November 2009 « Vichy Water

March 26, 2014

IF YOU LIVE IN MONMOUTH COUNTY (NJ) OR SOUTH OF RARITAN RIVER AND MAY HAVE TO GO TO JERSEY SHORE UNIVERSITY HOSPITAL PERHAPS READ THIS LETTER TO THE PRESIDENT OF HOSPITAL DOCUMENTING MY 2 DAY HORROR FILLED EXPERIENCE THERE AS A JOURNALIST AND PATIENT. March 26th 2014

Filed under: November 2009 — Tags: cardiac ablation, Jersey Shore University Hospital — earthood @ 10:05 am

IF YOU LIVE IN MONMOUTH COUNTY (NJ) OR SOUTH OF RARITAN RIVER AND MAY HAVE TO GO TO JERSEY SHORE UNIVERSITY HOSPITAL PERHAPS READ THIS LETTER TO THE PRESIDENT OF HOSPITAL DOCUMENTING MY 2 DAY HORROR FILLED EXPERIENCE THERE AS A JOURNALIST AND PATIENT. March 26^th 2014

this pix was taken 91 minutes after my cat scan (and incident with garbage can) at jersey shore univ hospital. it was 15 degrees and i was posing for a cover of a magazine. taken at the shark river jetty in belmar NJ

INTRODUCTION: Yes, as of this writing (for my blog) here on March 26^th 2014, I have not received any acknowledgment nor apology from the hospital administration as to my time as a patient so I’ve begun the process of sharing my article/letter as a form of journalistic enlightenment which is an appropriate word since I refer to all of my post-op care and stay there as “dark ages.” (And even the pre-admission testing with the medical waste garbage can bespeaks dark ages before the world knew about germs and nasty microbes)

Yes, I spent two days at Jersey Shore University Hospital in March 2014 to have a cardiac ablation procedure; that’s when they go inside my heart for a few hours and find those renegade cells causing rapid heartbeat. I’ll say it again now; the medical care, my surgeon (electro-physiologist) and the operating room team including the nurses for my procedure were absolutely perfect and amazing. And yes, that’s what a hospital is all about; receiving that kind of care. But from the moment they wheeled me out of the operating room on an undersized gurney, my time at Jersey Shore University Hospital was horrific and without compassion or basic human needs care. Fortunately, I was only subjected to post-op care for a 23 hours but more than enough time for me to say with conviction how someone having to face Jersey Shore Hospital should be aware what I endured. Yes, I am an informed consumer.

My tongue and cheek take of Jersey Shore University Hospital; if you have to go there, perhaps rent a van, drive to the hospital, gather up your surgical team, operating room doctors and nurses, load them into your comfortable van, head up to the New Jersey Turnpike then through the Lincoln Tunnel, get into New York City and go to one of their hospitals for obvious reasons; the world goes to New York City.

Now my letter to the President:

CALVIN BARRY SCHWARTZ

Mr. Steven Littleson, FACHE

President

c/o Jersey Shore University Medical Center

1945 New Jersey 33

Neptune Township, New Jersey 07753

March 17, 2014

Dear Mr. Littleson:

I was a patient in Jersey Shore Hospital on Monday March 10^th and 11^th for cardiac ablation surgery which was wondrously, spiritually and ostensibly medically overwhelmingly successful. I am now going to take a significant amount of precious personal time to reach out to you in the hope of establishing a dialogue with educational bridges so you may understand the depth of my concern over my anguished and horrific time spent at Jersey Shore Hospital and perhaps I can understand your administrative viewpoint.

Firstly a brief background into my confidence evolution on why I’m writing a hospital administrator in the first place. I graduated from Rutgers University College of Pharmacy in 1969 with two degrees and briefly entertained enrolling in a PhD program in Pharmacology at Washington University. After a 12 year pharmaceutical career, I entered sales and management with the world’s largest optical company; I was fortunate to “hang around” one of the world’s wealthiest men for 25 years where I learned an infinite amount of inter-personal and management skills contributing to the success of my 12 years as a regional manager.

One day, randomly and serendipitously, I was directed by a higher authority to begin a writing career. My first novel was published in 2010. In the summer of 2011, I became a journalist and cut to present day where I now enjoy a modicum of success covering/reporting on many aspects of Monmouth County life. I host a new internet radio talk show that has brought in national guests. My blog reaches 15,000 people a month and I contribute regularly to local magazines and NJ news outlets and have produced national video content. One of the world’s most famous musician’s families has enlisted my writing for a major biographical effort. A lot of personal energies have been expended recently in efforts for the homeless and hunger where I’ve written several articles about our Food Bank of Monmouth and Ocean Counties and helped to produce a music video to raise funds after Sandy. Simply, I care deeply about the people of Monmouth County.

Now let me share a chronological history of the events with me and Jersey Shore University Hospital which continues to leave me in an agitated and incredulous state. I was horrified over my experiences in your hospital. Let me again reiterate how pleased and thrilled I was with the medical ablation team and the amazing Dr. Ashish Patel and the nursing staff. Perhaps I should add how much of a “medical snob” I’ve always been. Some years ago when I developed knee problems, I ran right to the Hospital for Special Surgery in New York; I researched their mortality rate; 0.05%. When the notion of ablation surfaced, I thought about University of Pennsylvania Hospital which does pioneer work in the field but my confidence with Dr. Patel and Monmouth Cardiology was indefatigable so I was prepared for my first experience with Jersey Shore.

This horrific odyssey for me began on Friday February 28^th at your Amdur Outpatient. The registration process was smooth and seamless but when I entered the CAT scan room for the gathering of my blood and an IV injection of contrast dye, Jersey Shore deteriorated. The nurse who was borrowed from intensive care walked over with a handful of IV needles and blood collection test tubes. She was looking for a place to drop the material and with her free hand she wheeled over a medical waste garbage can and deposited the IV needle that was to enter my body and soul (and the test tubes) on the lid of the garbage can. I was shocked and petrified and asked “Is that hygienic?” to which she replied, “Everything’s covered.” I wanted out at that moment; a bad omen of a hospital. I persevered. Next I knew she was taking the IV out of my arm and moving it another two inches up; my thinking was that the needle is ever so close to that garbage can. The needle went in (I never look; too squeamish) and when I did look, my arm was covered in blood. MRSA popped into my consciousness. The nurse called out for a piece of gauze to clean my arm. No alcohol or disinfectant was used and my arm remained an off color red. The notion of ‘dark ages’ circled my cerebral consciousness. The rest of the CAT scan was uneventful and those nurses were good. An hour later I was in Belmar at the Shark River jetty for a photo shoot. I was going to be a cover boy for a New Jersey Shore magazine which came out yesterday.

My ablation procedure was scheduled in January for March 10^th. I arrived promptly at 7 AM and by 8 AM was secured and hospital gowned on my undersized gurney. I am 6’ 5 ½”. By 9AM, I was just about to be anesthetized; I did view the operating room and its most amazing equipment for entering/viewing my heart for up to six hours. At 11:30AM and way ahead of schedule, I was in recovery and everything I was told prior to that indicated I would be there for 45 minutes before being taken to a room for the overnight. My family waited patiently and apprehensively.

