Category — Toby
My dad had a cosmetics franchise similar to Mary Kay. It was Ovation of California. My mother went to Los Angeles to learn more about it, and when she returned, she dumped a box of cosmetics onto the dining room table. My sister got the cosmetics, and I got a shoehorn from the Beverly Hills Hilton Hotel.
My sister held up her diary. “Look what your darling son did to my diary while you were gone,” she said. I had cut the lock off her diary. Big deal.
“I apologized,” I said. (I was researching petting — as Ann Landers called making out. I was 13, my sister was 16. I thought she had some info.)
My mother said, “So you tore open your sister’s diary?”
“I’m sorry.” I bought my sister a new diary.
One more crime: my father put a bottle of Ovation cleansing cream in the bathroom and made me use it. I was supposed to rub the cleanser on my forehead with a cotton ball. “This is no gimmick,” he said. “Men use it.” My dad tried to turn me into a metrosexual! The franchise went under in a year.
Yiddishe Cup plays 6:30 pm Sun. (July 12) in Granville, Ohio (near Columbus). More info here.
July 8, 2015 6 Comments
My father wore a hearing aid from age 50-on. He went to a hearing expert, William Lippy in Warren, Ohio, for stapedectomy surgery, but the surgery didn’t help.
My dad missed nuances because of his poor hearing. For instance, I would say, “Haney [a custodian] is burning some shit in the incinerator. The firemen told him not to.”
My dad would answer, “A lady is learning what?”
I repeated it slower. My dad would say, “Now you’re starting to tell me something!”
My father liked to give advice, maybe because he didn’t hear advice. He spoke very deliberately. He was like Sevareid. My dad’s main advice was “Look out for yourself, no one else will.” Bill, a tenant, ran a beauty parlor; my dad said to him, “I’m only looking out for myself, Bill. You’re just giving me a two-percent CPI increase.” (Bill was trying to low-ball a renewal figure on his beauty parlor lease.)
Bill said, “You don’t have to tell me about looking out for myself. I own a rental condo.” Store tenants frequently owned residential rental property on the side, like double houses or condos by the lake.
“There is nothing short of outright speculation that will equal real estate,” my dad said. “There are unmerciful and countless forces arrayed against us.”
The quote “There is nothing short of outright speculation that will equal real estate . . .” is out of context here; my dad didn’t say it to Bill. My dad wrote it in an unpublished manuscript. More on that some other time.
I wrote a good article about my father for the latest Belt Mag.
Come to Cain Park (Cleveland Heights) Sunday (June 28) at 7 p.m. for a free klezmer concert. Evans Amphitheater. No tix necessary. Yiddishe Cup plays the second half of the show. The first half is Steven Greenman and Lori Cahan-Simon. The 37th Annual Workmen’s Circle Yiddish Concert.
June 24, 2015 1 Comment
I was at a brunch where all the men wore Ohio State apparel. That in itself was not unusual; I know a lot of Ohio State fans who do brunch, but the host at this brunch was particularly Bucks-nuts; he would not let anybody into his house with Michigan gear on.
I’m not that big a football fan. I’m a Michigan graduate but I wish Ohio State all the best — most of the time. I like it when Michigan is winning, but this year the team is horrible, so let Ohio State go all the way.
Yiddishe Cup had a trumpet player — a sub — who played in the Ohio State marching band. He played a luncheon with Yiddishe Cup, and the OSU-Michigan game (originally scheduled for 3 pm) went on at noon, so I gave the musician leeway on the bandstand; I let him periodically watch the Bucks on a TV in a corner. The other guys in the band thought I was too accommodating. They didn’t
understand . . .
Take 1962: OSU versus Northwestern, homecoming. Before the game, my dad and I went to a reunion luncheon. My dad had on a Class of ’38 name tag. I don’t know what the name tag read; my father changed his name from Soltzberg to Stratton in 1941. The theme for the fraternity floats in 1962 may have been “Peanuts.” My dad knew the words to “Carmen Ohio,” the OSU alma mater. My dad never knew the words to any song!
My dad and I went to about a half dozen Ohio State homecomings. I liked Long’s Bookstore for sweatshirts. Charbert’s for hamburgers. We checked out the floats on fraternity row. My dad wanted to show me the medical school.
The Bucks: Tom Matte, Warfield, Matt Snell and Bob Ferguson.
If Michigan doesn’t win it all (and it ain’t going to this year), let Ohio State.
November 26, 2014 2 Comments
My mother, Julia, never saved anything. When she moved to assisted living, the only thing she kept was her dining room set and some clay pots my dad had made.
My dad was an amateur potter in his retirement. He didn’t use a wheel; he pinched the clay with his thumbs. His work wasn’t too good; I threw most of his stuff in the garbage. My mother watched and said, “How could you!”
“Mom,” I said, “I’m saving some of it– some representative pieces!”
Address Your Mess.
Address Your Mess is a woman in Cleveland who, for a fee, de-clutters your house. My mother didn’t need her.
Maybe I need AYM. I have report cards from elementary school in my attic. My mother said I could be president someday, so I’m holding on to the report cards.
Is my mess more important than your mess?
I read about an elderly woman in southeast Ohio who had 36 boxes of cereal, GAR medals and a wooden fife from the battle of Chickamauga.
I have UN stamps too, besides the report cards.
Here’s a vid, “Square Mile,” about real estate and board games:
Yiddishe Cup is at Fairmount Temple, Beachwood, Ohio, tonight (Wed.) and Park Synagogue, Cleveland Hts., tomorrow night.
