The NCAA is in deep jeopardy at my house

March Madness has made me furious.

The local CBS affiliate airs Jeopardy on weeknight evenings at 7:30. Last Thursday and Friday, CBS took leave of their senses. Upon tuning in, expecting the familiar Jeopardy theme song, the sounds instead were the thump, thump, squeak, squeak of college basketball. W-H-A-A-A-T?

“You gotta be kiddin’ me!” I yelled. “You pre-empted Jeopardy for basketball?” I was very unhappy. I could not fuggedaboudit.

The ONLY time I was ever recruited into any sort of basketball fandom was through a friend who was a Duke alum. She and her husband, the Duke team physician, lived just off campus. Their large, finished, high-ceilinged basement was the team’s gathering spot. It looked more like a Duke basketball museum, everything sporting their Blue Devil motif. Anything legal that young men could want in a game room lined the walls, while comfortable sofas and chairs invited relaxation. The juke box, pinball machines, stereo and televisions competed with darts, ping-pong, and air hockey – all played with as much varsity fervor as the raiding of the well-stocked refrigerator.

Duke was a winning team then, easy for me to support after seeing their human side up close and personal. When Doc retired, my few years as a hoopster fan ended with fond memories of a Durham, North Carolina basement. But my Jeopardy devotion has never faded.

It all began in the early 60s. Art Fleming hosted daytime Jeopardy with its $10 and $20 questions. I caught the quiz show between flights in airport crew lounges around the country. Eventually, I tuned it in on my days off.

The show was filmed in New York City. Back then, freebie tickets to all the game shows were passed out on the sidewalks near the studios.

One day, I was handed tickets to Password, another popular game show. They asked f I would like to try for a spot as a contestant. The top prize was $500 – well over a month’s salary. My enthusiastic answer was “When?” I was lucky. I got on, won the big bucks, and quickly booked a Hawaiian hotel room. So, when I heard about applying for Jeopardy, I was all in.

It began with a timed test of 100 questions. The exam monitor said, “If you scored over a 93, you’ll hear from us.” I doubted I’d get a call. When I finally did hear back, months later, I had married and moved to San Diego. I used one of my airline passes to fly to New York for the filming.

Many longtime readers may remember the next part of this story.

I was playing against a professor and a 5-language linguist. We were all answering pretty evenly when I knew the $10 question about MOUNTAINS. A geography lover, I wasn’t surprised that I identified the next three questions. All set to “sweep” the category, the last answer was a daily double. I don’t remember how much money I had – maybe $120. Cockily, I bet it all.

Art Fleming read, “It’s the highest peak in the Adirondacks.” I didn’t know it. I had never known it. And then the ultimate embarrassment. Are said, with a quirky smile, “What is Mt. Marcy?” OMG. I was mortified. I’m sure he noticed the blush crawling up my face.

Back at $0, I tried to rebuild. Scores were worth one-tenth what they are today, so winning Jeopardy was worthwhile, but not a road to riches. I wagered whatever monies I had left on the Final Jeopardy category: WORLD CAPITALS. After placing our bets, there was a few minutes for commercials. I remember standing there asking myself where is Karachi? Katmandu? Montevideo? I was in way over my head.

When the answer was revealed, “Karl Marx is buried here,”. Desperate, I wrote the second most obvious city after Moscow: “What is St. Petersburg.? It was London. I hadn’t the foggiest. And I had just honeymooned there. Karl’s tomb wasn’t on our romantic tour.

Eventually, Jeopardy became a night show, with Alex Trebek steering the ship, I was hooked. It’s been an evening ritual since the 80s in our home. Richard and I usually eat dinner with the show. And all that dedication has spawned two more generations of watchers, here and at home. When the teenage grandchildren sprawl on the floor in our den, they throw out answers with the rest of us.

Boston and New York City air the syndicated show on ABC. None of my family or NYC friends have this CBS/NCAA conflict. C’mon, Erie, at least offer it at 2:00a.m. for recording. DO SOMETHING!

