The Oboe Woman

Everything comes from someplace. As much as this is probably an oversimplification, it is true. Whatever you're looking at was made somewhere. You just didn't give it any thought that some kind of factory, person or person at a factory was turning out whatever it is you're looking at.

We know the big stuff is made somewhere. Cars, planes and ships. And that's the short list. But did anyone ever give much thought to where oboes come from? Once you look it up, or remember what an oboe is, you might not really care where they come from. An oboe is pictured above, a musical instrument most commonly found in classical music orchestras. It resembles a clarinet, and when properly played has a rich, warm sound.

And as of March 1, there is one less master craftsman oboe maker, as Paul Laubin, 88 has passed away in Peekskill, New York. He was found dead in his workshop in the evening, having passed away during the day in his workshop. 

Making oboes the old fashioned way, completely by hand from rosewood and grenadilla is what Paul did, just like his father Alfred. Both gentlemen were professional oboists, with Paul having play in the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra. Alfred took up making his own instruments when he was not satisfied with the imperfections in the ones he used for playing.  

Together they made oboes in their garage in Scarsdale, New York, a garage being the place where you'd expect a master craftsman to turn out his made-by-hand product.

That is until they needed a little more space to turn out their yearly output of 100 oboes. In 1958 they moved to a clarinet factory in Long Island City, Queens.

I grew up in Queens in that era and knew Long Island City to be home to several factories, some of them large, like Eagle Electrical Supply, Ronzoni and Mueller's spaghetti, Silvercup bread bakery, Breyers ice cream, Swingline Staples, Sunshine Bakery, Chiclets/Black Jack gum.

There were also lots of smaller and one story machine shops like Sklar surgical instruments, but I would have never thought there was a clarinet factory nestled amongst all those industrial streets and loading docks.

The presence of a clarinet factory probably meant there was a listing in the Queens Yellow Pages under Clarinets–Manufacturers, as opposed to possible retail stores that sold clarinets. What a treasure. You would need some old phone directories to see if the oboe guys had their own listing inside the clarinet factory, sharing the same address.

And like any business, there were growing pains. Alex Vadukul in today's informative NYT obituary for Paul Laubin, tells us that his father Alfred built the first Laubin oboe as an experiment, melting down his wife's silverware to make the keys.

Paul's mother, Lillian, Alfred's wife, is described as a "homemaker." Decidedly a homemaker who had to give up her set of good silverware and for a while, or maybe even everafter, had to set out the stainless steel flatware for the holidays so that Alfred could make a better oboe.

Behind any set of inventors and tinkerers is a good woman who made the sacrifices.

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A Reunion, of Sorts

The Assembled assembled Saturday—virtually. Not through Zoom, since no one knows how to set that up, and anyway, one member, Johnny M. doesn't even own a computer and still uses a flip phone.

No, the "meeting" was through email and telephone conversations. Pretty much what can now he called the "old fashioned" way. What brought the quartet together Saturday was the 11th race at Gulfstream Park, a $100,000 Black Type ungraded stakes race called the 'The Cutler Bay' run at one mile over the turf course.

Within that race, the attention was directed at Step Dancer, a 3-year-old making his sophomore debut after having the winter off after three races in 2020. Trained by the nearly Hall of Fame trainer Barclay Tagg and ridden now by Jose Ortiz, a perpetually leading jockey, Step Dancer's chances were rated a fair 5-1 on the morning line behind the favorite Annex, an undefeated Bill Mott colt who was now 2-for-2, not having raced as a 2-year-old.

Step Dancer got our attention and loyalty because of the Bobby G. connection. Bobby's buddy Richie Pressman co-owns the horse, and Richie's horses have often returned some hefty mutuels. 

A hefty mutuel would not be today's result, but a win is always appreciated at the window, and at the racing secretary's office when the check is cut for the winner's share of a $100,000 purse. Money won is twice as nice as money earned.

Richie advance forwarded to Bob, and Bob forwarded to Johnny D. a PDF of the race's Classic pps. Johnny D. in turn forwarded them to Jose. Johnny M. with no computer, just listened on the phone.

Johnny D. did his analysis and number thing, not particularly loving Step Dancer's chances, but did consider them good enough to make some small wagers around and hook him with the favorite in a $2 exacta box.

Additionally, Johnny D. thought enough of Fulmini's chances to cover his chances with a $2 win bet at his expected long odds, which got to nearly 30-1.