There was no bed or room waiting. That would have to wait for 9 PM. Therefore 9 ½ hours basically in the hallway of your recovery room; the pain of being on my back for so long was excruciating and adding to that was the undersized gurney and the endless wait for a room. The doctor had ordered morphine; the pain was that bad. I declined; I prefer being alert; something told me I was going to need all my sharp senses. All that time waiting for a room and I was pretty much the first patient back (and the last to be moved to a room which baffled and angered me because this was planned back in January.) All that aside, I had to yell and scream to have my family with me. It would seem common sense that if Jersey Shore couldn’t give me a room for 9 ½ hours they could at least bend a rule and accommodate an agitated post- surgical patient and keep my family with me (dark ages and no compassion).

Now in all that time at NO time did anyone ask if I wanted water, drink or food. By this time I hadn’t eaten approaching 20 plus hours. So I started asking and pleading for some kind of lunch food. It took a long time of pleading but a nurse brought a sandwich which was two slices of stale whole wheat bread and one half slice of turkey folded over itself in a David Copperfield attempt at sandwich illusion. I ate it. Still no room for me but I did make it to a chair partially in the hall and was covered with a blanket so I didn’t get arrested for overexposure.

the dried fried vile chicken and macaraoni and cheese for my ‘healthy’ dinner hours after cardiac procedure. it all went in the garbage. the next morning i couldn’t even get a bowl of hot cereal.

my home for 9 1/2 hours after a cardiac procedure 1/2 out in the hallway. and where was i supposed to use a bed pan after IV diuretic. dark ages.

Dinner time approached and I was ravenous with hunger and angry at still no room/bed. I asked for a patient rep. An hour passed and a patient rep arrived. I angrily expressed my predicament of no food or room. She roamed around for a while and nothing was resolved with food or nourishment. Finally I asked for her name. This was one nasty, unsympathetic, confrontational (to a post-surgical distressed patient) patient rep when she yelled from a distance, “I have nothing to do with you not having a room and if you want food send your family down to the coffee shop.” My wife and I were horrified. I wanted a real hospital dinner. The patient rep walked away and ½ hour later asked if I wanted some kind of beef or chicken. I opted for chicken as I do not eat red meat. The chicken arrived. What a culinary joke. It was late and the best I could figure is this chicken was standing around in the kitchen for a long time. I’ve got precious pictures; a great photo op. It was oven fried and stale to the point of being completely inedible and along with that chicken was a portion of macaroni and cheese. I wondered if this was standard procedure food for post-op cardiac patients. The patient rep still refused to give her name. The entire dinner went into the garbage (except for a few pieces of leafy green broccoli) and my son brought me a tuna fish sandwich from the coffee shop.

Part of my post-op therapy was IV Lasix for accumulated fluid in my body. I refused that treatment and had them write it on my chart. I was not about to suffer the indignity of a bed pan in the hall without a modicum of privacy and a bathroom (dark ages once again). That therapy would have to wait until 10 PM. Yes I keep using the expression of dark ages in referring to my overall post-op care at Jersey Shore (and the week before).

Fascinating; some of your hospital employees conveyed to me this kind of negligence of not having post-op beds/rooms happens all the time (every day) (dark ages). Their messages were confidentially delivered to me in tones barely above a whisper. They knew I was a journalist by then. Finally late in the afternoon a nurse told me that room 6002 was ready for me. A few minutes later she sheepishly informed me that my room was given away to someone else. When that happened, I lost it and got even angrier. I wanted to rip the IV out of my arm, throw on my jeans and get the hell out of your hospital. I should’ve. Nothing that would happen until I was discharged the next morning was grounds for keeping me there. You did nothing for me except exacerbate my anger and frustration. Back in recovery, anger and frustration raised my pressure. I watched it hit 164; high for me. I was so angry that a nurse sent for my wife to calm me down. I’m still angry all these days later. As a matter of fact, I have not slept one night through since this happened. Words of conveyance (my story) keep interrupting my REM and all phases of sleep. Words like ‘never again’ surface. Words of ‘what should I do as a respected journalist’ keep me awake. You are seeing some of the energies of those words now as I write you.

Another thought about not having a room. I wondered how you folks triaged rooms. Was I the victim of bias and prejudice? Was there some kind of reverse discrimination? Curious; the things in my thought process but I do know at 6’ 5 1/2″ there was a pressing physical need for me to get to a room and bed and get far away from the maddening environment of your recovery room. Then late in the afternoon, next to me, a hospital employee took sick. Everyone rushed to his side. So did he preferentially get my room? When you are angry and frustrated many things come to mind.

It was 9 PM and my room 6030 was cleaned after discharging a dialysis patient. I wasn’t keen on knowing my room was filled with particulates from a sick dialysis patient. As I was being wheeled into Northwest Tower, I marveled at the surroundings; like a four star hotel. I settled into my new room and bed; they took my vital signs and bar-coded me. I accepted the IV Lasix now; it was 10 PM. Pure orgiastic glee; I had a bathroom with a wooden door. My wife and son left. I asked the PCA room person about breakfast. I was still hungry. He informed that I could not order breakfast anymore; I got to my room too late. Once again I was angry. The nurse said I could have a tray delivered; but I have no say in what’s on the tray. I was so angry. The room had nice amenities; TV, phone and WIFI but I knew all I’d remember is the looming battles I was going to have to get breakfast; an inevitability of the ineptitude of Jersey Shore Hospital. I was so right with premonition.

I tried sleeping to no avail because my long legs/feet hit the end of the bed. I rang for the nurse and asked for help. She summoned the PCA and asked him to get an extender for my feet. Time was around midnight. At 2 AM, I put on my shoes and walked to the nursing station. It was surreal; no one was anywhere around (and I waited and paced) which reminded me of the hospital scene from ‘The Godfather I.’ Were they coming to finally get me and rub me out? When he finally showed up, I asked the PCA about the foot extender. He obviously lied and forgot; I knew there could never be another 6’ 5 ½” patient on this floor. He just never looked because he didn’t care. This was all typical of the care I’ve received at Jersey Shore. The PCA was shamed at 2:15AM into coming into my room and moving the mattress. So I thought about my status as a post-op cardiac patient and the ever present words ringing like a tinnitus in my ears: “dark ages care at Jersey Shore Hospital.” The sad observation for me at this point is that this new facility at Northwest was state of the art, my medical team was superior and perfect, the nurses were the same in the surgical section (not where I was) and Jersey Shore Hospital spent hundreds of millions of dollars on this facility and all I’d remember and write and talk about for a long time was the ineptitude and lack of care and compassion as well as my constant battles as if I were in the Sahara Desert or on a survival expedition foraging for simple fresh food and water. Yes, I had to repeatedly ask for ice water.