Don't you know how large your Jeopardy fan base is? You can’t subject us to more of your basketball-induced indifference. Next year, I envision pickets parading in front of your studios.

This Madness has to stop!!

 

 

 

Flying days with a Brooklyn legend

 

Working a first-class flight with Eddie Gold was guaranteed to be a CRAZY day. As much as I loved flying with him – he terrified me.

Back in the 70’s, traveling businessmen wore suits and ties. Good manners and some formality still existed. Not with Eddie. After any trip with him, I feared for my job, but I would have laughed for six or eight hours. Eddie was incorrigible.

He was a Brooklyn boy with the predictable accent. When native New Yorkers boarded, he spotted and heard them immediately and began his disrespectful teasing. They called him Eddie, and he flippantly called them by their first names. They loved it. I’d have had a permanent letter in my personnel file. Eddie had no limits.

One memorable dinner flight, we served a full first-class cabin – 16 passengers. During cocktail hour, I asked each passenger for their entrée choice of fresh carved prime rib or lobster tail. The meal trays, lined with white linen, boasted china and stemmed wine glasses. Each bread plate held a dinner roll and butter beside the shrimp cocktail holding center stage as we poured from our selection of fine wines.

 I was setting up the trays in the galley as Eddie made round trips serving each individual. He was headed back to the galley when one of his New York ladies grabbed him. “Eddie, I didn’t order this shrimp. I ordered the beef.”

          “No, my darling,” he fawned, “that is just your appetizer. We’ll bring your beef after the next course, the salad. The beef is your entrée.” He was muttering when he returned to the galley for the next trays.

          A man in the first row of coach pulled aside the curtain and snapped his fingers at Eddie. Three different times. Finally, Eddie delivered a pat of butter to him saying, “If you spread this on your fingers and thumb, it will stop that clicking noise.” OMG.

On the next trip he was accosted again about the shrimp. “Oh Eddie, I ordered lobster – this shrimp is NO lobster.” He grabbed her shrimp appetizer, and walked to the front of the cabin.

He put the plate down for a second, clapped his hands, and barked “Attention! Attention up here! It seems many of you have never eaten in a nice restaurant. This shrimp cocktail is your appetizer,” as he held up the dish. “The appetizer is served first. AFTER the shrimp, we will serve you salad. THEN, and NOT UNTIL THEN, you will receive your main course – the entrée, spelled E-N-T-R-E-E. GOT IT? Now be good boys and girls and eat your shrimp cocktail. We’ll be around with more wine if you’re very, very good.” Honest to God. He said that. Or something like that. I was listening in the galley, opening more wine, trying not split a gut. They laughed, loved it, and thought it was part of the entertainment.

We made Caesar salad from scratch in a large bowl centered on the aisle cart. We then reset the cart to carve the big prime rib roast, 5 minutes out of the oven. Eddie was carving the roast while I faced the passengers, adding the duchess potatoes, and serving the plates. On Eddie’s second slice he hit the carving fork in the roast with the knife, knocking the roast off the cart. With a very heavy kerplunk, the roast rolled partway down the aisle. Eddie bent down, speared the monster meat with the carving fork, and walked it toward me saying, “Mrs. O’Brien, would you please get the fresh roast from the galley?”

I, of course, knew there was no other roast. Neither was there a local bistro at 37,000 feet, where we could grab another. I looked at him, incredulous for a split second, recovered, and took the heavily-laden fork along with the pot of au jus to the galley. I heard Eddie babbling as he poured more wine, “She’ll be right back. It takes a minute to prepare the other roast.”

I was trying not to have a major coronary in the galley. He’d thrown me to the wolves. Anxiously, I wiped the roast down with a damp linen towel, removing a little floor crud and a few hairs. I rolled it again in the au jus, and decorated it, face down, tucking in parsley sprigs and put it back on a freshly washed tray.

“Mr. Gold, your second roast!” I declared. “Please be careful – there’s no backup for this one!” We really pushed the wine that day. And served double liqueurs with coffee and dessert.

