Real Music & Real Estate . . .

I wasn’t in Rust Belt Chic –The Cleveland Anthology. An oversight. I’m Rust Belt chic. I’ve lived in Cleveland all my life and I use Rust-Oleum (a local brand) on fire escapes. A tenant fell on a fire escape because it was rainy and slippery, and he complained because we use good paint.

I’m not total lunch bucket like Pulitzer Prize columnist Connie Schultz, whose dad worked at the CEI plant in Ashtabula, or Rust Belt Chic co-editor Richey Piiparinen, whose dad was a Cleveland cop who got run over on the way home from an Indians game.

I told Richey I liked the anthology even though I wasn’t in it. I said, “I like it and I’m not even into the Browns-booze-and-broads thing.”

He said, “That’s good — ‘Browns, booze and broads.’”

1) The Browns. I’ve been to about five Browns games. One was the championship game in 1964. I’m good to go.

2) The Indians. I’ve been to about a game a year. Believe it or not, I’ve seen three no-hitters: Stieb, Bosman and Siebert. I’m good to go, again.

3) Booze. I’ve had very few Great Lakes Christmas Ales. No more than 10. But I’m 100 percent behind Great Lakes Brewing and heavy drinking.

4) Broads. I met a couple at the Last Moving Picture Company in 1976 who are probably dead by now from too much beer. (Pong, the video game, was big then.)

David Giffels in his essay “The Lake Effect” wrote, “There was never any color in the 30 miles of sky between Akron and Cleveland. It was a masterpiece of monochrome.”

I see color in the sky all the time. I see blue right now, believe it or not. I’m too upbeat for Rust Belt Chic.

Go Tribe! And keep the Wahoo logo!

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I hired Sabina’s husband, not her. She was not into shoveling snow, cutting grass, or climbing ladders. She was a Russian Lit major from Russia. But then her husband deserted her, and I was stuck with just her.

When I asked a tenant how Sabina was doing, he said, “I hate her.”

“Do you hate me, too?” I said, trying to establish a baseline on what hate meant. He said I was OK, but “Sabina doesn’t clean, she has her young kids cutting the grass, and she doesn’t tell us anything — when anything is going to get fixed.”

I fired her. Then I rehired her because she said she couldn’t feed her kids. Eventually she found a boyfriend in Avon Lake and moved out. I owe that guy.

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My cousin Marc had a GMC tractor-trailer, which he parked in the May Co. lot in University Heights. Marc was possibly the only Jewish long-distance trucker in the Heights in the 1970s. In 1975 Marc borrowed a few thousand dollars from my father for the truck. Marc had a contract with International Truck of Rock, Minnesota. Ultimately, Marc moved to Pennsylvania and never repaid my dad.

In high school Marc had been a J.D., stealing hubcaps. Hubcaps from Shaker Heights. Class. When Marc’s mother (my dad’s sister) heard Marc hadn’t repaid my dad, she made payments, but never fully repaid the loan. My father’s attitude was “win some, lose some” with family.

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My mother, 82, owns 25 rental units in Cleveland Heights. She wants me to collect rents. I’m reluctant. She hides apartment keys for me everywhere and says, “Now this key is to that room, which is next to this door. Turn right, and reach your hand around the corner and it’s on this ledge.” I write it all down. My sister lives in Florida. It’s all on me.

The other day I bumped into Bert Stratton, the klezmer guy. How long has his band been around? They should hang up the Havdalah candle. Bert asks me the same thing every time: “What are you going to do when your mother dies?”

I tell him I’ll sell the stupid houses the minute she dies. He says real estate is solid parnassah, which means livelihood in Yiddish. Bert likes to sling Yiddish. Sling this, Bert: Va fangool! Bert, you manage the houses after my mom dies.

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For Clevelanders only, don’t forget to click the City Journal link at the end of this post.

When my mother died, we stored her furniture in the basement of one of my apartment buildings on the West Side. The furniture sat there for five years until my older son, Teddy, took the stuff and went off to law school. The furniture was mildewed but usable.

When I visited Teddy at law school and saw my mom’s furniture again, I had full-color flashbacks. Seeing that yellow kitchen table in play again was mildly disturbing. I had eaten at that table for my first 18 years, and now it was in student-housing in Toledo. It was Formica. It was worth something.

In high school I was laconic at that table. I didn’t talk. My dad didn’t talk much either. My whole family didn’t talk much. We didn’t watch TV at dinner, either. We ate a lot of fish. Halibut was cheap then.
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Here’s one I wrote for City Journal about snow. Just came out. “Gettin’ My Snow Belt On.”

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Cleveland is a great place to raise a family. It has wonderful cultural attractions, but I couldn’t take the place anymore. I couldn’t take the weather. When I wrecked my knee, I couldn’t even ski.