At 5 AM, the PCA, perhaps in a demonstration of revenge, awakened me (but I wasn’t sleeping. But what if I was?) (But curiously he never did bar code as if he forgot to do this earlier) for my vital signs and then the best happened: He had me (a post–op cardiac patient) get out of bed (the built in scale did not work) and instructed me to walk into the hallway and get on a rolling scale at 5 AM. I was angry for a change so I called the diet/kitchen at 55021 and left a soft toned scathing message on how I could not get any substantive food for almost 24 hours and I would love my own choice for breakfast. At 6 AM the nice diet person called and took my order and apologized. At 6:30 AM she called back and couldn’t get me breakfast because the hospital had not yet assigned a room for me. I was so angry. She promised to take it up with the nurse on my floor. At 8:33 AM, my hand picked breakfast arrived almost intact. I did not get my hot cereal because I exceeded the carb count so I played ‘Let’s Make A Deal’ and gave up my container of 1 % Milk. I did get the scrambled eggs. I got only one orange juice. And finally I laughed. Earlier after cardiac ablation surgery they sent me fried dried chicken and macaroni and cheese and other assorted carbs but that was alright? Dark ages care is all around at Jersey Shore.

I wanted out of this nightmare (dark ages for two days) as soon as possible. On my daily medication sheet it had 81 mg aspirin which they gave me with my meds cocktail. My doctor told me NOT to take aspirin for three months (also in a reminder email). Could I have had a bleeding episode (taking Xarelto)? I was discharged around 10:30 AM and needless to say, it was euphoric and the words of a hero of mine came to mind. “Free at last. Free at last. Thank God Almighty, I’m free at last.” Free from dark ages of lack of basic compassionate common sense care of a post-op patient.

I write this expansive letter in the form of an article because you never know. On Wednesday March 12th, I called Chris in Guest Relations and she was sympathetic, understanding and we talked for 30 minutes or so. Actually I talked mostly. But she did ask me what I wanted from all this. I was quick to answer. Recognition of what I endured from someone really high up the ladder. And an apology would be nice and appropriate because… And I’ll leave it at that for now.

Wishing you only good things. (President Kennedy used to sign off this way)

Calvin Schwartz

IT IS MY HOPE THAT THOSE READING THIS BLOG – ESPECIALLY WITHIN THE GEOGRAPHICAL AREA OF THE HOSPITAL FORWARD AND SHARE THIS BLOG LINK WITH AS MANY PEOPLE AS POSSIBLE. AN INFORMED PATIENT IS THE BEST PATIENT.

THANKS,

CALVIN

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February 26, 2014

MY INTERVIEW FOR HEALTH FITNESS REVOLUTION WITH SAMIR BECIC Powerful Reading. February 26, 2014 | Rutgers, Jersey shore

Filed under: November 2009 — Tags: Health Fitness Revolution, NJ Discover, Rutgers, Rutgers Drumline, Rutgers Marching Band, Samir Becic, Tara-Jean Vitale, Tim Smith — earthood @ 1:27 pm

MY INTERVIEW FOR HEALTH FITNESS REVOLUTION WITH SAMIR BECIC Powerful Reading. February 26th 2014

And once again thanks to Samir Becic and Health Fitness Revolution at http://healthfitnessrevolution.com/

Calvin Schwartz, friend to Health Fitness Revolution founder Samir Becic, graduated from Rutgers University in 1969 with two science degrees and spent over 25 years in sales management. Along the road of personal reinvention and healthy life style change there were several trips to Sedona, Arizona for barefoot, red- mountain vortex climbing and decades of Jersey shore jetty sitting with concomitant Atlantic Ocean salt air inhalations. Calvin believes a lifetime involved with the Jersey shore has fueled his soulful and creative energies. What followed was an evolution to spirituality, environmentalism, trans-humanism (looking for ways to live to 150 years without overdosing on broccoli). Four years ago, his first novel ‘Vichy Water’ was published and then he morphed into a journalist, producer and writer for NJ Discover (TV & Radio) and New Jersey-The Shore Thing. He covers music, environment, people, homelessness and hunger in New Jersey. Several book projects are also in development.

1. What prompted you to begin your journey into healthy living? Did you have an “aha” moment?

I’ve gone through several stages (passages) through the revolving doors of healthy living. Beginning back in high school, my mother was a ‘health’ disciplinarian and guided me towards the value of healthy eating. In college I continued with her notions, with occasional detours through ‘Animal House.’ Then one day I graduated Pharmacy School, got married and divorced and a funny thing happened; I was officially welcomed into middle age. All this time, I viewed myself at the fringe of healthy living; there was that awareness. In 1965 as a sophomore at Rutgers University, I began to take a cocktail of supplements approaching 40 a day, in a passing fancy that I could slow down the inevitability of aging. So healthy living has been in my consciousness for a long time. In 1975, I did stop eating animals with four legs; the reasons complex, sociological and blonde; but curiously, a healthy thing for me to do.

Middle age, a second marriage and an abandonment of the principles of healthy life styles took hold. For completely inexplicable reasons, I picked up a pack of French cigarettes and began a ten year smoking habit. ‘Me’ of all people who had been so violently anti-smoking and proud of my excessive vital lung capacity began to smoke. I don’t know why. Then again maybe I do; some deep seeded psycho-drama that needed resolution with personal fulfillment, spirituality, creativity and an understanding of the universe; present day Calvin.

This nightmarish ten year period of excesses, gluttony, smoking and no exercise culminated one fine morning with a few hard dull bitter realizations; better known as the “aha” moment in a life. There it was, a non-spiral staircase leading to the second floor of my house that I could not ascend without gasping for breath by the time I reached the top. My great vital lung capacity had vanished into a debilitated state of not being able to breathe walking up a few steps. I caught my breath (robbed by cigarettes and excessive weight) and planted both feet firmly on a bathroom scale (first time in years so the scale had accumulated dust). I wiped the read out so I could plainly see that I was now a 351 pound middle age man who couldn’t breathe a few moments earlier walking up steps. Now I must admit that this excessive weight had been somewhat clandestine as I’m 6’ 5 ½” and big boned so it was easy to fool the people close to me including myself. That night was a restless night, tossing and turning and staring at a clock radio’s face. When I drifted off to sleep, it was probably after 4:44 AM.

If only I could capture (bottle) the molecules and ions in the air of my bedroom that morning when I awoke; the universe and spirit had come into my soul. It was the ‘aha’ moment of a life time. It was Cher slapping my face and telling me to “snap out of it.” It was that defining moment in a life. It saved my life. The tossing and turning had convinced me I was dying and perhaps quickly. My wife and pillar of support woke up as I was standing at the foot of the bed. “Today is the day I take care of all family business. I’m going on a diet, stopping smoking and exercising. I’m going to save my life.” To which she responded, “No one stops smoking and loses weight. Do one or the other.”

A force in the universe had taken hold and held me tight. I did throw away my cigarettes and never went back. I created my own diet by embracing sound healthful living standards but consumed a sparse caloric intake. Every night I walked a mile.