So how did Step Dancer do? He hardly danced at all. Didn't seem to pick up his feet after falling out of the gate at the start, passing one horse on the backstretch, but then settling for the rear dog view of watching the field race in front of him, finishing 8th, and last.

The only solace Johnny D. got was that Fulmini didn't take the lead as expected, but did race very competitively and got beat at the wire by Annex by a neck. Annex, thus just barely kept his undefeated record intact, and was now 3-for-3. Not bad, but the water's getting much deeper for the horse, but  nevertheless, still an accomplishment.

When the dust settled, Jose of The Assembled reported that he had the exacta of Annex and Fulmini that paid $44 for $1. Leave it to Jose. He seems to find sunny skies when the rest of us are enduring thunderstorms.

It is not known what Jose had on the exacta, or how much he cleared, since he tends to put together a fistful of numbers per race, resembling a Rubik's Cube of possibilities, but a payout is a payout, and certainly beats a zero return, which is what Johnny D., Johnny M. and Bobby G. suffered.

It was nice to have a race to handicap, and it was nice to once again have the chance of winning. But it's never nice to lose. However, it's not over till it's over, and the weekend is coming up with some good races.

Plus, I'm getting my first Covid shot at Aqueduct on Friday at 11:00. I've already dreamed that a nurse with a Russian accent contacted me and confirmed. Maybe the next person I hear from will give me the winner of a race on Friday.

I'll be there.

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Commonplace Book, Chapter 7

Things are a little slow for me these days. My muse must be asleep. No one's passed away that I have anything to say about, and the rest of the news is so dismal and covered by others that there's no sense "going there."

When this happens, I pull out the pages of the Commonplace Book I was compiling and shave off a quantity of entries. Since I haven't been adding to the pages, the nuggets I collected will eventually deplete. No problem. The blog posting have been the substitute for the entries, and will continue to be so.

This installation includes an outtake from a John Updike short story, "A Sandstone Farmhouse." I have forever marveled at the metaphor of removing rocks from a pile to the removal of years from a life span by "an invisible giant." What's left always gets smaller by one day. It's a powerful statement about the progression of life and oncoming death.

There are some favorite out-takes from Damon Runyon and Jimmy Breslin, and another one I cherish by Robert Lipsyte writing about Bill Maloney, a professional billiard, pool, and backgammon player who my friend played against in a three-cushion billiard tournament round at McGirr's pool hall half-a century ago. I've written about Bill Maloney myself in a blog posting, 'The Corner Pocket.'

Enough preface. Let the entries speak for themselves.

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“Shut up,” he explained.

–Ring Lardner

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No one ever dies who lives in hearts left behind.

–Danish Expression: Lifted from Carnegie Hall program notes, 112th Opening, October 2, 2002

I use this sentiment in an In Memoriam notice in the NYT at now 5-year intervals to remember my murdered co-workers in the September 16, 2002 shootings at Empire Blue Cross Blue Shield by an Assistant Vice President who then took his own life. 

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I don’t take the shortcut through Woolworth’s anymore.  You never know when you’re going to get blocked by some woman in the aisle buying a ceramic dog.

–Ray Miller, explaining why the 3rd Avenue, 41st - 42nd Street detour through

Woolworth’s was not a guaranteed time saver.

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Running away from the sound of gunfire is the right direction.

–September 16, 2002

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It’s an amazing thing.  The population of this town never changes. Every time a baby is born...a man leaves town.

–Willie Nelson, commenting on the population of his home town, Abbot, Texas.

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I wish to say I am very nervous indeed when Big Jule pops into my hotel room one afternoon, because anybody will tell you that Big Jule is the hottest guy in the whole world at the time I am speaking about.

In fact, it is really surprising how hot he is.  They wish to see him in Pittsburgh, Pa. About a matter of a mail truck being robbed, and there is gossip about him in Minneapolis, Minn., where somebody takes a fifty-G payroll off a messenger in cash money, and slugs the messenger around somewhat for not holding still.

Furthermore, the Bankers’ Association is willing to pay good dough to talk to Big Jule out in Kansas City, Mo., where a jug is knocked off by a stranger, and in the confusion the paying teller and the cashier, and the second vice-president are clouted about, and the day watchman is hurt, and two coppers are badly bruised, and over fifteen G’s is removed from the counters and never returned.