October 15, 2014 6 Comments
Whenever I get a new T-shirt, I throw out an old one. That’s my T-shirt inventory control method — a system I stole from my friend Carl.
My 26-year-old son, Jack, takes my old T-shirts, which make excellent hipster wear. My old tees typically memorialize 10K runs from decades ago, with logos for University Heights, Domino’s, Fuddruckers, Leader Mortgage, “Freedom Run for Soviet Jewry,” Tower City Run and the Cleveland Press (which went out of business in 1982). Basically, the tees are walking billboards. Jack likes thin T-shirts. The shirts are thin, son — even threadbare. I hope the T-shirts outlast me. Always nice to be remembered.
I have very few clothing items from my dad. Like one shirt. No, I gave that to Jack too! You can see it in this video.
I don’t think I have any of my dad’s clothes. Fine. No point in being necrophiliac. (My dad died 28 year ago.)
My dad didn’t wear T-shirts. He wore guinea tees (wife-beaters), not the round-collar T-shirts. At social gatherings he favored the 1950s spread-collar shirts, like the one in the Vulfpeck vid.
I interviewed my dad on videotape in 1985 — 10 months before he died — and he wore a polo shirt. I showed the video recently to Jack, who didn’t want to watch it, but I made him. Jack became spellbound. Not that the video was so good, but some of my mannerisms are like my dad’s, Jack noticed, and that was worth the imposed viewing.
I only have a few super-thin tees left. Jack has basically cleaned me out. Here’s a vid of Jack in my 1987 “Freedom Run for Soviet Jewry” shirt.
For the record, I bought my first non-college logo T-shirt in 1968. It was for the Mexico Olympics. Before 1968, you could only get college shirts. Look it up. Does anybody have a pre-1968 non-college T-shirt? If so, go to Sotheby’s. Does anybody have any really thin 1980s T-shirts? If so, go to Jack.
Footnote: A Vulfpeck video came out yesterday, and my shirt isn’t in it! What’s with the new striped shirt, Jack? What’s with that? And the vid goes viral.
August 27, 2014 9 Comments
“Cleveland is a hard town. I came near committing suicide when I lived there.” — Robert Crumb, American Splendor intro, 1986.
Crumb worked for American Greetings. My dad, Toby, worked there too.
Toby was at American Greetings before Crumb. My dad worked with Morry Stone, who eventually became a vice chairman. My dad didn’t like working for anybody, including Morry, so Toby left in 1954.
Everybody in Cleveland has worked at American Greetings, I think. Or tried to. I applied for a job at American Greetings in 1981.
American Greetings had a Creative Building at West 78th Street. I didn’t even get called in for an interview. Maybe I wasn’t sick enough to write sick cards.
Robert Crumb again, 1996, Bob & Harv‘s Comics: “Cleveland is a city that has been ravaged by financiers and industrialists . . . its population abandoned to their fate, left to freeze their ass off, standing in the dirty winter slush, waiting for a bus that is a long time coming. Somehow they go on living.”
I haven’t lived anywhere else, so I can’t complain like Crumb. I went to college in Ann Arbor (which doesn’t count) and spent a few months in Bogota, Colombia, in my twenties.
Bogota was tougher than Cleveland. That, I can testify to. Bogota was rainy, gray, and headache-inducing from the high altitude. Cleveland was simply rainy, gray and slushy.
A pilot stood in a grassy field by the Bogota airport and said, “Tell your friends to throw their packs in back and we’ll be off.”
They weren’t my friends. They weren’t even Americans.
We climbed into the cargo section of the plane. “It smells like shit in here,” a Swiss girl said.
“This is Fish Airlines,” the pilot said. (Aeropesca.)
We landed in the Amazon a few hours later.
I ran into a college friend in the Amazon! I knew him from my freshman dorm. He said, “I scamp.” That meant he sold gems, coke, pot or counterfeit bills. “I’m going to reunite with my creators soon,” he said.
“I’m going back to my parents.”
I tried to catch the ferry to Belem, Brazil. I waited several days in Leticia, Colombia, by the Amazon River dock, but the ferry didn’t arrive. I flew back to Bogota on the guppy/yuppie flight. (Guppies to Bogota, yuppies to the Amazon.)
In Bogota, I froze — even indoors. I wore two sweaters and socks-for-gloves in a small house I shared with a widow and her maid. I taught English at a nearby private junior high. For fun at night I read Cancer Ward . I also looked at photos of beauty queens from El Espacio and El Bogotano — the tabloids. My bedroom had doggy pictures on the wall, a toy cannon on the windowsill, and a crucifix over the bed.
For mental exercise I tried to reconstruct my high school schedule: first and second periods, PSSC Physics. What was third? What was PSSC? [Physical Science Study Committee.] I didn’t know many people in Bogie.
I heard Charlie Byrd play “Bogota” in Bogota. He was on a government-sponsored tour. Byrd en guitarra, con bajo y batería. (Byrd on guitar, with bass and drums.)
I went back to Cleveland after three months.
American Greetings. I couldn’t take Bogie. The major bookstore in Bogota was run by a Nazi, I thought. The owner was German, and I fabricated a fake bio, in my head, about him. I went to the Peace Corps office to borrow more paperbacks. I got Papillon, about a prisoner in Latin America.
I played blues harp for my English class. The kids loved it but the administration didn’t.
I had to leave. Bogie was un frío horrible (a freezing cold).
Crumb should write about Bogota. I want to hear his take on a real tough town.
1. My Bogota adventure was in 1974.
2. I didn’t meet my college friend in the Amazon. I met him in Bogota. I remembered the encounter incorrectly. My friend straightened me out in Cleveland in 2013.