Cut to 2 ½ months later when I weighed myself at 251 pounds. It was hard to believe but the energies of the universe had given me the strength to continue obsessively and dramatically into a 100 pound weight loss and cut to two summers later when I had the stamina to play 6 ½ hours of tennis straight on a hot summer day. The ability of the body to heal and rejuvenate is a marvel as is spirit to guide. The day I began was July 21, 1989 and all is well today with moderation, maintenance and faith and I still take a varied 40 supplements a day.

winter along my precious Jersey shore

2 Please tell us about your story and your journey.

I was going to answer this question eventually on my own in book form; it has ingredients for an emotional quirky fascinating story of personal journey. So perhaps this is a propitious time to collect my thoughts and see if I can spin a rather succinct answer. As mentioned earlier, I went to Rutgers Pharmacy School; mostly because my mother’s brother was a pharmacist. Growing up, I endured relentless subliminal and vociferous pharmaceutical career entrapments by my mother. Freedom of career choice was non-existent. Most vocational tests I took pointed towards history and English. Stern warnings from guidance counselors implored avoidance of scientific and mathematical pursuits which made-up the entire five year Pharmacy curriculum. For twelve years, I practiced the profession, sometimes tumultuously (union organizer) but certainly longingly; there must be something else out there.

Then one February morning in 1981, a spiritual sense overcame me; it was time to move on with life. With my amazingly supportive wife in hand, a few hours after being overcome, I auditioned for the role of Frankenstein’s monster in a local community theater production of an ill-fated Broadway play. With no acting experience and an inability to read a script correctly, I did not get the part (their loss as I’m 6’5” and needed no height embellishment). Six months elapsed while I spent each day in front of a television with a jar of spicy brown mustard nearby to flavor all the junk food consumed daily. Imagination told me I was trying to find a direction for the rest of a life and mustard seasoned the quest. Actually I was flirting with the nadir.

Along came a relative that sat down beside me (sounds like a spider) and helped me get a job selling eyeglasses here in New Jersey. Having never sold anything before and being somewhat shy and reclusive, this sales gig was a stretch into desperation. But I was a newlywed and needed to be a provider and hunter. After a few months, something was happening to me with interpersonal skills and communicative ability; I possessed them and was flourishing and liked selling to optical people. Two years into this gig, I was recruited by the largest eyewear company in the world where I stayed for 25 years; the first 12 as a regional manager.

My inner-self, fulfillment and creativity had been suppressed for a long time with monetary success selling eyeglasses. Restlessness began surfacing; certain energies kept me awake nights well into the early morning. On February 4th 2004 at 4:44 AM, I was escorted into the wondrous world of spirituality; real, omnipresent and haunting in the most precious way. Indeed I was gifted and have been grateful every day of my life since. Many months later on a rainy Sunday morning when I couldn’t play tennis because of the weather and sought to channel my pent-up energy, something in the universe made me watch the movie ‘Casablanca’ and at the very last scene (which I’ve seen 44 times before) something happened to me and in a split second, an entire novel was camped-out in my cerebral chamber. I ran downstairs and outlined my novel, ‘Vichy Water’ which was published in 2010. From 2009 until 2011, I worked on the marketing and publishing of my novel, having left my sales position and concurrently slipped into the comforts of Social Security collection. I must also point out that most of my formal education centered on science courses; there was no formal writing or English training.

Often through the times of writing, the wonderment of the journey precipitated deep soulful inhalations and exhalations; how was this all happening? Sometimes I almost felt a hand taking and leading me. Writing was never my world so what was the deal? In July, 2011, I got an email from a writer’s group informing me of a journalist position for a local county newspaper. With no journalism experience, I went on an interview and became a local county reporter. The assistant editor liked my energy and style; within three months I was up to three separate columns. Spirit was everywhere in my life. Waking up each day was an adventure. Where was this all going? Spiritually on October 10th 2011, I removed a great negativity (relation) from my life; painful and confusing. The universe guided me. The next night the universe rewarded me when my assistant editor, Tara-Jean Vitale, introduced me to the head of NJ Discover; a production, television, radio and news feature company.

The rest of days until now have been filled with revelations, accomplishments and worlds beyond my wildest dreams. Imagine little old me (well entrenched with my AARP card) hanging out with rock musicians and covering the music scene, writing and producing for NJ Discover, focusing on homelessness and hunger in New Jersey, becoming a feature writer for NJ-The Shore Thing magazine and starting my own live radio talk show through NJ Discover.com. Along the way, I’ve been asked to write a biography of a world famous musician; quite a journey.

Throughout this renaissance in my life, I’ve explored, studied and practiced healthful living. Age is a state of mind. I can do anything I did when I was 40 nearly 28 years ago. The body wants to live to 150 years. Our species just mess up the opportunity. A healthy life style and attitude keeps you rolling along. I hang out with 25 year old rock musicians and it’s just hanging out; there is no age barrier; all positive mental attitude, faith, confidence and desire. I push myself into the modern world, social media and networking. A few months ago I met Samir Becic who illuminated me and now I’m answering his questions on how I got here. It is a wonderful world and life.

at the jersey shore and by my jetty during hurricane earl.

3) What were some of the challenges you faced along your journey to healthy lifestyle?

When I decided to make changes in my life style, knowing I weighed 351 pounds, hadn’t exercised and smoked for ten years, also knowing the whole notion of fixing my life style was overwhelming; like being an ant or amoeba (I get visualizations often) standing at the foot of Mount Everest about to ascend to the summit. The challenge of effecting a lifestyle change and beginning with so much to overcome, giving up food and nicotine, addictive substances in their own right, was daunting. How do you this? Where do you begin? Rationalizations of giving one or the other up were hard to absorb. It just all seemed pointless and impossible. Therein resided the greatest challenge I ever faced.

How do I approach myself and plunge into this herculean task? The challenge was to take everything a day at a time and to stay focused. I needed to keep my mind active and busy focusing on music which conjured up positive memories. Everywhere I went for those 2 ½ months, I had my 60’s music to keep me on that magic carpet of memory energy. Memories and dreams are powerful; it was a challenge to collect these on a daily basis and fuel the energy needed to diet, keep from smoking and to exercise every day in spite of the steep odds against me and the difficulty of losing massive weight and giving up smoking.

I was doing it for my extending my time here on earth and the continuing challenge was to battle the realization every day of the gravity of failure. There could never be failure. Twenty-five years later (which is a cool quarter century) from those healthy pursuit challenging days, I sit here in my office filled with gratitude and expressing myself to help others. It’s all good stuff; the right stuff.

a few weeks ago almost at center court at Rutgers Athletic Centet

4) How do you feel your life has been improved by your lifestyle change? What are some of the positive manifestations of you being healthier?

This may be my favorite question; the answer with the most practicality showing a better life style. It reminds me of an old Super Bowl commercial (Super Bowl is two days away) where an elderly woman yells “Where’s the Beef?” This is the beef and rewards of a lifestyle change. Remember I take 40 supplements a day, don’t eat anything with four legs, do 90 minutes of exercise a day, take time to meditate and envelop my world with spirituality.

