Observations on quality time with my 84 year old father, day 10:

• Typical conversation;
o Me – “Dad, which doctor are you seeing today?”
o Dad – “The witch doctor.”

• He asked me to write down his “new” email address and password. Again. This would be at least the third time I’ve done this for him since August. I even put it on a sticky note by his monitor. Since my mother’s health nosedived last July, he’s also had to learn how to use an ATM machine and debit cards. It makes him feel very modern, almost as if he lives in the 20th century. He was reticent to transfer money from one of my mother’s accounts to his, worrying that the bank would suspect him of being up to something. That makes sense to me because it is quite reasonable to suspect him of being up to something. When he got out of jail he had some plan to put together an auto parts and salvage business with some people he met in stir. Sounded to me like a chop shop for stolen vehicle parts. “Dad, let me look at your terms of parole. I doubt you’re supposed to consort with known felons.” He never showed it to me, so I wrote to the parole board to get a copy. According to him they threatened to lock him up again, due to my request. My mom said “He thinks you’re trying to get him put back in jail.” “Mom, he seems to be doing quite a good job of that himself. I’m not trying to get him thrown back into jail. I’m trying to keep him out of jail. Don’t you worry about these things?” She said “It keeps him busy.” After that, I didn’t speak to my father for a year. Come to think of it, it was a relatively quiet year. He never opened his chop shop.

• He always wants me to change my shaving regimen. “Dad, when I’m not working, I don’t shave every day.” I use an electric which he can’t fathom resulting in a clean shave. He recently changed from his old single edge razor to a multi-blade model. Again, it makes him feel very modern, like a person who uses ATMs and debit cards. He used to show up with cuts all over his face, and blood on his collar every day for work. It took him 60 years to change and he insists that he doesn’t cut himself anymore. He still looks like he lost a fight with Dracula.

© Curt Weiss 2014

Observations on quality time with my 84 year old father, day 9:

• Post-breakfast conversation;
o Me – “Dad, you throw away half of your meal. Why don’t you just make half as much?”
o Dad – “I just need twice as much time to eat it.”

• Random things I do not intend to share with my dad:
o What my salary is
o The ten literary agents waiting to read my book proposal on NY Dolls drummer Jerry Nolan
o The fact that I have a tattoo
o Whenever I say “I’m going to get some Korean food”, I’m really going to the local dive bar.
o These stories I’m collecting about him and putting up on Facebook

• My dad likes to point out all the new construction he sees as we drive through LA. After a while, he brings the conversation back to all the buildings he owned at one time in Manhattan’s Soho area. He claims to be the first landlord to rent lofts to artists in the 1950s. “I owned six buildings at one time. They’re all worth millions now”. He sold them all off one by one to bankroll his other ventures (hardware store expansion, buying out his partner, large home in the Rockaways, trips to Switzerland for stem cell therapy, my mom’s real estate agency, apartments for girlfriends, etc.)
“How’d you buy your first building dad?”
“I had a partner named Manny.”
“That stubby little guy with the cute, stubby wife?”
“Yeah that’s him.”
“He wore a brown suit to my bar mitzvah.”
“Well I don’t remember that, but he had a store in the neighborhood and wanted to buy a building, but didn’t have enough cash. He asked me if I wanted to partner and we did. He did all the work and it was easy. I didn’t have to do anything. He handled everything.”
Pause for effect.
“I wonder why I never made any money on that building?”

He’s always been quite the judge of character.

© Curt Weiss 2014

Observations on quality time with my 84 year old father, day 8:

• Typical conversation in the car while listening to the radio;
o Dad – “Is that Humperdink?”
o Me – “No dad, it’s Neil Diamond.”
o Dad – “Who? Neil Humperdink?’

• When we’re listening to music in the car, which is often, as half of our driving seems to be in rush hour, he’ll sometimes ask, “Can you and a gal dance to this?” He loves music and often relates it to dancing. He once told me, “There’s only two kinds of music: listening music and dancing music.” He was quite a dancer in his time: Lindy Hopping when he was a teenager in the late 40s, and all types of Latin music in the 50s. Tangoes, Rhumbas, Cha Chas. You name it, he would dance to it. I ascribe his attraction to Latin music to a) his appreciation of Latin women & b) marijuana availability in the clubs. He’s conversational in Spanish and tries to speak it with all the nurses. Unfortunately the Filipino nurses don’t speak Spanish. In the 70s he would dance to Soul Train on Saturday mornings and he still talks about Saturday Night Fever. “What ever happened to that John Travolta?” In the 80s he took ballroom dance classes and even competed. My mother got jealous of the ballroom dancing because he always had some young hottie, often Latino, as a partner. So, she started ballroom dancing too, mostly to keep an eye on him. As she wasn’t as accomplished as my dad, she had a different partner. Her partner was an overweight gay man with heavily plastered hair and MC Hammer pants. We always assumed his name was Pepi. My dad hurt his back in the mid-90s, but can still shake his groove thing. He may not be doing the James Brown splits, but he’s still got rhythm. If you’re young (well, younger than him) and Latino, he’s always looking for a new dance partner.