February 12, 2014 5 Comments
I served an eviction notice on an artist — a tenant — who was late with her rent. When I handed her the eviction paper, she yelled at me, “I was going to pay the rent, but not now!”
My father had sent me. She was a painter — a real artist.
Aubrey, another tenant, wrote for an alternative weekly. Aubrey wrote my dad:
Allow me to pull your coat, Mr. Stratton, to something. Where do you get off raising my rent? I had to spend last winter in my kitchen because the bedroom ceiling caved in.
Would you like my bill for cleaning up the plaster? My services do not come cheaply, Mr. Stratton.
Aubrey was a meshugener — my dad’s take.
My dad told Aubrey to waive his privacy rights so we could get into his apartment to fix the problem.
Aubrey wrote back: “Quite bluntly, Mr. Stratton, keep out.”
But we got in and made the repairs, and Aubrey stayed another year.
I saw the painter at an artists’ party about a year later. I didn’t say hi. She didn’t recognize me. Good.
I never saw the writer again. Also good.
“Aubrey” is a pseudonym.
180-degree turn . . .
I’ve made millions in gambling. You probably know that because I’ve written about it a lot.
Nevertheless, some readers still believe I inherited my money.
I work hard for my money. I play video poker, and not at some tribal casino in Oregon. I play at Vegas casinos that offer the best margin. I demand a 99.5 JOB (jacks-or-better) edge.
I tip well and live well.
Do I play video poker all day?
Yes, and I love it.
My ex-wife didn’t love it. She tried to control my bankroll. Nobody controls my bankroll!
I’m a known quantity here in Vegas. For a while I had a radio show. I coughed so much on air, I got fired. What did the producer want? I’m in smoky casinos 12 hours a day;I’m lucky I can breathe, let alone cough.
I administer an online forum, Millionaire VP. No smoking on my site.
I’m filing w-2Gs totaling $400,000 for 2013. The ex-mayor of San Diego lost $13 million on video poker. Don’t be her. Be me.
Lots of royal flushes, everybody!
My website, VP Millionaire, is here.
(This post, Side B/The Gambler, is part of the fake-profile series.)
January 15, 2014 4 Comments
The former Brith Emeth temple in Pepper Pike, Ohio, looks like a clam shell or flying saucer.
My kids went to Hebrew school there. It was disorienting; I never knew which way to turn, right or left, to pick them up.
The acoustics in the social hall were bad. Everything was boomy.
Brith Emeth folded in 1986, and Park Synagogue East took over. Then Park Synagogue East sold the building to the Ratner School, a Montessori school. Now Kol HaLev — a Reconstructionist shul — rents from the Ratner School, the owner, for shabbes services.
When my band plays Kol HaLev, I tell my musicians, “We’re playing the clam shell.” I never say, “We’re playing Ratner Montessori School.” I also don’t say, “We’re playing the old Park East,” which would be confusing because there is a new Park East. I also don’t say, “27575 Shaker Boulevard,” because for a while, shrubs in front of the building obscured the address.
“We’re playing the clam shell, aka the flying saucer, guys.”
On October 17, 1969, Rabbi Philip Horowitz delivered the sermon “Is the Negro Equal?” at the clam shell.
The place still has a very sixties flare. I travel back in time every time I enter Brith Emeth. After-burners. The clam shell. The launch pad.
For the record . . .
If you get a 3 percent return, on top of the inflation rate, that’s solid, middle of the road. But right now you can only get 1 percent on a CD, with inflation around 1 percent. You can’t get 3 percent without significant risk. If you go for more than 3 percent real growth, you’re taking a risk.
Risk in business is integral, part of the equation. Can’t be avoided.
You’re a genius; the stock market is booming. You weren’t a genius in 2008.
I know a woman who lost with Madoff, and now she’s doing the 1 percent CDs. I talked to another Madoff investor who said she had found a short-term investment that paid 20 percent. But for only 90 days. Twenty percent is 20 percent, doesn’t matter how long a period. Twenty percent is crazy. “That’s a lot of risk!” I said.
I have a friend who went in for CDOs (Collaterized Debt Obligation) and lost. He said he was getting 15 percent on them. But it only lasted a month. Then the whole thing collapsed.
We are here today to commemorate the fifth anniversary of the Madoff debacle . . . Another Madoff investor I know — enough with the Madoff! — this Cleveland schoolteacher said she didn’t think she was greedy when she was pulling in 10-12 percent a year from Madoff. She just thought she had made a good investment. I would have thought likewise. Madoff returned the schoolteacher’s original investment minus the paper gains. A small-timer, she got national TV attention for being a salt-of-the-earth Madoff victim.
The stock market typically clocks 9 percent per year, but that’s meaningless because the figure doesn’t take into account human behavior, known in the biz as “investors returns.” Most people buy and sell at the wrong time.
My father went all in on real estate 1965, and that’s why I’m in real estate now. He went in at the right time, luckily, and leveraged himself to the hilt. Our house was leveraged; he had second mortgages. He was gutsy, smart and fortunate. (He flopped at some other businesses.)
I’ve bought two buildings. The first building, I put down 25 percent and got a 10 ¾-percent mortgage. That was the going rate in 1987.
The second building, I put down 15 percent. I bought it from an old guy who was dying. I was dying too! The old guy lived another 21 years. The seller financed the deal; I didn’t have to go to the bank for a mortgage. I paid him off 17 years later. It worked out.
The first building — the one with the 10 ¾-percent mortgage — I paid off as quickly as possible. Took 7 1/2 years.