Then there is something about a department store in Canton O., and a flour-mill safe in Toledo, and a grocery store in Spokane, Wash., and a branch post office in

San Francisco, and also something about a shooting match in Chicago, but of course this does not count so much, as only one party is fatally injured.  However, you can see that Big Jule is really very hot, what with the coppers all over the country looking for him high and low.  In fact, he is practically on fire.

–The Hottest Guy in the World, Damon Runyon

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“I used to be bad when I was a kid but ever since then I have gone straight as I can prove by my record—33 arrests and no convictions.”

–Big Jule, Guys and Dolls, by Damon Runyon

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Chink approached Dutch Schultz’s table. Schultz got up and fired a gun.  This was the first of three occasions on which Schultz and Chink resorted to weapons during these years.  A year or so after this, Chink lost the third and most decisive gunfight by a wide margin.  But this time at the Club Abbey he hit the floor breathing.

–Damon Runyon, a biography, by Jimmy Breslin

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If he and his father and grandfather had torn the porch down themselves, he would have remembered so heroic a labor, as he did the smashing of the lath-and-plaster partition that separated the two small parlors downstairs, making one big living room, or the tearing out of the big stone kitchen fireplace and its chimney, right up into the attic.  He remembered swinging the great stones out the attic window, he and his grandfather, pushing, trying not to pinch their fingers, while his father, his face white with the effort, held the rope of a makeshift pulley rigged over a rafter.  Once clear of the sill, the heavy stones fell with a strange slowness, seen from above, and accumulated into a kind of a mountain it became Joey’s summer job to clear away.  He learned a valuable lesson that first summer on the farm, while he turned fourteen: even if you manage to wrestle only one stone into the wheelbarrow and sweatily, staggeringly trundle it down to the swampy area this side of the springhouse, eventually the entire mountain will be taken away.  On the same principle, an invisible giant, removing only one day at a time, will eventually dispose of an entire life.

–A Sandstone Farmhouse, John Updike

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Bill Maloney, slim and blond, his choir-boy face just beginning to crack and fade at 31, laid his jacket and cue case on a metal tray that slid under the billiard table out of reach of junkies and boosters.  He screwed the halves of his stick together with quick, sure twists of slender hands, as graceful and efficient as fish-snatching birds.  He prowled the table, smoking, drinking coffee, but lithe and relaxed, as if he had purged his mind of a thousand deals and poured all his energies down into that cue. Players from other tables gathered to watch his match, part of McGirr’s current three-cushion billiard tournament, another attempt in the long, vain disjointed campaign to make something profitable of this complex and absorbing game.

Even now, so easily moving round the table, so quickly sure of his shot, Maloney might be a little bored.  Maloney will never get better playing a five-handicap opponent, and he will never get better unless he plays five or six hours a day, which means giving up chess and checkers and bridge, and go and scrabble and table tennis and bowling and golf, games he also plays well and bets on.

Maloney accepted a few congratulations after winning, then reached down for his jacket and cue case, and left.  He would move back and forth several times in the next hour, answering telephone calls, going into corners for whispered conversations.  His movements, so sure around the table, became ragged, even tense.  After a while, he joined Polsky, who had finished next-to-last in the tournament, for coffee at the counter. His eyes were darting around the room, prospecting.  “I might go to Antwerp in September, to see where my game’s at but...”  He saw something that may or may not have been there, softly said, “Excuse me,” and was gone.

–Bill Maloney, Plays a Game at McGirr’s, Sports of the Times, Robert Lipsyte; June 1971

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Sleek, slinky creatures crowd the bar at Vandam.  With a Darwinian instinct for social display, they perch on the tall stools and preen, agreeably conscious that they have chosen a flattering setting. 

–Restaurant review, NYT, July 21, 1999

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Grandma’s Bake Shoppe, now in the midst of its high season, produces some 2 million pounds of fruitcake each year.  Fruitcake, that stodgy Yuletide loaf of neighborly good intentions and caloric density, endures though it has long been disparaged by the good and the great.  Russell Baker has called it “the only food durable enough to become a family heirloom.”  Dickens, no doubt referring to the boulder-like heft and longevity of the loaf, described it as a “geological homemade cake.”

But unlike relax-denim-clad baby boomers, fruitcake at least has time on its side.  One customer took a Grandma’s Bake Shoppe loaf out of the freezer after 18 years and reported that, a generation later, it was still moist and tasty.

