…how strong are they? How dangerous are they?

Man in lab coat: No, although the shocks may be painful, they are not dangerous.

THAT GUY IN THE SUSPENDERS IS MY FATHER! John shouted. He called home and my mother answered the phone.

Mom: Helllooo!

John: Mom, quick turn on 60 minutes. Daddy is on there…and they’re electrocuting him.

Mom: What are you talking about?

John: It’s some kind of psychological experiment and every time he gets a word association question wrong… they shock him.

Mom: Oh THAT experiment (as if my father had been in several experiments.) Yes, I vaguely remember him doing an experiment at Yale about 12 years ago.

The shocking truth is that in 1961 through 1962, my father, who worked as head auditor for The New York, New Haven and Hartford Railroad,(predecessor to the railroad I work for) took a part time job with a Yale professor named Dr. Stanley Milgram. The railroad did not like their management employees taking part time jobs but my father had nine mouths to feed and was employed at Yale for about a year.

Milgram, a social psychologist, took out an ad in the New Haven Register that offered to pay volunteers $4.00 for one hour's work, to participate in a psychological experiment at Yale University in a study to investigate memory and learning. Participants were told that the study would look at the relationship of punishment and learning. Volunteers would work in pairs; one would be the teacher, the other a learner. The two men would draw straws but it was fixed that my father (a confederate) would always draw the short straw and be the learner.

My father was strapped to a chair and electrodes were attached to his arms. It was explained to the teacher that the electrodes were connected to an electric shock generator and that the teacher was to shock my father for every wrong answer he gave in a series of word association questions.

The teacher was then brought to a separate room and sat in front of the shock generator. The machine had about 30 switches. The switch farthest to the left read 15 volts (slight shock) to 450 volts (severe shock). The switch farthest to the right was simply marked XXX. Every time my father got a question wrong, the learner had to give him a shock that increased in severity with every wrong answer (in reality, my father never received any shocks). My father’s groans and screams were pre-recorded and played each time the teacher gave him a shock. Many of these teachers expressed concern for my father’s well being, some even protesting about continuing, but the researcher in the lab coat urged them on.

Milgram’s results were shocking. He found that 65% of participants, even after hearing my father’s screams, zapped him all the way to the last switch. This study proved that everyday normal people could cause pain and suffering to another person under the right set of circumstances (think Nazi Germany). This experiment is still talked and written about today. Just last year The New York Times ran a piece on it, after US soldier Lynndie England said that she was innocent of Iraqi prisoner abuse at Abu Ghraib, because, she said, “I was just following orders.”

Shortly after the 60 Minutes broadcast, Dr. Milgram, who then chaired the Psychology Department at City University of New York (CUNY), appeared on the Phil Donahue Show. He had finally released the findings of the experiment and had written a book about it. It was titled, “Obedience to Authority.”

As we watched the show, we were all in a state of shock. They ran the footage of my father being strapped to the chair and we could hear his protests when the teacher started flipping switches and doling out discipline.

“Let me out of here!” He cried, “You can’t keep me here! Let me out!”

We still weren’t certain if my father was really getting shocked or not. We wondered if this might have had something to do with the fatal heart attack he suffered less than three years later at the young age of 49. After the show, my mother contacted CUNY and asked to speak with Dr. Milgram.

The next day our phone rang and I answered it. The man on the other line said, “Hello, this is Stanley Milgram, is Mrs. McDonough in.”

Dr. Milgram could not have been more pleasant. He told my mother how much he enjoyed working with my dad and he reassured her that he was unharmed in the experiments. He sent my mom an autographed copy of the book that was inscribed:

To Mrs. James McDonough,
I thought you might like to have a copy of this book.
As you know, your late husband was part of the
research team at Yale University. It was a pleasure
to work with him, and he was a very fine man.

Sincerely,
Stanley Milgram
April 1974


After her conversation with Dr. Milgram, my mother rented the 8mm reel to reel version of the “Obedience to Authority” movie so we could all watch it at home. We gathered in our living room as my brother Jimmy set up the projector and hung a white bed sheet from our living room wall. I really didn’t remember much about the movie, probably because the quality of the projector was so poor. It had no audio and the picture was grainy (perhaps the sheet just needed washing.) I do remember making some great shadow puppets on the wall though.

My father had died just two weeks prior to my third birthday and I have no recollection of him. We used to have an 8x10 picture of him that hung over the TV in the den of my mother’s house. This picture was an icon for me, a photo of someone from the past, not known but idolized. Much like the pictures of Jesus, Pope Paul and John F. Kennedy that my grandfather had hanging on the walls in his house next door. When anybody spoke of my father this was the picture I had in my mind’s eye.

In 1994, when I purchased my first VCR, I wanted to get a video of the “Obedience to Authority" movie. I contacted Yale University which in turn referred me to Penn State University who now own the rights to the movie. The librarian told me that they normally only sell the video to institutions of higher learning and that they never had an individual request a copy for home use before. He said he could sell me a copy, but the going price was $1000.

I explained to the librarian that I was the son of one of the experiment’s main participants and I just wanted a copy for the family archives.

The librarian told me, that under the circumstances, he would talk to Alexandra Milgram, Dr. Milgram’s widow (he died in 1984 at 51 years of age) and see if they could give me a break on the price.

I was shocked, when a few days later I received a call from the librarian at Penn State. Mrs. Milgram said that I could have a copy of the movie for free, as long as I paid shipping and handling. The video arrived in the mail a few weeks later.

Unlike the 8mm home movie we had watched, this video was crystal clear. The hair stood up on my neck as I heard my father speak for the first time (he sounded nothing like I suspected). I had never seen his picture taken from behind before and I inspected his bald spot. I had to laugh when I saw that we had the same smile and mannerism. I pushed the play button over and over again as I wiped the tears from my eyes.

Recently, I had a middle-aged woman on my train, a Yale name tag hung from her neck. We began talking and she told me that she was a psychology professor at the University. I asked her if she was familiar with the Milgram experiment.

“Of course,” she said.

I then launched into the story I’ve just told here and how I received a copy of the video from Milgram’s widow.

“How strange,” the psychologist said, “ that the only memory you have of your father is that of him being a victim.”

“Shocking really,” I said.


For more information on the “Obedience to Authority” experiment, please visit: stanleymilgram.com