Win more than lose, hopefully.
And don’t chase 20 percent returns!
Hey, did my kids read this far?
December 25, 2013 8 Comments
My son Jack played his first professional gig with Yiddishe Cup at age 8, when I gave him five dollars to play “Wipe Out.” We were at a temple Chanukah party. Before that gig, he had done pro bono work, sitting in frequently with the band and stealing the show. The senior citizens loved him.
Years later, Shirley Guralnik, a fan of the band, would ask me, “How’s the little one?” And I would answer, “The little one is in college now and bigger than me.” Shirley died in 2011. She had followed Jack’s career from the beginning.
Jack never got nervous. A case of nerves was hard to develop if, like Groucho Marx, your stage-mom (or dad, in this case) put you on stage practically in diapers.
I told Jack I would pay him $75 — real money — for a real gig after his bar mitzvah. He would be Yiddishe Cup’s drummer for some gigs. He wouldn’t just sit in.
He did great.
Jack got uptight only once. It was at his own bar mitzvah — not the music, reading Torah. The rabbi asked him, “How nervous are you on a scale of 1 to 10.”
“That’s not bad,” the rabbi said.
Jack said, “I’ve never been an 8 before!”
Jack’s $75 gig was at the Barrington Golf Club in Aurora, Ohio. A country club staffer asked if she should light the Christmas tree for the bar mitzvah luncheon. I said, “Not a good idea.”
On the way home, we stopped by my dad’s grave on Aurora Road. I told Jack to place an old clarinet reed on the grave marker.
My point? 1) I didn’t have any old drumsticks. 2) I was at my father’s grave with my youngest kid, who I had just paid to work, just like my father had paid me (to paint walls, argh). The cracked reed fit into the Jewish star on the grave marker.
My son got the $75.
Jack’s band, Vulfpeck, 2013. Jack on keys.
(Today I am a man) X 2 = Age 26, 2013
October 9, 2013 2 Comments
“Anything within 10 feet of the cup, Toby sank,” said Hy Birnbaum, a friend of my late father.
I saw Hy at the drugstore, where he worked part-time as a pharmacist. He was about 85 at the time. Hy said all his friends were dead. (My dad, Toby, had been dead about 25 years.)
I ran into John Kelly, who worked with my dad 30-some years ago at the key company. John said one of the “big bosses’” had slept overnight in the key-company office because he had marital problems. This big boss, Sid, had a slew of problems. His kids were “real hippies,” said John. Sid was a loud-mouth, know-it-all, country-club Jew from Shaker Heights, I remember my dad saying. Toby liked to kvetch about Sid almost nightly at dinnertime.
My dad disliked most “big bosses.” Who didn’t. One “big boss” my dad tolerated, luckily, was the key company president, Manny Schor, who was a World Federalist, very intelligent and not a show off.
Manny came to my gigs occasionally in later years. (Most of the big bosses at the key company were Jewish. The company was owned by a Jew.) Manny said, “I can still picture your father sitting at his desk.”
So could I.
Why were these old guys still alive and my dad dead? That’s what I wanted to know. My dad’s long game wasn’t so great.
Where are they now:
Toby Stratton 1917 – 1986
Sid 1921 – 2000
Manny Schor 1918 – 2009
John Kelly 1931 – 2011
Hy Birnbaum 1925 –
October 2, 2013 6 Comments
I feel bad for the Cleveland Plain Dealer. The PD is understaffed and demoralized. But I feel worse for myself. I want my local news, in print, on the breakfast table every morning. (The paper is now home-delivered only four days a week.)
Yes, I’ve heard of the Internet and iPads. I’m not going that way with my papes!
When John Gilligan, an ex-Ohio governor, died, I read about it two days late. That’s not right; I should have gotten that news sooner.
I’m signing up for Pony Express.
The Wall Street Journal stopped coming to my house the same day the Plain Dealer died (August 5). All newspaper home-delivery got screwed up. A neighbor — nine houses away — still received the Wall Street Journal. I took hers. She didn’t need it! (She has a different delivery guy, apparently.)
My cousin George, a big sports fan, is in a newspaper funk too, because he can’t read the Plain Dealer sports pages daily with his morning coffee.
Everybody over 50, please repeat with me: “Screw Newhouse!” (Newhouse owns the PD.)
My son Ted delivered the Sun Press, a weekly. I was his sub. My dad delivered the Cleveland News. My grandfather delivered the Vilna Bugle (Shofar), maybe. My dad wouldn’t allow me to be a paperboy. He wanted me to enjoy life more than he did.
I enjoy papes. Where are my papes?
This is a fake profile. The complete fake-profiles series is here.
WHATEVER IT TAKES
I’ve played Perchik and Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof.
Sometimes I get calls from small-town theater troupes to discuss Jewish stuff, like Fiddler. They ask about yarmulkes and the breaking of the glass, and chair lifting.
I make up stuff. I’ve been to enough Jewish weddings to know the rabbis make up stuff too — particularly about the glass breaking. There are many reasons why the glass is broken. All bobe mayses (old wives’ tales).
When I’m not acting, I do a one-man variety show. I play a little guitar, hand drum, even harmonica, and I sing. I know some Yiddish. I use backing tracks.
Here’s a promo pic from my glory days. I use it sparingly, now that I’m 59 . . . . . . . . . . . . .
I should advertise in the back of Hadassah mag like Ruth Kaye and Caryn Bark. Who are they?
Who am I? I hear you. I live in Jersey and play the nursing home circuit in the tri-state region. And I work Florida in the winters.