• My dad’s been writing fiction since the late 70s. I remember reading one of his pieces and it all seemed to be veiled inferences of his children’s lack of appreciation for his sacrifice. That’s when I stopped reading them. Recently he asked my daughter to read something of his with inappropriate scenes in it. “He ripped her in half during sex? Jeezus dad!” He’s continued writing “novellas” and partnered with people on screenplays but sold nothing. He’s looking for the big score instead of working from the ground up. He has no idea that I’m shopping a book and I’d like to keep it that way. I love him but he’s a narcissist and knows no boundaries. My success isn’t celebrated. It’s looked at as an opportunity for him. When my sisters or I have asked my mother what he wants as a birthday present, it’s always “an agent.” My uncle, who is my mother’s brother and has had issues with my dad for almost 60 years, has reduced his writing to two examples. “The angel of death flew o’er Brooklyn” is his favorite opening line. The other favorite descriptor is “Lithe like a panther…” My dad recently asked me to read one of his screenplays called “El Gigante.” “You’re in the movies so I value your opinion”. “No dad, I work in TV. Local, government TV.” “Yeah, same thing.” Oy gevalt.

© Curt Weiss 2014

Observations on quality time with my 84 year old father, day 7:

• Typical driving conversation:

Me – “Dad, I see you’re futzing with the air vents. Are you too hot or too cold?”
Dad – “Both”

• As hard as he may try, my father just can’t get the hang of “Politically Correct” terminology. As we age, it can be more difficult to adapt to change, particularly when those changes are cultural. When you’re in the workplace, especially if you work for a large organization, most people catch on pretty quickly, plus you have mandatory trainings. My dad though has been “retired” for close to 20 years, so he’s not quite up on the latest terminology nor does he attend mandatory trainings…although maybe he should. He currently uses the term “Afro-American” as if “Love American Style” was still a present-day television show. Before we were married, when referring to my wife, who is Japanese-American, he would say that my previous girlfriends were American. I said, “Dad, she was born in California. She’s every bit as American as you or me.” “You know what I mean” he said. Later on he referred to her as “Oriental”. I said, “Dad, that’s a phrase used for things like ‘rugs’, not people. Better to use the term ‘Asian’.” That was difficult for him to swallow. “Let me get this straight: you want me to call her “Asian’? Isn’t Russia in Asia too? Would you have called Khrushchev ‘Asian’?” I told him it’s always best to call people what they prefer to be called. I guess it’s better than my ex-wife, who he was convinced was a Nazi. “Dad, she’s from Holland. The Germans overran Holland early in the war and made the life of Dutch people miserable. Her parents had to eat tulip bulbs to survive. They have no love for Germany”. He protested. “What about Kurt Waldheim? He turned out to be a Nazi!” “But Dad, he was Austrian. That’s got nothing to do with Holland. And anyway, your Dad was from Austria. Was he a Nazi?” “Curt, now you’re talking crazy! He was Jewish, of course not!” Yeah, I’m taking crazy. I just need to learn to pick my battles. Circular conversations give me a headache.

• He’s always been a spitter. “I have post-nasal drip” he says. When I was younger, he would spit out the driver’s side window while driving. We had a pool table above our garage in the 70s and while playing he would spit out the window into the backyard. If it was really cold though he would spit in the closet. He didn’t like when I told Mom that. Now, that he’s the passenger instead of the driver, I have to make sure that when he spits, there isn’t a bicyclist going by. I don’t want him to hock a loogy in some tattooed Gen X’rs face and have them kick a dent in the rental car’s door. I’ve paid enough in parking tickets here already and don’t want to have to pay damage fees too.

You’ll have to excuse me for now. The microwave needs another cleaning.

© Curt Weiss 2014

Observations on quality time with my 84 year old father, day 6:

• I can’t tell you how many of his stories begin with, “I met a guy at the gym..,” which is often followed by me saying “No Dad, I don’t want to meet him,” or “I’m not looking to start a business Dad. I have a job,” or “Great Dad. I hope he sells your screenplay.”

• My father has had a particularly long, somewhat obsessive, but still sentimental, relationship with his teeth and dentistry. Some of it may be due to all the money he spent on his wife’s caps and his children’s braces. Maybe it’s because he was brought up on a farm in Scranton, Pennsylvania, and the dentist was also the local barber. I really think a lot of it is due to the fact that his very first successful medical malpractice suit had to do with oral surgery. You can see how it would hold such a special place in his heart. Presently, he’s trying to avoid dentures, so even though he was already over 80 years old, he had dental implants. I had an implant a few years ago and when I spoke to the doctor about the risks, he said only the elderly should be concerned, as their weakened jaw bones can fracture. This information did not dissuade my father in the least, as he always needs to have another medical procedure that he can litigate. He also carries around a beat up toothbrush, often sticking out of his back pocket, making him look like a street person. His greatest love though, is for his water pick. Since the early 90s, he’d run from the table mid meal to use it. “I have food traps!” he’d say, while my mother would roll her eyes. “He’s blowing his teeth out again! He drives me crazy with that stupid thing! Why doesn’t he just blow his head off with it?” When he went on a paid vacation in 2000 as a guest of the federal government for a 2 to 3 year stint in upstate New York, he tried to take his water pick with him. Strange how the department of corrections wouldn’t allow it. I guess you could turn it into a shiv.

• He almost always wears black. Black shoes, trousers and top. When we visit my mother at the hospital, if she’s not too doped up and somewhat conversant, she’ll grunt out something along the lines of, “He’s wearing all black again. I don’t know what’s with him. He looks like the grim reaper.” I doubt he’s being fashionable and I know he’s not a Johnny Cash fan. Like Johnny though, he has taken on a more compassionate concern for the downtrodden in society since he was in the can, now that he considers himself a member of the downtrodden. On second thought, I think he’s just constantly running in stealth mode. Or “Our Man Flint” might have been on TV the other night…

Ya gotta love the guy.

© Curt Weiss 2014