–A Cake So Misunderstood, WSJ, Amy Finnerty, December 20, 2002

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The grounding of the Concorde means the end of an important symbol, one that made what seemed an impossible feat—traveling faster than the speed of sound (while wearing street clothes)—possible on a regularly scheduled basis.  As a boyhood fan of such interplanetary travelers as Buck Rogers and Flash Gordon, I never dreamed that the future might arrive during my lifetime.  It makes me especially sad to see that part of the future disappear.

–The Future Is Past, Op-Ed piece, NYT, April 26, 2003, by Larry Gelbert, who developed the TV version of M*A*S*H.

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Quick, the Smelling Salts

I love reading a phrase that's a blast from the past. Something that's so old it should be surrounded with a historical plaque. I recently came across "hash-slinger" in an old obit about an old vaudevillian who had passed away in 1971, Charlie Dale.

Now, just a week or so later, I've come across reading of someone whose romantic leanings gave New York society "the vapors' when he left his wife for a musical-comedy actress.

Donald Trump was hardly the first tycoon to leave his wife and make her eligible for "The First Wives' Club." A steel magnate (no name) took possession of a mansion on Fifth Avenue in the early part of the 20th century after apparently shocking New York society with the dumping of his wife for what we can fully assume was a younger woman who was a musical-comedy actress.

This union didn't last till death do them part. The musical-comedy actress left the steel magnate and he lived alone in the mansion until he passed away in 1934.

The recollection of this story is in but a single paragraph in what might be called an investigative piece by Dan Barry of the NYT about the American Irish Historical Society's plans to sell its headquarters at 991 Fifth Avenue, "an exquisite Gilded Age mansion townhouse for $51 million." 

You can read the piece for its informative reporting on the controversy that swirls around the proposed sale of any piece of prime property in NYC that's been used by a not-for-profit organization that's been dominated by one family. Transfer of property in NYC does not go gently into the night.  

Or, you can just savor the thought of a society page scandal hitting the ladies who lunch who read of the steel magnate's affection for a musical-comedy actress over his wife and the illusion that the news is so devastating to proper, conscious sensibilities that they faint and need smelling salts to revive them. Vapors.

At least that's the image I get when I think of something giving someone such bad news that they need resuscitating with vapors. Perhaps Ben Zimmer of the WSJ will weigh in on the phrase, but I doubt it. It's remained too obscure and hasn't landed on 'The View' or the 'Steve Colbert Show.'

The OED tells me vapors/vapours can be defined as: Now chiefly joc [jocular] (an attack of) nervousness, indignant rage, etc.; hysterics. Freq. [frequently] with the, now esp. [especially] in a fit of the vapours

Nobody faints these days at bad news. They get a lawyer.

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What Do You People Read Up There?

If the journalist, newscaster Roger Mudd became so famous for making Ted Kennedy flub an answer to a question when he was trying to run for the presidential nomination in 1979, then Katie Couric might already have a preview of her obituary for stumping vice-presidential candidate Sarah Palin over what they read in the frozen tundra of Alaska.

Roger Mudd has just passed away at 93, living so long after his days as a newscaster, journalist and political pundit that I'm sure there will those who ask themselves, "he was alive yesterday?"

I remember Roger Mudd on CBS News, and eventually on NBC and PBS. He obviously had a brain, and was a thoughtful interviewer, not someone who is paid to get a rise out of people or complete an agenda. He was a sober, not somber journalist.

I didn't know he was hoping to the heir to Walter Cronkite, and when he didn't it he left the network for NBC. When you get passed over, you leave.

I love that his obit fell to Robert McFadden, who writes: "Mr. Mudd was an exception: an experienced reporter who covered Congress and politics and delivered award-winning reports in a smooth mid-Atlantic baritone with erudition, authority and touches of sardonic humor." He made you want to pay attention.

I don't particularly remember the interview with Ted Kennedy in 1979 that apparently help sink Ted's hopes to follow in his brothers' footsteps and seek the Democratic nomination for president.

Ted Kennedy was always sticking his toe in the presidential waters after the assassination of Robert in 1968. Will he, won't he seek the nomination? Ted Kennedy was always seen as a bit of a dilettante, a little less capable of higher office than John and Robert. The 1969 accident on the On Time Ferry in Chappaquiddick, Massachusetts, a small island off Martha's Vineyard, in which his car slid off and plunged into the water, trapping a campaign worker Mary Joe Kopecky who drowned and his considered feeble response to the accident in securing help did nothing for his political career.