I am going to be 69 years old in August. Most people meeting me for the first time think I just turned 50. I think and act perhaps like 40. In my life now as a journalist, producer, radio talk-show host, music journalist and college sports aficionado, I’m immersed in a much younger world, often with rock musicians or college basketball players, engaging them and hanging out. Eight years ago I auditioned for Donald Trump’s The Apprentice at 60 years old. Why? Because I knew I’d be able to compete with the twenty or thirty something contestants. And I got pretty far in the process until I backed off; I wasn’t in the mood to spend my summer in a tent in Los Angeles if my Apprentice team lost an event.

Where am I going citing my current life style? The point being (as my 28 year old son always says) is this lifestyle change allows me (bought me) a few more decades of extremely active life style. Cerebrally I’m functioning as a 40 year old. I think I’m sharper today than I’ve ever been; surely maturity and decades of experience come into play. But I have the confidence because I feel so alive and vibrant to engage anyone; I’ll talk to anyone about anything; a healthy mind as a result of a lifestyle change and maintenance.

I’ve become a big fan of telomeres; tips of chromosomes which protect cerebral cells that wither with age. Exercise rejuvenates them. I’m willing to bet I’ve got telomeres like a thirty year old. Exercise may obviate the onset of diabetes. I’m almost 69 and hang around without diabetes when all four of my grandparents had it. So there is something to lifestyle change.

I continue in a life style of creativity and personal growth as if I were two decades younger. It is a wonderful life and it’s all because I had the vision, spirit and determination to implement life style change. One of my favorite pastimes is engaging someone in talk and somehow working my age (always look for the perfect segue) into the conversation and then watch the facial disbelief when my age comes out. Usually I’m older than their parents or as old as their grandparents and they may’ve just given me their newly released rock music CD to review. It’s like an old black and white television commercial. “Better Living Through….Lifestyle Change.”

after hosting my NJ Discover radio show with Tara-Jean Vitale & guests Prof. Tim Smith fr Rutgers & Rutgers Drumline members who performed at Super Bowl & with U2/Bono for Jimmy Fallon/Tonight Show

A GREAT YOU TUBE OF NJ DISCOVER RADIO SHOW TO WATCH: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YfApr2tIIpg

CONTACT INFO:

Website: http:// vichywater.net

Email: earthood@gmail.com

Facebook: Cal Schwartz

Calvin Schwartz-Cerebral Writer

Twitter: @earthood

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December 17, 2013

CALVIN SCHWARTZ: My Christmas Holiday 2013 Blog: ‘A Christmas Carol’ Starring Alastair Sim; Why It’s Still Timeless. Eyewitness to a New Classic Christmas song: Introducing ‘The Big Man,’ Clarence Clemons recorded song ‘There’s Still Christmas.’ December 17, 2013

Filed under: November 2009 — Tags: A Christmas Carol, Alastair Sim, Charles Dickens, Christmas, Clarence Clemons, Food Bank of Monmouth and Ocean County, It's a Wonderful Life, March of the Wooden Soldiers, Tent City, There's Still Christmas — earthood @ 6:39 pm

me and my holiday snowman

I decided to do my Holiday blog; it’s snowing outside but it’ll turn to rain and wash away hopes of using a new holiday motivated snow blower. Sentimentality always grips me this time of year as the holidays abound with spirit, tradition and memories. On Thanksgiving, I start to gear up for the holidays and watch ‘March of the Wooden Soldiers’ with Laurel and Hardy. I’ve been watching that movie for over 60 years, the last 23 with my son just as I watched with my father.

For me it kicks off the Christmas season and imparts lessons about life, togetherness and family and living in a shoe. My thoughts about the movie’s meaning; I think the movie shows an early example of robots (wooden soldiers) being used productively by humans. The movie (from 1934) was a pioneer in other relevant areas such as animal rights by harshly depicting the banishing of pig-nappers to Bogeyland. The film also deals with a powerful contemporary issue of affordable housing or as they’re newly called, tiny houses for the homeless. The three pigs lived in tiny houses in Toyland in the film. I’m into pig issues since I’ve not eaten anything with four legs since 1975 so I’m cognizant about their plight as a species.

Stan and Ollie with one of the early robots (wooden soldier)

The movie is powerful stuff; it transports me back to Newark in simpler times of rotary phones and only seven black and white television channels. I still remember my old phone number; one number off from a local Chinese Restaurant. We used to get quite a few phone orders for take-out chow mein; no further comment.

Moving on to one of my favorite movies (holiday and all year), ‘A Christmas Carol’ starring Alastair Sim from 1951. There have been a number of actors playing Scrooge. For me it’s only Alastair Sim. The tech noir film ambiance lends itself perfectly to the time Charles Dickens wrote the novella in 1843. A few things about the movie still hold on to my soul. The Ghost of Christmas Present reveals to Scrooge two emaciated children, clinging to his robes, and names the boy as ‘Ignorance’ and the girl as ‘Want’. The spirit warns Scrooge, “Beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased.”, dramatizing the book’s social message.

Scrooge on Christmas morning. Of course played by Alastair Sim. how i love his performance

As a journalist and human, nearly two years ago, I became involved with Tent City in Lakewood, New Jersey where 100 homeless humans have been living in tents for up to 12 years because Ocean County has no provision for the homeless. Then a year ago I became involved with the Food Bank of Monmouth and Ocean Counties, writing several articles about hunger and “want” and need. Then I went to an all-day event in Red Bank dealing with hunger. In 1980 there were 40 food banks and pantries for the hungry in America; today there are 40,000 with 50 million hungry Americans. Then there’s Dickens in 1843 warning about ‘Want’ and I say to myself nothing has changed here on earth and in America since 1843. Want and Ignorance and Hunger not only exist but grow in scope.

On a more upbeat extraction from the movie; the scene on Christmas morning when Scrooge wakes up and realizes he’s still alive and can change the course of his life by being a better, giving, and grateful human. The sheer joy and excitement of revelation causes Scrooge to stand on his head on a sofa which is priceless. I love when he says to Mrs.Dilber, “I haven’t lost my senses, I’ve come to them.” Therefore I’ve added this scene to my bucket list. Someday I’ll come to that moment of sheer joy and find reason to stand on my head; hopefully on a certain morning television program. Scrooge and I are about the same age so if he can stand on his head so can I.

Its A Wonderful Life’s Clarence the angel.

Finally, last year through the magic of synchronicity and holiday spirit I came to interview Dennis Bourke(melody) and Jim Nuzzo (arranger) who helped bring the Clarence Clemons Christmas song “There’s Still Christmas” to our radar screens and Youtube etc. Yes, Clarence Clemons recorded this amazing song back in 1981. So a few years after he passed, he is still giving magic and his ‘bigness’ to us; the makings of another holiday classic; just like all the holiday Christmas movies I’ve talked about. Here is my article from last year telling the story of this song. And please check out the link to listen to “There’s Still Christmas.”