I’m a member of Wandering Jews here, a group at my temple. We go up into the mountains and pray once a month. I never could stand the glitzy mega-temples in Cleveland.

My friends back home expected me to die in Cleveland. No thanks.

Please don’t be mad at me for leaving. Visit me, and we’ll sit on my patio and listen to the birds.

By the way, what’s the temperature in Cleve today?

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I knew a Cleveland comedian who moved to Florida and did impressions of Joan Rivers and Carol Channing, and even affected a New York accent. She was on the condo circuit. Yiddishe Cup and she shared the same booker, Suntan Stu.

The first time Stu called me, he said, “Vos machst du, man?” (How’s it going, man?)

“Remind me, Stu, how do you know my band?”

“When a band is as good as Yiddishe Cup, the word gets around!”

I lost $900 to Stu. He booked us at a Florida showcase (a talent show for bands) that never happened. I had to pay $900 in airline cancellation fees. Stu’s website said he had worked with Dolly Parton, Johnny Mathis and the Bee Gees.

Why did I fall for Stu? Because I thought Stu would get us a lot of gigs. We got gornisht.

If you ever hear “Vos machst du, man,” run.

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You know how Mrs. Maisel in The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel bribes the Gaslight Cafe booker with brisket to get a good performance slot? This video (below) outlines how Yiddishe Cup operates, food-wise:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uqCfaTHilcA

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Funk a Deli (formerly Yiddishe Cup) is at the Bop Stop 8 pm this Sat. (March 3), Cleveland. We’ll play klezmer and soul music.

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Want something to read?  Read my recent Wall Street Journal op-ed, “Need Emotional Support? Ruff.”

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A git Purim, yidn! Hope to see some of you tonight (Feb. 28) at the Purim service at Park Synagogue East, Pepper Pipes, Ohio. Free and open to the public. 7:15 p.m. Funk a Deli gits down.

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Yiddishe Cup calls its act “neo-Borscht Belt klezmer comedy.” That’s been done before — the Borscht Belt schtick. For starters, about 60 years ago.

Yiddishe Cup can half-fill a golden age center in Miami. Then what? They’re not getting any younger. Has Yiddishe Cup ever toured for weeks, developing a solid groove, establishing decent ensemble chops? On weekends the band passes out inflatable guitars at bar mitzvahs, eats baked salmon, and watches “reflections” videos.

Does Yiddishe Cup research Yiddish tunes at YIVO? Does anybody in Yiddishe Cup even know what YIVO is?

One more thing: dynamics. Try it, Yiddishe Cup.

–I can’t remember who wrote this. I’m blocking.

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Glowing reviews — so far — for Funk a Deli (formerly Yiddishe Cup), performing 8 p.m. Sat., March 3, at the Bop Stop, Cleveland.

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Yiddishe Cup did a month-long tour. We had the bus, the lighting guy, the sound guy and a tour manager. We even had a masseuse. We had hot meals. We had screaming fans. But it wasn’t about us. We weren’t even billed as “Yiddishe Cup.” We were just “Cup”  — a somewhat amorphous, competent band of old Jews.

I jogged a lot during that tour to keep my sanity. The young fans drove me nuts. We sold just 10 Yiddishe Cup CDs, total. Not our crowd, I’ll admit.

We were the “support” band, and we supported the star well. The idea of a pop icon touring with a bunch of old Jews was novel, and it worked. But I wouldn’t do it again.
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Funk a Deli (formerly Yiddishe Cup) is at the Bop Stop 8 p.m. Sat., March 3. $20.

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And please check out my essay about Cleveland real estate at Belt Mag. The essay was posted the other day.

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My mother drove me to tennis tournaments, like at Denison Park on the West Side and even to Youngstown. I would invariably lose my matches. I was good at my local park but not at USTA events. The first guy I  played in a USTA tournament was Kevin Senich, who was two years younger than me and about a foot taller. I was afraid he’d hit me in the face with his fast serve. He beat me 6-0, 6-0. Maybe 6-0, 6-1. Hard to remember. My mother took me to Isley’s ice cream afterwards. Senich won the state doubles in his sophomore year, and a lot of other stuff.

I was at the Cleveland Racquet Club last year and asked my present tennis partner, “Where’s Senich?” Because I knew Senich was a Racquet Club member. My partner said, “I think he died.”

I looked Senich up. He died at 62. I remember his mother was from Ireland. Senich never knew me, but I knew him.

After I wrote this, I realized Senich didn’t beat me. It was Jim Bright, a state singles runner-up from Lima High. Bright, too, was a big guy.

Senich beat me later.