But there we was in 1979, seriously looking to grab the nomination from the incumbent president Jimmy Carter. And there apparently was Roger Mudd who apparently asked Ted Kennedy, point blank, "why do you want to be president?" It was hardly an unfair question, given the assassinations of his two older brothers, leaving him as the sole male in the family with a mother who was still alive.

Ted Kennedy fumbled the ball. The transcript of his answer is given in his obituary as being that of a stammering response that caught him off guard: "Well, I'm—were I to—make the announcement and to run, the reasons that I would run is because that I would run is because I have a great belief in this country." An hour under the scrutiny of Roger Mudd his chances sunk like his car in 1969.

I once read that David O. Selznick predicted his obituary would lead off with the fact hat he produced the 1939 movie 'Gone with the Wind.' After all, it is considered one of the all-time great movies. And sure enough, when he did pass away, the lede was about being the producer for the film.

I don't know if Roger Mudd imagined how his obituary would start, but the headline in yesterday's NYT answered the question: Roger Mudd, Savvy Anchorman Who Stumped a Kennedy, Is Dead at 93. Roger won a Peabody broadcasting award for the Kennedy interview

If you don't read the rest you might assume Roger Mudd hosted a game show and a Kennedy showed up and didn't get to come back the next day.

Mr. Mudd's fame over a question makes me wonder what will Katie Couric be remembered for? Katie, like Roger has had many jobs in broadcasting, and now even the first female host on 'Jeopardy.' Jeopardy, if you don't know, is having a succession of celebrity hosts following the passing of Alex Trebek. The story goes that even Aaron Rogers, the Green Bay quarterback, is slated to be a guest host.

But for me, Katie will always be remembered for asking the Republican vice presidential candidate,  Sarah Palin in 2008, "what newspapers and magazines did you regularly read before you were tapped for..." 

There was an obvious condescension to Couric's question, implying that anyone who comes from the wilds of Alaska, even if you are the governor, probably doesn't stay connected with the Lower 48. Why, you might even not read.

Palin, not being the brightest, or quick-witted of people, was thrown a bit by the question, but did reply, "I've read most of them...all of them." What Sarah didn't do was throw it right back in Couric's face and tell her that Alaska is indeed part of the United States, we do read, and we do know what's going on. We're just as informed as you are. Opportunity missed.

Samuel A. Mudd

Aside from the political quotes, I had always heard that Roger Mudd was somehow related to the doctor who treated John Wiles Booth for his broken leg, suffered after he jumped from Lincoln's box to the stage after plugging the president in the head.

And indeed that is in the obit, that "an ancestor was Samuel A. Mudd, a doctor who went to prison for treating John Wiles Booth for the broken leg he suffered jumping to the stage of Ford's Theater after shooting Abraham Lincoln in 1865." (It was later thought Booth's leg was broken when a horse fell on him during a stage of his escape.)

Whaaaaaaaat? The doc was tried and found guilty for treating a broken leg? Well, not quite. Samuel Mudd was thought to be part of the conspiracy to kill Lincoln because Booth went to his house for treatment as he was on the run after the assassination. Booth was a wanted man for 12 days before they shot him in a tobacco barn he sought refuge in.

Dr. Mudd avoided the death sentence by a  single vote of the jury. He has sentenced to life in Federal prison, but was pardoned by President Johnson in 1869 after he helped treat a severe outbreak of yellow fever at the prison.

Dr. Mudd had met Booth at least once before the assassination, but he was guilty of conspiracy by association. An active involvement in the plot was never truly determined. Despite the pardon, the conviction record was never expunged even after he returned to his practice and farming. 

I found it very interesting that Wikipedia, in mentioning the relationship of Roger Mudd to Doctor Mudd, yesterday already had the fact that Roger Mudd has passed away (1928-2021). Wiki was also emphatic that Roger was a relative, not a descendent as had always been reported. 

What's the difference? My guess is Roger's relationship to Samuel A. Mudd was through some ancestor's marriage, not a blood-line relationship. Just like in my family tree I'm related through a marriage to the drag queen, playwright Charles Busch through a cousin from Syracuse. I've never gotten free tickets because of it, but I have emailed Mr. Busch and told him I've enjoyed his performances in his plays. (I was hoping for tickets.)

Katie Couric is still with us, and hosting 'Jeopardy' these days. The lede for her obit is still out there. But, will it have anything to do with Sarah Palin?