I’ve played Tevye three times. I’ve also played the lead in Jesus Christ Superstar at summer stock in Ohio.
Whatever it takes.
L’shanah tova. (Happy New Year.)
September 4, 2013 2 Comments
I had two hot water tanks go out in the same building on the same day, a Friday afternoon.
Four guys can carry in a 92-gallon commercial hot water tank . And I can pay $5,400 for their fun.
No plumbers were around. They were all preparing their boats for Lake Erie weekend-cruising.
I reached Stack Heating. Stack said he didn’t do commercial hot-water tanks. Just boilers. I reached Royal Flush. They said they couldn’t get it until Tuesday. Dale at Madison Plumbing could do it Monday. Pompeii said never. B & B Hot Water Tank said no thanks.
I started flipping through the Yellow Pages. That is the end of the world.
I braced myself for calls, like “Mr. Landlord, there is no hot water. How am I supposed to go to work without showering? ” . . . “I have to stay at my parents’ house and it’s 60 miles from work . . . ”
It’s not pleasant, these scenes.
I got Bill the plumber. He came by and blow-torched the old tanks to dry them. (The tanks had flooded because a sump pump had failed.) The plumber gave the first tank a 50-50 chance of recovery. The second tank had 40 percent chance, he said. I liked his odds.
The first tank went on after six hours of pampering. We were good.
Still, it was no picnic.
. . . Dear Landlord, I have deducted $275 from my rent payment because I stayed in a hotel for three days due to the lack of hot water.
In honor of the mildest summer ever . . .
I threw out my dad’s wife-beater T-shirts. About time. My father died 27 years ago. The wife-beaters were balled up in my dresser drawer.
When it’s 90-plus degrees — which it isn’t often this summer — I think “wife-beaters.” I used to wear my dad’s wife-beaters around the house.
My wife bought me a wicking T-shirt with UV protection at Target. Only $11. It was cooler than the wife-beater.
I saved one of my father’s T-shirts for posterity and threw the rest out.
Underwear fashion is generational. My grown sons aren’t interested in my wife-beaters. My dad wore his wife-beaters under dress shirts for work, for his day job at the key company.
I’m going to buy a couple more ultra-light wicking T-shirts.
No doubt, my sons will pitch my ultra-lights when I’m either dead or not looking. By 2025, T-shirts will be spray-on from a can.
Meanwhile, I’m wickin’ cool.
A version of “Wickin’ Cool” was on CoolCleveland.com 7/12/12.
August 28, 2013 2 Comments
My father, Toby, had about 15 pairs of shoes when he died. I didn’t take any of his shoes, even though he and I wore the same size. He had a foot fungus, and my mother told me to pass.
My dad had wingtips, golf shoes and tennis shoes. I never saw him in sandals, work boots or hiking boots. White shoes, definitely.
I’m more sensible about shoes — a habit picked up from my mom. I like SAS shoes, which my mother told me about. She needed solid shoes when she got Parkinson’s disease. “SAS” stands for San Antonio Shoes.
When my then-20-year-old, fashionable daughter studied abroad in Barcelona, she said I couldn’t visit her if I wore tennis shoes or a fanny pack. My SAS shoes were an excellent substitute for tennis shoes in Europe.
I never did figure out a good way around the “no fanny pack” rule.
My dad wore Purcells abroad. He didn’t let his children tell him what to wear.
II. PURCELLS AGAIN
My grandfather was hit by a May Co. truck in 1924. The doctors put a metal plate in his head. After that, he just hung around the pool hall on Kinsman Road.
Years later, my great aunt told me, “If they had given out prize money for playing pool, like they do now, Louie would have been a millionaire.”
Louis “Louie” Soltzberg — my father’s dad.
My dad, Toby, didn’t play pool. He played ping pong. My dad wasn’t a pool hall–type guy. My dad once entered a ping-pong tournament at Danny Vegh’s club and got creamed by a Hungarian. After that, my father played only in our basement with friends.
My father was pretty good at several sports. For one thing, he was a fast runner. He took me to the Arena for the annual Knights of Columbus track meet. I looked for “Ohio State” and “Michigan” jerseys and came up with “Seton Hall,” “Holy Cross” and “Villanova.” Were those real colleges?
My dad and I often played tennis together. No pool.
My dad would hit balls with me after work. He would say, “Racquet back. Hit it now. Racquet back, hit it now.” He was a color man with no color. He wore Bermuda shorts and Jack Purcells, and often no shirt. That was appropriate attire for tennis in the 1960s, at least at the public courts in South Euclid, Ohio.
I didn’t appreciate the tennis instruction from my dad. I moped on the court. I should have hustled.
There were no other dads out there.
I should have hustled more.
Part I (above ) is also a Klezmer Guy movie, originally posted July 11, 2011.
Here’s a new Jack Stratton vid . . .
May 1, 2013 No Comments
A tenant called my father, Toby, and said, “It’s 54 degrees in this apartment. I’m cold. I can’t even take a bath.”
“We’ll get you some heat,” my dad said. Old buildings are hard to heat; some suites boil while others freeze. Hopefully, the sun would come out tomorrow and raise all apts.
A second tenant called. She said her rent would be late. I answered that call. I said OK, basically.
Toby said to me, “You’ve got to get on them sometimes.”
“I quit,” I said.
“Go ahead and quit. If you want to get temperamental on me, quit.” Toby didn’t raise his voice. I wasn’t worth histrionics.
“I’m out of here,” I said.
I went to the Cleveland Clinic to a headache specialist. He said I should drink more alcohol, and if that didn’t work, try biofeedback.