As on every trip I flew with Eddie, everyone departed happily. The women kissed him goodbye as I smiled in the background, hoping no one turned us in to management.

He was hilarious. Irreverent. Impossible and wonderful. I don’t know how he kept his job. People have told his stories for years, even after he left Brooklyn for his eternal rest.

Eddie is still a legend.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

An Important Discussion with The Man

 

 

An Important Discussion with The Man

Okay, God. We need to talk.

It occurs to me that since I’ll probably be making your acquaintance face to face sometime in the next decade or so, we have to get a few things straight. If you have plans for me sooner – like next year, or next month, or Saturday – then this is definitely the right time.

I’m pretty sure I was one of your animal creatures before you sent me out into the world again – in this body. Full disclosure, here, sir: many of those parts are no longer in the shape they were when you doled them out.

Could I have been a bird in another lifetime? I really do enjoy my time up in the sky, and I always had a certain comfort factor when airborne. And truthfully, I can dependably find the grub. I have a well-developed food-finding gene, so maybe I was a robin? That would explain why they nest near me every year. But I’m not flitting around so well these days. My flitter is rusty.

Maybe it makes more sense that I was a four-legged animal? The way my back hurts these days, I’m not sure that being upright ever came naturally to this particular set of bones. Wait, I think I read that cats and dogs suffer arthritis? That probably means all quadrupeds do. Wild animals have to forage for food AND fight arthritis? That’s a lousy deal. When I forage, I just have to hang onto the shopping cart.

While it is fun thinking about whether I was a giraffe, a butterfly, or a sand crab, there are some specifics that we must be address before my next go-round.

First, it’s about the legs. What were you thinking? I was standing in the wrong line the day you were passing out the nice-looking gams. Straight legs, no curve to the calves, and thick ankles? And that’s only talking about the part that shows! Not funny. You must have spent some time in the Steinway piano studios, perfecting their sturdy legs, and had a few left over. Plus, during those important years when mini-skirts were in, and I had … these?  

Okay, okay, God. Yes, they’ve been durable, and always got me where I needed to go. But I was so grateful when many of your talented design people finally allowed us to wear slacks. Women in skirts and heels are attractive, but I’m just not comfortable being a participant. Next time, okay?

Oh, and some nicer skin would be a bonus. That bumpy red teenage junk that you sent was horrible – a real test. I’ve never figured out why you dispense acne to us just when we are so unsure of EVERYTHING. You need to rethink the timing on that one. Or, better yet, a little advice, do away with it. Eventually, it cleared up, but it was a long haul. The final results are mixed.

A quick, story, my Lord: I was boarding passengers on a flight one day when a French film producer stepped thru the door. He stopped, looked me over from my hat to my heels and pronounced judgment. He grabbed my cheek, turned it and said to his companion, “Look at zis. Zee bones, zay are beautiful. Zee skin is an atrocity, but zee bones are v-a-a-a-a ry nice.” He whipped his hand away dismissively and walked away, shaking his head. I guess he thought everyone wanted to be in the movies.

One last big issue, Lord. The next time you’re passing out bonus items, could you please give the new version of me an immune system? This one shoulda been on deep discount. Almost useless. Tonsilitis a dozen times as a kid, mostly with strep. Flues. Pneumonias. And almost every February a bronchitis that would floor a Sumo wrestler. Then this Covid nonsense? What was up with that? Was I really supposed to have it twice? Fuggedaboudit. You can do better.

All of this whining is really a friendly request. I mean, I’m very grateful for the straight teeth, the working eyes and ears, and the healthy head of hair. I’m sure you had a reason for turning it white so early, but I guess there’s a lot I’ll never know.

Yes, thank you for all the good working parts. After I arrive at the pearly gates (fingers crossed) and you polish me up a bit for the next sojourn, don’t forget the cute calves and curvy ankles. Okey dokey? Thanks, buddy. I knew you’d understand.