Only time will tell.

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March 8, 1971

It's not a date that ever had an icon on the calendar from Bill's Murray Street liquor store in Flushing. And 50 years ago today the date was also on a Monday. A Monday in March in 1971 probably brings to mind few events to most people. But it was 50 years ago today that Muhammad Ali fought Joe Frazier in Madison Square Garden for the heavyweight championship, two undefeated heavyweights meeting in the long-anticipated bout, each getting $2.5 million. I don't know how much that is in today's money. Alert readers? 

It was also the day Aqueduct opened for business after their winter hiatus. There was no winterized inner track in those days, and the Big A was idle since mid-December. I didn't attend both events, but I did get to go to the one in the evening.

I once read a piece by Leonard Koppett, a sportswriter for the NYT who claimed that everyone has their own Golden Age in sports, a ten-year span that forms most of their memories. Your ten years is different from my tens years, and they don't necessarily begin and end within decades. Just 10 years starting anytime.

I'd have to say my Golden Age started sometime in the very late sixties when I became a season ticket holder for the Rangers, and went into the late '70s when our first daughter was born in 1978. Always a sports fan, but that period I lived at Madison Square Garden and Aqueduct and Belmont.

The Ali-Frazier I fight was my first boxing match. And there were many more after that; closed circuit, in the theaters, the Felt Forum, Sunnyside Gardens, Madison Square Garden. I always laugh when the chief architect critic for the NYT comes on duty and promptly tells the world that the Garden has got to go to make way for a better train station. How's that working out for you?

The three tickets I had gotten for Ali-Frazier I were received in the mail. Twenty dollars each, last row Blue Seats. My father, myself, and a friend from my job, Robert Ciago went. When the fight was announced I wrote to the Garden, got the tickets in the mail, and kept them in a desk at home while the build-up for the fight reached media fever pitch. I was holding onto gold.

I still have my ticket stub somewhere. The fight program had Ken Norton on the card, in the program, but he was substituted for. There is no March 8, 1971 fight listed on Ken's boxing record.

I remember there was a fellow in one of the prelims, perhaps making his pro-debut. John Closshey, a NYC Sanitation worker. I don't remember if he won, But I do remember reading when he passed away from cancer a short time later.

Ali-Frazier I was more than a memorable evening. It was a watershed moment in my life, and probably narrowed the estrangement just a bit between myself and my father. 

The early '70s were when the Rangers were not just good, they were great. In the '70-'71 season they lost only two games at home. There were ties, as there were in that era, but they won. They beat the prior year's Stanley Cup champions to get to the finals in 1972, only to be bested by a superior Boston Bruin team propelled by Bobby Orr and Phil Esposito. The Bruins were great too that year.

I came of age in the '70s. I went to the races 33 times in 1971. I still have the notebook I kept of every wager I made then. Always small, but always betting. I was at Belmont for the three Triple Crown champions in the '70s, Secretariat, Seattle Slew and Affirmed. Secretariat's Belmont can still give me goose-bumps as I look up from this computer and see the classic 1973 photo of Turcotte looking over his left shoulder at the tote board to see how fast he was going. Very fast. No one since as fast. And now the friend I was with has passed away.

Fifty years is a long time. Look back fifty years from 1971 and you've got 1921 and Warren Harding is president; my father was six. Look back fifty years from 2021 and Richard Nixon is president and I'm 22 years old.

I already knew the NYT wasn't going to have anything in the paper about the 50-year anniversary of Ali-Frazier I. How could they? I'm sure no one on the paper today was working at the paper then. Red Smith, Dave Anderson, Arthur Daley are gone. Died. Anyone who might remember covering the fight is my age or older, retired somewhere.

In fact, when I started to write this it hadn't yet occurred to me it was 50 years ago. I remember March 8th so clearly, I forgot that if you subtract 50 from 2021 you get 1971.

Frank Sinatra was taking photos from all corners of the ring apron with his Nikon, moving around outside the ring like the referee Arthur Mercante was moving around inside the ring. Mercante would later say both fighters threw and withstood punches he had never seen before. Both fighters were in the hospital briefly after the fight. Fifteen rounds, the championship distance of the era. The NYT the next day carried a front page photo of Ali sprawled out on the canvas from Frazier's 15th round left hook, the hook he had been pounding Ali's jaw with all evening. Unanimous Frazier.