Benny — a building manager — said I should put a cold potato on my head. He said, “Put the potato in a refrigerator, cut the potato into pieces, and put them in a cloth around your head. It sucks the swelling right out.”
I went to the JCC for a massage and tried the whirlpool.
My dad died from leukemia. My then-5-year-old son said, “You won’t see Grandpa Toby again. Never! He’s dead.”
My headache suddenly went away.
Now I had a real headache — running the business.
This happened last month . . .
CLEVELAND’S FUNNIEST RABBI CONTEST
I was a judge at Cleveland’s Funniest Rabbi contest at the Maltz Museum of Jewish Heritage. I knew three of the five rabbis. One rabbi had hired Yiddishe Cup for various temple functions. Another recently hired Yiddishe Cup for a simcha. A third rabbi religiously books Yiddishe Cup for Chanukah.
Was I biased? Was I on the take?
The rabbis told jokes in front of 250 paying customers. The judges — three of us — made public comments and rated the rabbis. Afterward, an audience member said to me, “You were very nice.”
Why not be nice? It’s petrifying to tell jokes in front of 250 people. Besides, the rabbis were raising money — for the Maltz Museum? (For me?)
I stocked-piled interesting adjectives in advance. My arsenal: droll, gut-busting (didn’t use that one), cheery, sharp, zany, wacky, witty and perturbing.
Nobody was perturbing, unfortunately.
I gave the highest rating — a 10 — to the rabbi who eventually won. Turns out he wasn’t even a rabbi. And I didn’t know him. (He owes me a gig.) The winner was Kiva Shtull, a retired ER doctor, a mohel and the spiritual leader of Congregation Shir Shalom, Bainbridge Township. He got wry, droll and zany.
He’s a mohel with a sharp sense of humor. Worth watching:
More funny. Benyamin Bresky cornered Yiddishe Cup for an interview on Israel National Radio. The interview begins with Yiddishe Cup’s version of “Essen,” which Ben declares “the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.” Click here.
March 6, 2013 2 Comments
My cousin David owned a GMC tractor-trailer, which he parked in the May Co. lot in University Heights. David may have been the only Jewish long-distance trucker in the Heights. Maybe the only long-distance trucker, period, in the Heights.
In 1975 David borrowed several thousand dollars from my father, Toby, for the truck. David had a contract with International Truck of Rock, Minnesota.
David moved to Pennsylvania and never repaid my dad.
In high school David had stolen hubcaps. He had been a Shaker Heights juvenile delinquent.
David even looked like James Dean. My cousin Danny once said, “David’s dad was the most handsome man you ever met.” David’s dad drifted around Cleveland, playing pool. David’s dad and mother divorced in the 1950s.
When David’s mother heard David hadn’t repaid my dad, she made payments, but she never fully repaid the loan.
My father’s attitude was “win some, lose some.” Toby believed in lending money to family. My dad had borrowed from his Uncle Itchy to buy his first house.
Last year I called David’s sister. This was a big deal; David and his sister were out of the cousins’ loop. David is now in his seventies and has had several heart attacks, his sister said. He is living in a hotel that his son runs in Florida.
No more truckin’.
No more David as family black sheep. Stolen hubcaps and an unpaid loan, is that the worst of it in my family? I think so.
Now, my wife has an estranged cousin who stole sterling silver . . . Stop.
“David” is a pseudonym.
I became bionic. My daughter, Lucy, gave me a pedometer.
I can count my daily steps. I can even monitor my sleep patterns, but that’s too much data — even for a guy like me who likes data.
I gave up jogging last year. My right knee wasn’t into it anymore. I miss the “sweat” of jogging.
Should I post my step count here? Dieters post their calories online. Bicyclists post their heart rates.
My step count today is _____. (Will post up at 11:59 p.m for maximum effect.)
For a couple new illustrations by Ralph Solonitz, please scroll down to “KlezKamp 2012,” which went up last week.
Yiddishe Cup plays at First Night Akron on New Year’s Eve.
December 26, 2012 1 Comment
My dad, Toby, and I hired Charles Tuncle for kitchen-floor lino jobs. Tunkl means dark in Yiddish, which my dad never failed to point out. Tuncle — the man — was black. Also, he was a killer. He shot a man in a bar.
When Tuncle was sent to prison, my dad wrote the parole board about Tuncle’s quality vinyl-floor work, and Tuncle got out early. My father never told the tenants — or our building managers — about Tuncle’s record. My dad never said: “You see that guy over there with the utility knife? He’s a killer.”
My dad called our business Reliable Management Co.
We should have hauled garbage with a name like that.
When I started an offshoot company, Acorn Management Co., my dad said, “What the hell does ‘Acorn’ have to do with anything?”
“Dad, I live on Oak Road. That’s why.” It was 1976. Environmentalism was the next big thing.
“Nobody is going to understand ‘Acorn,’” he said.
I sometimes call my company “Reliable + Acorn Management companies” now. That makes me feel like a Danish architecture firm.
I hired Standard Roofing for a roof tear-off. Standard Roofing went under. Too standard?
My electrician is Jack Kuhl, pronounced “Jack Cool.”
I knew Emin Lyutfalibekov, a handyman. I told him to shorten his name, and he said no way; he was offended. He said he was royalty back in Azerbaijan.
Napoli Construction is a bricklaying firm. Art Gallo, chief mason.
I use Donnelly Heating once in a while. Dan Donnelly. There are four Donnelly heating companies on the West Side: Dan, Tom, William and Original. They must have large Seders.