A long time ago in another state, in another city (which has alternate side of the street parking), I was aimlessly flicking television channels with an antiquated remote when I caught the black and white beginning of a movie that I’d never seen, “It’s A Wonderful Life.” It was early autumn. Within a few minutes, I was drawn into the mystique and charm of this movie; throw an angel into storyline and I’m hooked for the long haul. I loved the movie’s message; about friends, family and dreams. The movie became a Christmas classic but not for many years after it was made in 1946. It was actually released in the summer that year and bombed at the box office.

Clarence Clemons

When I finished watching the movie, I wondered why this wasn’t a classic with its timeless message of Christmas spirit, incredible cast and storytelling. Over the next few years, Ronald Reagan became President and the movie began surfacing on television during the holiday season with uncanny frequency. I said to myself, “I knew it would find itself holiday time;” and did it ever. Back in the Garden State, in the early eighties, a few weeks before Christmas on a Saturday afternoon, I was flicking channels again with a more modern remote and stumbled upon “It’s A Wonderful Life” on six different channels at the same time, staggered so that you could see the ending if you were so moved; six times. “Atta boy Clarence,” Jimmy Stewart (George Bailey) says near the end; witness to the multi decade birth of a Christmas classic movie. Television stations today conspire to only do one showing per season; but it’s still a certifiable classic. Segue to the title of this article, ‘Eyewitness to a new classic Christmas song.’ By the way, I find it particularly haunting in my microcosmic synchronistic world that the angel in this movie is Clarence, and I’m writing about Clarence (Clemons). Hmmm!!

Clarence and Bruce

I told the story of the movie because in our crazy mixed-up, digital, smart-phone, fast food world, we’re likely to be witnessing the birth of yet another classic; this time an incredible Christmas song with such a moving emotional voice, the late ‘Big Man,’ Clarence Clemons. If you want to get in the mood before reading on, here’s the You Tube link to ‘There’s Still Christmas.’ Go listen and come back here.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8NZ__QNFP5U

I love angels and synchronicity. Forty-eight weeks ago, I came to know Jim Nuzzo and Dennis Bourke (and the late Stevie Betts, lyrics) who created this song with Clarence Clemons back in 1981. I’m a story teller so here goes.

Back in 1981, Stevie Betts (lyricist) and Dennis Bourke (melody) wrote this song, ‘There’s Still Christmas’ and teamed up with Jim Nuzzo (arranger, producer) and got manager Matty Breuer (assistant tour manager for Springsteen back then) to approach Clarence Clemons. They all met at Clarence’s Sea Bright, New Jersey home, had some wine and presented the words of the song to the ‘Big Man.’ Being on hiatus from touring with Springsteen, Clarence wanted to do it. He loved the message of the song; when things look down, there’s still Christmas; simple yet poignant. And Clarence’s rich baritone voice that is silenced now; propels this to classic status. At the first recording session in October 1981, Clarence arrived wearing a cowboy hat. The next day he was wearing a Santa Claus hat and red vest exposing a chubby belly. He had Christmas lights put on the music stand; he was so in the mood to do this song. They rehearsed the song at ‘Big Man’s West’ in Red Bank; Clarence’s club. Jim and Dennis both told me about getting chills being in the same room with him when he performed. “He was a gentle down to earth guy,” Jim said. To relax during the recording sessions, they played video games. To prepare for record company submission, Clarence recorded the other side on solo sax another Christmas classic “The Christmas Song.” The record company never picked up the song so it’s been sleeping all these years waiting for classic beams of particulate historic energy. Last year the song was released but like the movie, so few of us knew it existed. I listened and was blown away; his voice and persona holds me in a suspended state; like I’ve known him all these years; like it’s a special legacy to all of us to have him back in our lives at Christmas this year.

Imagine, after all these years; this song comes to us from Clarence at this holiday time of year; part of his enduring legacy.

Here’s some links to this wonderful life song/info:

http://www.oceangaterecords.com/

Available for purchase on iTunes, CD Baby, Amazon, and Backstreets.com http://itunes.apple.com/us/album/theres-still-christmas-single/id474038459?uo=4http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/clarenceclemons

You can also find ‘There’s Still Christmas’ on Facebook.

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Theres-Still-Christmas-Clarence-Clemons/286246628066619?fref=ts

Bottom line. Please go listen and fall in love with the song. Purchase it. Sit by the fire place with a glass of wine or egg nog. Enjoy the Happy Holidays. Listen to his wondrous voice.

Thanks again to Jim Nuzzo and Dennis Bourke for their passion and time. And to Stevie Betts for his wonderful lyrics and words.

And Clarence.

And wishing you all a Merry Christmas, Happy Holiday and Healthy Happy New Year. CALVIN SCHWARTZ

YOU CAN FIND MY OTHER WRITINGS AT njdiscover.com and njtheshorething.com

AND IF YOU HAVE AN EXTRA MINUTE PLEASE CHECK THIS BOOK TRAILER “VICHY WATER” the home base of this blog: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qj2ko9gcC_M

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October 15, 2013

Going to ‘Scarborough Fair:’ Weequahic High (Newark) 1963 High School Reunion Weekend. A Blog. October 11-13th 2013 By Calvin Schwartz

Filed under: November 2009 — Tags: Chancellor Avenue, Faheem Ellis, Hobby's Deli, Jac Toporek, Newark, Scarborough Fair, Weequahic High School — earthood @ 7:07 pm

Going to ‘Scarborough Fair:’ Weequahic High (Newark) 1963 High School Reunion Weekend. A Blog. October 11-13^th 2013 By Calvin Schwartz

on the shores of Weequahic Park Lake. pristine and precious time together.

with Marc T & Bea McCloud the night before big reunion. hanging out at bar.

with Marc Tarabour & Bea McCloud the night before big reunion. hanging out at bar.

For a week prior to our 50^th Weequahic High School(Newark) Reunion Weekend here in New Jersey, I prepared spiritually and journalistically by doing one of my marathon listening experiences to a particular song. Yes, a song for every occasion and mood. As of a week ago, Simon and Garfunkel’s ‘Scarborough Fair’ accompanied me everywhere. If I squinted and closed my eyes, I was standing on Chancellor Avenue under a cloudless autumn sky; not a person or car in sight. I was in the state of solitude. A war was quietly beginning in Southeast Asia. Where have all the people gone on Chancellor Avenue? Suddenly a Number 14 Public Service bus rambled by; there was no driver or passengers. The bus disappeared. In its wake, aromatic exhaust and a windblown Bamberger’s shopping bag which slowly settled into the street. I watched the last moments of its flight; like sky writing, it hinted at the message that it’s a gift to be going to a 50^th Reunion.

fri night. part of Weequahic HS 50th reunion weekend. PIX: with classmates Richard and Marc(on right) YES we’re thinking about making a movie called “Triplets”

This was the emotional repository that ‘Scarborough Fair’ leaves me in. What I’m doing here is re-creating the bitter sweetness of this song that makes me think of those sixties years at Weequahic; a certain loneliness and yearning; an unrequited love and all the things I never got a chance to say or do. A few hours ago, I spoke to Jordan, a mystic and composer from San Francisco. I told him what this song does to me. He told me that music is a heavenly gift for our species; the ability to transport our cerebral energies into memories. Without parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme sprinkled, I would’ve been less anticipatory and in awe of our reunion. I’ve been excited for weeks. ‘Scarborough Fair’ helped it along. Perhaps while reading further, you all should retrieve it and listen.