Burt Lancaster was always just outside the ring as well. Lots of tuxedos. Mayor Lindsay wasn't even at ringside. He was some 15 rows back. Astronauts had better seats than he had. I wonder now if a young Donald Trump was there. He'd probably tell us he was. Lots of people always told people they were there who weren't.

At the introductions before the fight Johnny Addie didn't try and tell you who was there. He just said, "everyone's here." I know I was.

If they were there, they'd remember that it's 50 years ago today. My Golden Age of sports.

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Note: Caught up with Tuesday's Wall Street Journal, and there on Page A4 was this picture that commemorates the 50th Anniversary of The Fight of the Century. While others failed to mention it, yes the WSJ remembered.

The photo shows a statue of Ali and Joe in Feasterville, Pennsylvania being kissed by Weatta Frazier, daughter of Joe. Appropriately, Joe's throwing the left hook that conquered so many opponents.

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Smith and Dale

Charlie Dale and Joe Smith

Thoughts fly into my brain like pigeons come to roost on steel girders under train trestles. I don't try and discourage these thoughts. I now write about them.

Take the date February 22nd. We have one every year. For those with an elementary school education that took place in the '50s and early '60s it is easy to remember this is George Washington's birthday. Not Presidents' Day, the artificial holiday meant to honor Abe and George with appliance and car sales, but his actual birthday when he was born in 1732.

I can still see the calendar hanging in the kitchen from Bill's liquor store on Murray Street, just north of Northern Boulevard, where the adults in my family were good customers. We always had a calendar from Bill's.

And the maker of those calendars used icons on holiday dates to depict what the holiday was about. February 12th, a head shot of Lincoln; February 22nd, a head shot of Washington.

Separately, Lincoln and Washington's birthdays were celebrated (at least in the North) with a day off. The South was still mad at Lincoln for what he did during the Civil War, and refused to honor February 12th in any form.

Employers eventually tired of giving people two days off in so short a month. Thus, Presidents' Day was born. A quasi holiday designed to set grammarians off on how to use an apostrophe. Think about it: How do you pronounce an apostrophe? Never mind arguing about Covid relief bills. There should be legislation eliminating apostrophes.

Regardless, I will always associate February 22nd with George's birthday, and the day in 1968 when a friend of mine called me to tell me his father had passed away.

The father, Sidney Piermont was quite sick with emphysema and one lung, with a tank of oxygen in his bedroom. Nevertheless, he still managed to get to work at CBS where he was a television producer for the Carol Burnett and Gary Moore shows. I've written about him before.

The CBS building (Black Rock) was not far from where he lived at 101 West 55th Street. Getting to work was not impossible. He was born in 1902 and eventually became a booking agent for Loew's theaters when they booked vaudeville acts, the form of live entertainment before radio and television took over.

The pigeon that flew into my brain on February 22nd was the funeral for Mr. Pierpont at Campbell's Funeral Parlor on Madison Avenue. My father was with me, since he knew the two sons I was friendly with. At one point there was a bit of a ruckus as an elderly gentleman came in and seemed  distraught at the death of his old friend. The fellow was Charlie Dale, from the comedy team Smith and Dale. Mr. Pierpont's wife, Susan, helped calm him down.

Charlie Dale lived in the same building as the Piermonts. Smith and Dale were a famous vaudeville comedy team performing many classic sketches, notably the Dr Kronkite sequence that is absolutely side splitting, and gives you an idea of what made people laugh, and can still make people laugh without cursing up a storm. YouTube it.

Sometimes with a another person dressed as a nurse, a chair and a desk, the two men unleash a barrage of facial expressions and silly one liners that win you over. I remember my father getting the biggest kick of seeing Charlie Dale. He grew up with the humor of these guys.

As often happens now, I research the obituaries of people that come to mind to see how the news of their death was presented. It turns out when Charlie Dale passed away in 1971 it was fairly big news. The obit is not bylined, but extends for two columns, with photo

A sample of dialog from their famous Dr. Kronkite skit is provided. But also mentioned are the odd jobs they had during the day that they did just to make enough money to get by on while they looked for bookings in vaudeville, performing in the evening at a wide array of locales, theaters and bars. Sidney Piermont did many of those bookings, thus the friendship.

The reference to a daytime job they both held, "as hash-slingers during the rush hour at Childs' restaurant at 130 Broadway..." is nearly as funny as their skits.