 

Early Travels with the King

 

            Elvis Presley boarded my airline flights. Twice.

In the 1960s, most country stars, Johnny Cash, Roger Miller, Eddy Arnold, Jimmie Rodgers, Chet Atkins, the Everly Brothers, and more, were all professionally based in Nashville, the Music City. But Elvis lived in Memphis.

The first time we met, he boarded my morning flight from Los Angeles to Memphis. The down home boy, by then over 30-years-old, routinely traveled with two or three high school buddies from Memphis. They were his age, but in my mind, they were still juveniles. One step up from delinquent. On that particular full flight, “the guys” were seated in the coach section, Elvis was in first class.

Elvis was taller than I expected, slim and almost shy. His smiled quietly, sort of an “Aw shucks, Ma’am,” demeanor. He did call me ma’am. He settled in his last row seat, engrossed in a magazine as the crowd of passengers trudged onboard. An older businessman claimed the seat beside Elvis, exchanged polite pleasantries, and opened his briefcase for a morning’s work. I’m still not sure whether he recognized the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll. Maybe he lived under a rock.

Elvis stretched his legs after breakfast. “Ma’am, is it possible to get a Dr. Pepper, please?” That’s just how he was, incredibly polite. And I had to disappoint him. I don’t remember what he accepted, probably a Coke, but I could tell it just wasn’t the same. We chatted briefly about the film he had just finished. He couldn’t wait to get home.

There was no rude, self-important Hollywood star in that nice Southern gentleman. But there was still some boy left. I learned about that on our next mutual flight, more than a year later.

It was a night flight from Memphis to Dallas. He boarded with “the guys.” Their first-class seats were scattered through the four rows totaling 16 seats. The other dozen passengers were all executive businessmen, standard in those days.

After we were airborne, and everyone had cocktails and a snack, many men were still reading or working on their tray tables. Elvis’s guys were loud, yelling back and forth to each other.  A few passengers had turned out their light, hoping to drop a hint, I think.

“The groupies” all wanted another drink – stupid combinations like Scotch and orange juice, Bourbon and Bloody Mary Mix. Back in their seats, they began throwing their drinks across the aisle at each other, whooping and hollering. They wanted the drinks only as weapons.

            Flying in the first position, responsible for all passenger safety and comfort, I had to be the heavy. It was a good thing Elvis was with them, or I would have been meaner.

Trying to be both quiet and forceful, I demanded they cease their unacceptable behavior immediately. “Stop it! There are working and sleeping passengers in this cabin. STOP behaving like fourth-graders!” When they asked if they could refill their now empty glasses, I said no. They were lucky I didn’t demand that they get on their hands and knees with cleaning towels.

Elvis was embarrassed, but he didn’t intervene or chide them. The cabin was dark and quiet, his posse finally subdued. He came into our galley to stretch and chat. “Sorry about that, ma’am, he said.”

Dressed in jeans and a plaid sport shirt, he could have been any guy off the street, not a world-renowned mega-star. His shirt was unbuttoned twice at the collar and I noticed on his neck a large quarter-sized scab that he was scratching. I couldn’t imagine what disease produced scabs that big. Wondering if he was contagious, I said, “That looks sore…are you alright? Do you need a bandage?”

“Nope. This was just the guys and me horsing around again.” Seeing my reaction, he explained, “We were playing chicken.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “What kind of chicken?”

Then a little embarrassed, he added, “We all get in the shower and hold lit cigars against each other’s skin until ya yell ‘Uncle.’ We got a little out of hand last week,” he added as he showed me others on his chest, stomach and inner arm. “They make sure not to do my face or hands.”

I was somewhere between horrified and amused. “Really? Is that fun?” I asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” he stammered. “Well, sorta.” And he laughed, behaving like the quiet country man I met on the first flight.

He put his arm around me and said, “Thank you, but don’t worry, it’s OK,” and he headed back to his seat. I was, by then, a married woman, but I can honestly say I enjoyed that.

His momma did a good job. He was nice. He was just himself. Elvis.