Driving up Route Nine to the Friday night get together at the Renaissance Hotel bar, one recurring theme settled sub and consciously; it was indeed a gift to be going to my 50^th Weequahic Reunion. Two weeks prior, we had our last Reunion committee meeting where the ‘In Memoriam’ plaques with pictures of our classmates was sitting in the back of the conference room. I’m sure none of the committee “kids” (we’ll always be kids having spent four formative years together) noticed I was tilted around in my seat staring at the 87 pictures of our classmates now departed. The bulk of the meeting was tilted backwards for me. Nothing was said; maybe I blended in; maybe my face was saddened grey and they let me be.

bus trip meets at Newark Museum

at the high school Untermann field rock with Principal Ellis on left

In an instant, I was with 30 or so kids from high school. Effervescent smiles, hugs, handshakes of remembrance tore down the small walls that up to fifty years distance can erect. A few faces escaped me; it was easier for them I surmised, after all, I was the tallest kid in the class. As we all laughed, sipped mostly pale alcoholic spirits and asked perfunctory questions like what we’ve been doing lately, something hit me; another theme for the weekend. My class of Weequahic High School 1963 had deconstructed pretense and there was a genuineness, warmth and affability that was communicable and viral; everyone was real and thrilled with each other’s presence. A few classmates even expounded on the gift of just being here; I wasn’t the only one possessed. I had met Bea McCloud a couple of committee meetings ago for the first time. We didn’t know each other back then with 540 classmates; things do get lost in a crowd. When I saw her now, we hugged joyously; all special tender caring moments; another theme of our weekend.

at Weequahic High School yesterday. part of reunion weekend. with DE Karon White, senior, on 4-0 Weequahic High team

with dynamic exhuberant Principal Faheem Ellis at the rock

with dynamic exuberant Principal Faheem Ellis at the rock

Cameras and cell phones recorded posterity; I remembered a Kodak used to. Then I stumbled upon a kid (Len B.) who graduated in January, 1963 so I didn’t really know him and we drifted intently through each other’s lives, passages and avoidances like rice fields in Asia. I could’ve listened all night to the stories and musings of all the kid’s last five decades but we had a bus trip back to Newark in the morning. Good night moon and Weequahic.

Thanks to Marc Tarabour for organizing and detailing a bus trip back to hallowed halls and tree-lined Newark streets of our youth and high school. Since most of the 28 bus trippers met the night before, there was camaraderie of comfort with each other. I’d be working the microphone as a guide until we reached Marc and four others at the Newark Museum. On our way to Weequahic Park, we passed streets with houses of early Newark opulence; one with the posh center island. A hush then a salvo of how well the houses looked; nothing had ostensibly changed. Apartment buildings facing the park were just as stately. I heard a few “that was my house.” Undercurrents of thought about Newark’s riots and decline since 1967 were there. But for me it was back to the future. I was fighting Thomas Wolfe internally because I was home again. We all were; ebullient smiles evident on both sides of the bus aisle. This part of Newark, our Weequahic section, was enduring and everlasting. It had to be for our molecular being came from here.

the auditorium’s wooden seats from 1933.

the Weequahic High drum corps in a mini-concert for us 50 year alums. they dazzled us.

Our bus driver (it said limousine service on the outside) pulled into Weequahic Park near the old Tavern Restaurant and Millman’s hot dogs. I depressed the microphone; The Tavern was so iconic, even in the early sixties, it was doing millions in business. The park and lake were pristine and the group lined the shore line for a photo-op. In the distance was the bluish apartment building notorious for boarding stewardesses (someone yelled flight attendant) and nearby a few ducks and Saturday morning joggers were in motion. More specialized photo-ops and hugs before we re-boarded. Indeed, pretense was long gone.

The epicenter of our travels and being was the high school building. We toured with the dynamic, dedicated young principal Faheem Ellis and Alumni Association executives, Phil Yourish and Hal Braff. A glowing newness was the athletic center and gym with 2000 seats, not 400 in the old boy’s gym where state championship teams played. On my sixth attempt, I sank a 10 foot shot with a deflated basketball to match my extant ego. But hallowed halls and even the painted numbers on the rooms were the same; so were the wooden seats in the auditorium going back to 1933 and the tinny lockers. A kid yelled that even some etchings and carvings on the seats were vintage us. Yes, Virginia, we were home and thrilled where we were. I clenched my fist tight; a clench for a freeze frame in time; it never works. An amazing Weequahic High drum corps performed; they had a football game later. Of course an eerie silence as the bus pulled away.

a wondrous art deco building in downtown Newark outside Hobby’s deli where i ate pretty good tuna salad.

the entrance way into saturday night’s party.

Sundown hurried and it was the essence of the Reunion; the cocktail party and dinner with music. How elegant the room with centerpieces of Weequahic’s colors, orange and brown with dashes of detailed leaves of the same color on each table. The 150 or so people continued deconstruction of pretense. We’re all by-products of the sixties with flowers in our hair so I can say there was a special love and warmth in the room. Watching as the kids passed the ‘In Memoriam,’ I knew what was on the minds and in the hearts; gratitude to be here. Some pointed and shook heads; some took pictures and as tears went by, the kids hit the open bar for wine and cheese. We sat with mostly the same kids where we sat in the lunchroom during the Cuban Missile Crisis. Girls got up and danced the slide. We bought tee-shirts and hats from the Alumni table to take back to Paris, California, Florida, Texas, Chicago, Monmouth County and Newark and elsewhere. Then the song ‘Shout’ from ‘Animal House.’ I grabbed Bea McCloud and we danced and it was all magic and good and I almost hit the floor and gyrated like John Belushi (Bluto) in the movie but paused remembering my age.

the reunion committee. i was taking the pix. Jac our leader front and center.

with fellow classmate Jerry Wallace

Ever so gently and unobtrusively as the night waned, kids started to leave. The room was nearly empty; a few pockets of kids talked about staying in touch; a few small group pictures flashed across the room; a few promises to meet at breakfast; and a lot of questions and talk about shortening the reunion to every five years and even sooner. Why wait? Pretense was deconstructed and I loved the spirit and warmth; it was real. I remember the movie, ‘Norma Rae’ when Sally Field says to Ron Liebman, “Ruben, you really like me!” Yes, Virginia, the Weequahic High 1963 class really likes each other. I’m always tempted to intellectualize the function of maturation and the leveling effect of the aging process.

part of the encore generation celebrating Newark's Weequahic High School reunion sat night. what is encore? embarking on new careers instead of rocking chairs and prune juice on the rocks. PIX: with classmate Roz W. we met at Rutgers in May at a lecture on urban decline and rebirth after some 5 decades since our graduation and now again sat night. and so it goes.

part of the encore generation celebrating Weequahic High School reunion sat night. what is encore? embarking on new careers instead of rocking chairs and prune juice on the rocks. PIX: with classmate Roz W. we met at Rutgers in May at a lecture on Newark urban decline and rebirth after some 5 decades since our graduation and now again sat night. and so it goes.