Kevin Senich, Parma High

In 1968, Kevin Senich was undefeated in singles play for the Parma Redmen. Teaming with his brother Mike, they won both the district and OHSAA state championship in doubles play. In college, Kevin earned four varsity letters at the University of Michigan, earning All-Big Ten honors twice. He won 5 individual Big Ten championships as a member of the four-time Big Ten championship team. As a team captain of the 1974 Michigan team, he was ranked 3rd in the NCAA.

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My father, Toby, handled pain better than most. For instance, bone marrow tests didn’t faze him, and he never used Novocain at the dentist’s office. But he wasn’t iron. He wanted to be buried with a bottle of Chlor-Trimeton, he said. He had allergies and often caught colds.

My dad and I went to the allergist together. The doc saw about 12  patients per hour.  He chatted with each patient for a few minutes, then poked. On family vacations, we took along syringes and bottled medicine, supplied by the doctor. My dad and I poked each other.

Needles were family to me.

Bert and Toby, 1957

My dad listened to his body before “listening to your body” was a thing. He drank Tiger shakes at the Old Arcade. He was a fitness buff. He had the Royal Canadian Air Force exercise booklet. He jogged in his underwear in the kitchen. Gross. Toby was a founding member of the Linus Pauling Church of Vitamin C.

Toby lay on the living room couch. This was during his final days. I said, “Your view would improve if you turned the other direction.”  He didn’t care what way he turned. He had a 104 temperature. We talked taxes.  That was our go-to subject when he was dying. I was in the 15 percent tax bracket, I said. Toby said I was in the 28 percent bracket. How was that possible? I didn’t understand marginal tax brackets  — the last-dollar-in concept. I had something to learn. Another question: How come, when interest rates go down, bond prices go up?

Toby went through chemo treatments and transfusions for leukemia. He got the shakes and was admitted to the Cleveland Clinic. When a nurse asked him how he was doing, he didn’t answer. She turned to me. “Maybe he turned off his hearing aid,” she said.

“He’s never done that before.” I said.

The nurse put ice under Toby’s legs to cool him down.  “I don’t want to hurt the old guy,” she said, putting ice between sheets.

That “old guy” was my father!  He was a jogger and exercise freak.

Theodore “Toby” Stratton, 66 (1983)

I got shingles. My uncle said, “What’s wrong with you, Bert?  Shingles are for old people!” I was feeling kind of old at that moment.  (I was 36. My dad was 68.)

The nurse called at 3 a.m. and said my dad was dead.  I went with my mother to the hospital.  The room was tidy — no bedpans, no chucks, no tubes. No more needles.

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I have an op-ed in the New York Times about Chief Wahoo.

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Mike, a high school buddy, found me on the internet and emailed me. He added a postscript: “I haven’t thought about high school in decades!” He recollected a few old high school names.

I haven’t thought about high school in decades. Was he bragging? Like “I’ve moved on.”

I think about high school fairly often. I even think about grade school and pre-school — which is bad, because I didn’t even go to pre-school.

News: “Nostalgia has been shown to counteract loneliness, boredom and anxiety” — New York Times, 7/9/13, John Tierney. I sometimes go to reunions that aren’t mine (though I’m not going to my wife’s next reunion. Can’t take it.) I was at the 50th Cleveland Heights High reunion about ten years ago. I was playing a gig in the same building and went to the reunion to see what I had to look forward to.

I wish teachers were invited to reunions. My 12th-grade English teacher, Mr. Hill, used to walk his dog by my house in the 1990s. One day I got up the nerve to say hi. He didn’t remember me. “I had so many students!” he said.

Bert Stratton, 1967. Brush High tennis team

I should call my old friend Dennis. Just called.

He said he’s not coming in from Philly for the 50th reunion. I should call Howard, who is in New York. We occasionally vacation together and analyze our high school days . We talk about the Jewish “Tiger Mom” ethos of our youth, and how it no longer exists —  both our youth and the Jewish “Tiger Mom” ethos. Howard has concocted two classifications for the Jews of Cleveland, circa 1965: 1.) Racetrack Jews (gamblers /working class) 2.) Refined Jews (sheyne, college-educated Jews). My family was a bit of both. We read the Cleveland Press. Howard’s dad bought the Sunday Times.

I haven’t been back to my high school in decades. It’s off my flow chart, even though it’s only 5 1/2 miles from my house. If I went into Charles F. Brush High, I would probably feel very young or very old. I think “very old” would win. Not worth it.

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Pure jazz was my thing. Blues, too. My roommate, John, was an inner-city kid who didn’t know a clarinet from an oboe, or anything about music. I visited John at his Chicago house decades later (1995); he lived in his childhood neighborhood, Wrigleyville. His teenage kid was jamming to Jamey Aebersold jazz play-along records.