Lawrence Christopher Construction — that was Larry Vesely. He filled a hole for me for $9,000 — a coal bin that had collapsed beneath a parking lot. The city wouldn’t allow me to fill the hole with plain gravel. The city wanted a reconstructed coal bin that could practically double as a bomb shelter, complete with beams and concrete. Larry said the job would cost $3,000 and take several weeks.
The final bill was $9,000 and the job took nine months. One delay and complication after another.
I could not charge higher rents just because I had a nice coal bin. No tenant cared I had a bomb shelter.
I paid Larry back in nine monthly installments, just to get slightly back at him.
Tuncle the floor guy — I miss him. He died at 84 in 2008. A nice guy, except for that night in the bar. He didn’t have any other criminal record.
I was at a gathering of Jewish landed gentry — a landlords’ shabbat — in Pepper Pike.
Landlord A — to my right — owned a 17-suiter which her late father had bought in 1955.
Landlord B owned a building his father bought in 1936.
Buy and hold, chaverim. Shabbat shalom.
I owned (with my sister) a building my dad bought in 1965.
In real estate — as in many fields — it’s good to pick the right father.
In college Donald Trump bought his first building, using his father’s money: a 1,200-unit apartment complex in Cincinnati. Trump’s dad owned property in New York’s outer boroughs. Trump’s net worth upon graduating college in 1965 was $1.4 million, in today’s dollars. [Trump, The Art of the Deal.]
Suites, a local real estate mag, did a profile on Marty Cohen, a Cleveland landlord. The article said Marty “couldn’t shake his interest in property management.” Marty worked at a bank for a while, but that wasn’t a good fit. His family owned a 150-unit Parma apartment complex. Maybe that had something to do with Marty finding a good fit in real estate.
Buy and hold, brothers and sisters. Pass the strudel.
Griffith, the state boiler inspector, called.
I said to him, “You’ve been around as long as me!”
“Yes, sir,” he said. “I was around even when your dad was still around! You know, your father was a kinda guy. A good dude. I miss your dad. He was hoping you’d take over the business. And you did!” (My father died in 1986.)
“How long you been around, Griffith?”
“Since 1972. You were just a kid. You were in high school.” (I was in college, Griffith!) “Your dad was a little worried about you, I’ll be honest with you. I hope you don’t take this personally, he thought you didn’t have the fire. You know, he had went through some things that weren’t easy, and he wanted to leave the buildings to somebody who would appreciate them.”
“I gave my father some things to think about, I guess.”
“I’m proud of you. You come around. If he was around, I’d tell him how good you’re doing.”
I didn’t run the family biz totally into the ground.
My epitaph — if I’m lucky: I’m in the Ground But My Business Ain’t.
Next week’s post will be on Thursday, not Wednesday, due to Yom Kippur.
Here’s an op-ed I wrote for the Sunday Cleveland Plain Dealer (9/16/12). “High Holidays beckon twice-a-year worshipers.”
September 19, 2012 6 Comments
The minute I landed at Palm Beach airport, my dad, Toby, hocked me about investments.
On the drive from the airport to his condo, Toby would expound on real estate growth in Florida. “This was a two-lane dirt road when we got here. Now it’s six lane.”
Glades Road, Boca Raton, 1980s. With a bagel store on every other block.
We have a Bagel Nosh in Cleveland too, Dad. And it’s crap.
My parents watched the kids for a week, while my wife and I zoned out and watched for golf cart X-ings.
Toby said, “Whatever you do, don’t kock the money away.” Also, did I need a new car? How about a bigger house? “You never ask for anything,” he said.
My kids asked for something: noodles — swimming noodles. No problem. Every grandparent had a storage closet full of flotation devices.
One grandpa — my dad’s friend — didn’t sleep very well, so he went midnight bowling. The man owned a furniture store in Cleveland and was into municipal bonds big-time, particularly since his son was destroying the store, the man claimed.
Another old-timer was Jackie Presser, who had a villa — a stand-alone house. Presser had been the national president of the Teamsters and tied in with the Mob. In his later years, he moonlighted as a snitch for the FBI. His wife drove an antique car around the condo development.
Toby met Mel, a low-level city employee who needed a “few presents” — as Mel put it — for his inspectors. Mel inspected commercial properties for the city of Sunrise, Florida, where my dad owned a small shopping-strip center. The shopping strip was a hobby of Toby’s — a little something to keep him occupied in retirement in Florida. Toby was always in let’s-make-a-deal mode.
Mel met Toby at Sambo’s, where Mel explained “presents” meant $100 for each of his inspectors. [$220 in today’s dollars.] Toby paid off Mel — in a car, not in the restaurant. Mel said, “This is not for me. This is strictly for my inspectors.”
Mel drove Toby to see vacant land. The city wanted a developer to put up a motel, and the city would take a cut.
Toby sold his Sunrise strip center shortly after that. He didn’t cotton to the Florida heat, so to speak. He returned to the simpler pleasures of golf and electric orange juice squeezers.
Toby told me his best years were his most recent, in Florida. He had financial security, grandchildren and decent health.
My dad died of leukemia three years later, in 1986, just shy of 69. My mother kept the Florida condo another 11 years, until she came down with Parkinson’s disease.
The condo association owes my sister and me $8,160.82. The association is slow in repaying the golf membership fee. Fifteen years slow.
I would like that 8K to glide in today from Glades Road. I’d knock 5K off the tab if the association included a round of golf with my dad. And I don’t even play golf.
A version of this post — called “A Bagel Store on Every Other Block” — ran on the Times of Israel website 7/5/12.