I walked around polling the last few to see if anyone wanted to hang-out in the bar and reminisce. It was just past the other side of midnight. A few said yes. I ran to my car to drop off my new Weequahic tee-shirt which will never fit. Only Roz Weiss made it to the bar so we talked and sipped a complimentary seltzer until after 1 AM. I believe it was 1:11 AM when we hugged and said goodbye. I watched her disappear and smiled at my accomplishment; the last to leave the Reunion party. It was a 20 minute trip back home. The window was open and a warm breeze caressed and ‘Scarborough Fair’ played seven more times.

NOTE: Kudos and praise must find a place here for Jac Toporek, the matrix, energy, spirit, love, and special bond which continually (last three reunions) brings us all together. There would be no reunions if not for him; we all know that; we all love and thank him.

For other locations of Calvin’s writings: njdiscover.com njtheshorething.com

http://vichywater.net

Also you can find me on Facebook as Cal Schwartz

and on Monday nights (every 2 weeks) from 8 to 9 pm check out my radio show: NJ Discover Radio Show (one hour of special talk and guests)

TUNE IN LIVE HERE!!!!!!!!!!! From 8 to 9 pm Monday September 9th (before Monday night football )

http://www.spreaker.com/show/the_nj_discover_radio_show

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September 9, 2013

A Personal Story About Fatherhood and Donald Trump’s ‘The Apprentice’ and Rutgers University Football. Hey it’s September. September 9, 2013

Filed under: November 2009 — Tags: hooplaha.com, Olive Branch, Rutgers, The Apprentice — earthood @ 1:15 pm

prodigal son and myself tailgating in New Brunswick’s Olive Branch

Please note; before plunging into this short article with pictures, I am a Rutgers alum so I wear the gear around the house and environs.

When I was a kid and the song ‘See You in September’ used to permeate the radio waves and make me depressed before I understood the etiology of the seasonal affected disorder. Simply, I just didn’t want to go back to school. It was too much fun playing baseball in the corner lot or street hockey with hand-made sticks or going to the Roosevelt Theater on Clinton Avenue in Newark or waiting for the evening arrival of the Good Humor truck; Chocolate Éclair still my favorite.

Then a curious passage occurs; you watch rapid fire decades pass by and values and likes on Facebook and real life change. I now love the pomp and circumstance of college football; especially being on campus and tailgating and absorbing the myriad of energies, sights and sounds. I’ve observed being on a college campus is better than taking blood thinners. It may even play a role in obviating dementia; to be around and part of the Rutgers college scene; if only for a few Saturdays a month. In my writings for local Jersey media, I’ve become a huge fan of trying to extricate people from their sedentary sofas. Maybe the words here help extrication.

prodigal son and myself the night before the Pinstripe Bowl

The following article I wrote for Hooplaha.com (and am sharing it now thanks to Hooplaha) to extol the virtues of fatherhood, football, bonding, and experiencing life with my son. The foundations and pathways we initiated back then still are in place today and have become part of the lives of two New Jersey guys; me and my son. And how Donald Trump’s ‘The Apprentice’ fits into the stream of consciousness makes for a little out of the mundane.

********************

our first official team for beer pong.

a father and son trip to Arizona to the Insight Bowl followed by trip to Sedona Arizona

Since fatherhood caught up to me when I turned 40, a few abstract thoughts came to mind like being forever young, living to 150 years; basically notions of finding ways to keep up with my son as he gets older (maybe I won’t). When he was ten years old (17 years ago), I took him to his first college football game at Rutgers to do some father-son bonding. The following year we got season tickets for all the major sports at Rutgers and we’re still going strong. Of course there is more to the institution of fatherhood for me. I’ve been working hard at it for reasons like the essence of this article.

Seven years ago my son was a college sophomore; living in the dorm and had just become a member of a fraternity (the same one I joined a few weeks after Muhammad Ali defeated Sonny Liston to win boxing’s Heavyweight Championship in 1964). One Wednesday, my son called and asked what I was doing Saturday night and if I wasn’t busy, I should come down to the fraternity house and hang with him and the guys. There was no hesitation. “What time? Should I come straight to the frat house?” I instantaneously knew what my son’s invitation meant to me and our relationship since the day he was born. I also thought about meeting real life movie ‘Animal House’ characters and I did. Third floor beer pong was going on when I arrived. My son and I teamed-up but I managed not to drink beer; visions of my making the cover of Time or Newsweek danced in my head as being a father who endorsed under-age college drinking; there’s something positive about partial conservatism and vibrant visuals.

more father and son bonding the old fashioned way

Cut to a few months later. Rutgers University, Donald Trump (‘The Apprentice’) Randall Pinkett, who actually won ‘The Apprentice’ and was an undergraduate at Rutgers, endorsed a program reaching out to the Rutgers community to get them involved in the audition process for an upcoming season of ‘The Apprentice.’ Normally laborious long lines of waiting to audition were waived for a select group of Rutgers people. Without hesitation, even at 60 years old and far removed from only 20 and 30 somethings, I became one of the 125 people who auditioned on Rutgers College Avenue campus student center. Prior to sitting with Randall Pinkett and telling him why I’d make a great contestant (I could probably beat every one of the contestants in singles tennis or around the world basketball), I filled out forms and wrote five essays. One essay asked “What is Your Most Impressive Work or School Achievement.” Without hesitation, I wrote about my son calling and asking me to come down to the frat house and hang out. This was my most impressive achievement. In a public discourse like I’m doing right now, I’d venture to say no one from the world of ‘The Apprentice’ had any idea what I was talking about.

But I know that I’ve prioritized life, put my son and our relationship where it should be, ahead of any class of business pursuit; so when he grows up to be a young beer pong playing fraternity guy, he’d be comfortable and secure enough with me and our relationship to want me to hang out with him and his frat brothers; indeed my most impressive accomplishment and achievement. I figured that no one at ‘The Apprentice’ would understand or appreciate the depth of my essay answer and it would probably wind-up on the cutting room floor.

As they say on Broadway, I’m still waiting for the call back. Funny thing; I had a connection that could’ve placed my application and essays on Donald’s desk. However, this particular edition of ‘The Apprentice’ was shot in Los Angles for the summer (taking me away from my beloved New Jersey) and if you lost that week’s segment, the on screen television punishment was sleeping in a tent. I did that once my freshman year and woke up with a frog in my sleeping bag. I resolved no more tents in my life so I declined to have my application appear on Donald Trump’s desk. I hope that didn’t show my age.

FOR MORE OF MY WRITING PLEASE CHECK OUT NJDiscover.com AND http://njtheshorething.com