John had started U. of Michigan as a pre-med, like me and everybody else, but he came out a railroad brakeman. Sophomore year he chalked “Take Drugs” and “Only Fools Stay in School” on the sidewalk in front of our co-op house, and he dropped out.

In 1995 he said he was sweating his monthly urine test with the railroad. His house, which he had bought in 1975 for $30,000, was worth more than a half million. “I’m a capitalist now,” he said. “And I have two renters.” But he still subscribed to The Militant, the Socialist Workers newspaper. His son played “Watermelon Man” on tenor sax. This was familiar to me, except for The Militant part. My parents had subscribed to Newsweek.

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The pawn shop had a lot of flat-screen TVs, fishing poles, amps, guitars and power drills. The store was a man cave, basically, and it was in the inner city. I went there to pick up my band’s sound equipment. I gave the cashier $774.25 cash. No credit cards or checks accepted. The cashier was behind a bulletproof window. I wore a tie and jacket to impress the shop owner, who I ran into. I said, “I knew your brother. Sorry to hear he passed away.”

“My brother is alive,” the owner said. Oops.

I said, “Could you make it so I don’t have to pay interest on my band equipment? It was brought here without my permission.” The owner said no.

The owner disappeared into the backroom but then waved me back to the counter. Reconsidering? “I just read your blog,” he said. “I want that shit down in three hours or I’m fucking suing you.”

He had read my blog? In a pawn shop in inner-city Cleveland! Apparently he was doing due diligence on his fellow Jew — me. I had written about pawnshops and cops a couple years ago and said some pawn shops kept sloppy records. This pawn shop owner was thorough. Maybe he would sue me. I deleted the pawn-shop reference as soon as I got home.

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I’ve been blogging for almost nine years. I sometimes get cranky letters: “You ain’t shit . . . Honestly, why don’t you take your blog and . . . Glorified Larry David.” [I made those up. I think I received two cranky letters, but I forgot what they said.]

Follow me @Klezmerguy. I tweet every five years. I try to be cool but I need help from the Urban Dictionary. I fire myself and rehire myself.

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I had a show biz lunch at Corky & Lenny’s. This was in 1980, when C&L’s was still at Cedar Center. The lunch was Hollywood-style, not Hollywood kosher. Bert Dragin, the owner of a local furniture store chain, was looking for a movie script. Dragin said to me, “I’ve got money. Everybody will talk to me in L.A. Right now I have something in the Best of the New York Erotic Film Festival.” He wondered if I would write a screenplay about a fire at a gay nightclub in Atlanta. Not my thing, I told him.

Dragin sold his business and moved to Hollywood. He produced Suburbia (1983) and directed Summer Camp Nightmare (1987) and Twice Dead (1988).

Dragin said, “You heard of Erotic Salad? It’s got a soft-X rating.” I said no. That’s as close as I got to Hollywood.

This post is a rerun.

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I have eight heel lifts. Each is 5/8 inches. I’ve alternated between lift and no lift. I first got a lift in my thirties. The physical therapist said I was leaning too much. Then a doc said forget it — the lift.

A PT said put the lift back in. I did recently. My lift is like a security blanket; it makes me feel better, even though it  doesn’t do anything. I’m reluctant to even walk to the bathroom without a lift.

A different doc just said forget the lift.

I have these extra lifts . . .

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A Yiddishe cup fan called and said he had gotten my phone number off a Yiddishe Cup CD.

I asked, “Which album do you have?”

“Yiddfellas.”

“Where’d you get the CD?”

“At a swap meet in Kingman.”

“A swap meet where?

“A swap meet in Kingman, Arizona. I like the record. It’s kind of cool.”

“You like klezmer?”

“This is my first record.”

“How much did you pay?”

“Twenty-five cents.”

“Nice. Fifty cents would have been too much.”

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If this is too short for you, read my essay in Belt Mag. “On Being ‘In Real Estate’ in Cleveland, OH”

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Phil Hart, a resident at Wiggins Place assisted living, sometimes wears a Navy baseball cap. I know another WWII Navy veteran, Al Gray, who lives at Stone Gardens assisted living. Phil used to teach aerobics/calisthenics-of-some-kind at the JCC. For decades. He also was an architect, city councilman and photographer. Now he says he’s an “inmate.” I hear “inmate” occasionally from other nursing home residents. (I don’t think I’d mind a top-quality nursing home. We’ll see.)

I remember seeing Phil kneeling, shooting photos, at an Elderhostel about five years ago. I was jealous because at the time I couldn’t kneel due to meniscus surgery.

One thing about hanging around nursing homes, I’m under no illusion anybody gets out of this painlessly. Phil is doing pretty well, I think, for 95. His mind is all there.

Phil Hart, about 2014

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