This video is about my dad’s shoes, among other things.
July 11, 2012 3 Comments
I remember Fail-Safe by Eugene Burdick and Harvey Wheeler. Who wrote the Fail part?
I remember Ted Williams could read the label on the ball.
I remember the Cream-O-Freeze.
I remember when the Air Force Academy sent me an application. I was only 10. I wanted a catalog.
I remember Larry and Norm Sherry of the Dodgers.
I remember Summit, the board game.
I remember Burger Chef.
I remember crepe dreidels hanging in the dining room.
I remember the biography of Robert E. Lee.
I remember my mother’s apple sauce. Always lumpy.
I remember the CTS 45 bus to the JCC.
I remember the Boy Scouts’ Life badge.
I remember my dad “hitting them out” to me in the park.
I remember playing “Exodus” on the clarinet at the sixth grade assembly. I remember playing “Margie.”
I remember the shofar player missing every single note on Rosh Hashanah.
I remember 1950-D nickels.
I remember U.N. stamp souvenir sheets.
I remember the H-bomb.
I remember Continental pants, Pedwin loafers and
I remember Chemical Bond Approach Chemistry.
I remember Charlene Cohen, homecoming
I remember “Hands Off Cuba” graffiti by the Rapid.
I remember Saturday Night at the Movies on TV.
I remember slow-dancing to “Moon River” with a
I remember the Roxy.
I remember the JCC’s vending room and how the pop machine was always broken. The milk machine worked. I got a lot of chocolate milk. Was that a parents’ plot?
I remember Walter Lippmann.
I remember my mother writing: “Bert was absent from school yesterday due to religious observances.”
I remember T.A. Davis tennis rackets.
I remember How to Play Better Tennis by Bill Tilden.
I remember Rich Greenberg lost to Bobby McKinley (Chuck’s younger brother) in the National 16-and-unders.
I remember the bell at 3:30.
I remember Harvey Greenberg got a 799 Math
and 785 Verbal.
I remember more Greenbergs.
I remember Madden Football. No, I don’t.
I remember Chap’s GTO.
I remember Geronimo, a Landmark book.
I remember Bruno Bornino’s “Big Beat” music column in the Cleveland Press. (He also wrote “Pit Stop” about cars.)
I remember when I was 21 and remembering all this and feeling old.
This post is a riff on poet Joe Brainard’s I Remember.
You may not have seen the post below. It went up this weekend. The cartoon at the end is super.
March 21, 2012 17 Comments
Every January I spend a day filling out employer tax forms.
My favorite is the Federal Unemployment Tax Act (FUTA) form.
I did my first FUTA Form 940 in 1978, when my dad went to Florida for the winter. He and his high school buddies golfed in Boca Raton, and I filled out FUTAs in Cleveland.
Not bad. I like tax forms better than golf.
The treasurer of Ohio likes his W-2 reconciliations promptly. The Ohio Bureau of Employment Services also likes its money quickly. The Ohio Workers Compensation bureau has rachmones (pity) and bugs me only twice a year, not quarterly like everybody else.
I used an IBM Selectric-style typewriter for tax forms until the machine died last year. The A key wouldn’t work. That was its main drawback.
Str tton” didn’t cut it with the government. I threw out the typewriter and several boxes of Ko-Rec-Type.
Now I use IRS computer forms, except for my Yiddishe Cup 1099s, which I do by hand.
Last year I used blue ink on Yiddishe Cup’s 1099s.
The gobierno prefers black ink, I’ve learned. I’ll get with the program this year.
What are you in jail for?
I wore a camping headlamp and crawled around the attic, culling old manila folders, making room for new files.
The old files weren’t read by anybody.
Why did I save all this stuff?
Because the government wanted me to.
I got insulation flecks on my fleece jacket. It was freezing up there. And there were mouse droppings and desiccated rubber bands.
My dad used to recycle manila folders. For instance, he would reuse the file “1975 Plumbing” in 1981.
I threw out 30 pounds of paid invoices, checks and rent rolls. I do this every January.
Should I feel nostalgic?
Here’s an op-ed, “From Soltzberg to Stratton,” from last week’s Jerusalem Post (Jan. 17).
January 25, 2012 10 Comments
I rented to a commercial photographer who moved out after 23 years and left a store full of manila folders, invoices, developing trays and chemicals. Three dumpsters’ worth. He shouldn’t have done that. I had never hassled him about late fees.
Down the street, the Armed Forces Recruiting Center moved out after 40 years and left a punching bag, three couches, 27 chairs, a lot of “Army of One” promotional material and a 1970s stereo system. That wasn’t the half of it.
I’m sitting on about 3,000 perfume bottles. I’m not totally sure they are perfume bottles. Martha’s Beauty Salon left the bottles in the basement. The bottles are packed in cartons with zone numbers on them, not zip codes. (Pre-1963.)
Every month I serve an eviction notice on a lawyer. Every single month. Then I file an eviction on him.
The lawyer rents a storefront office. I pay the $85 eviction filing fee and get a court date.
The day before the court hearing, the lawyer pays the rent, including the legal fees. Like clockwork.
Until he doesn’t.
At eviction court he said to me, “I’m broke.” No tears, no dough. “You’re in business. You understand,” he said. “I don’t have the money. I’m moving out.”
He turned in the keys and cleaned the place.
He stole money from his clients. He was disbarred in April and convicted of grand theft in June. Sentencing is next month.
Note to the probation department: he left the store clean.
As my dad used to say . . .
Meaning: Pay the rent. We aren’t a loan company.
August 10, 2011 5 Comments