Childs' was a chain of restaurant that were still around in the '70s. They were a step above eating at a bar or the Automat. There were communal tables with waitress service. 

The menu was simple fare, but notably included "corned beef hash." You just don't hear the word "hash" these days unless it's "hash tag."

But back then, it was a popular food choice, that I was astonished to see is still available in cans. Buying a meat product in a can is something that always struck me as completely unappealing.

As a kid in Flushing there was a one-story factory on either side of Murray Street between 41st Avenue and Barclay Street, Claridge, that prepared meat in cans. I think they may have been big during the war creating rations for the soldiers, but even after the war they were producing meat products in cans.

I only ever saw their cans once in our local supermarket. I don't know what markets their products were sold in, but on warm days their doors were open and you could see the workers stirring meat in huge tubs. It looked disgusting. 

A hash-slinger would be a counterman who would be preparing the orders, somewhat like a burger flipper of today. Dive restaurants could be referred to as "hash houses" that served up edible, but rather foul looking food that was chopped up—hashed—and presented with say eggs. You had to be hungry to eat that stuff.

I'm not sure I ever ate at a Childs' restaurant, although I saw plenty of them in Manhattan. Another staple of a restaurant of the era would be Salisbury Steak, chopped beef formed as a patty and served with gravy. I think there were plenty of TV dinners that were Salisbury Steak.

Smith and Dale performed their routine several times on the Ed Sullivan show, itself a bit of a vaudeville show billed as a variety show. Sullivan shows were Sunday nights at 8:00 and featured the most eclectic selection of entertainment you could imagine.

In that era harness racing was big, and I distinctly remember Cardigan Bay in full harness on stage with Ed. Cardigan Bay was a champion pacer and the first to win $1 million. The show was a circus.

The comedy of Smith and Dale was of its own era. Perhaps it died with the  passing of its practitioners. But it never really went away.

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Fanny

If you were to ask me at any point before last Thursday as to what word(s) I'd associate with Fanny Fox I would have immediately replied: Argentine Firecracker. That's because I'm an old guy who clearly remembers when poor Wilbur Mills was caught up in a scandal with the Tidal Basin Bombshell. In fact, the only thing I learned from Robert McFadden's obituary in Thursday's NYT was that Fanny is spelled with an e at the end, not a "y," and that Fox has an "e" at the end as well. When you're an exotic dancer you have exotic name spellings.

Wilbur and Fanne were big news in 1974. Obviously, such big news that someone at the NYT assigned the legendary reporter Robert McFadden to write her six-column obituary. I can't tell if this was an advance obit cobbled by Mr. McFadden years ago, anticipating when the notoriety of Ms. Foxe's night with Wilbur dies down and she passed away and then updated, or an obit written on deadline. It doesn't matter. Fanne is not going away unnoticed.

The above photo shows Wilbur with Fanny sometime before that famous dash and splash incident at 2 a.m. at the Tidal Basin in front of the Thomas Jefferson Memorial. Wilbur's got a mug on him that makes him look like a cross between George Burns, Milton Berle and Joe E. Brown. Off to the left in the photo is a relic of the '70s: a pay phone.

Wilbur sounds like such a helpless first name. But not Wilbur Mills. He was an 18-term Arkansas Democrat who was Chairman of the House Ways and Means Committee, where all the revenue bills must pass through. Control the purse strings, control the country, and Wilbur was politically powerful.

But, as the obituary points out, the wheels came off his life when at 2 a.m. on October 7, 1974 the National Park Police pulled the car over that Wibur Mills was in for speeding and not having its lights on.

Ms. Foxe jumped out of the car and straight into the Tidal Basin. Mr. Mills was found in the car with a scratched face, intoxicated with some other occupants. Ms. Foxe had two black eyes. A lot to explain.

Ms. Foxe was a $500-a -week stripper at a club called the Silver Slipper in Washington. She lived in the same building as Mr. Mills and met and his wife in 1973. Ms. Foxe and her husband and the Millses would go dancing together. After the press coverage of what had been her affair with the 65-year-old Congressman she changed her stage name from The Argentine Firecracker to The Tidal Basin Bombshell and now charged $3,500 a week for her performance at the Silver Slipper. 

Sound a bit like Stormy Daniels? Better, actually. Ms. Foxe went on the perform, write a tell-all-book and do TV talk shows and starred in a few movies with thin plots. Her charms wee always on display.

As for Wilbur, he admitted to a drinking problem and later became a counselor for alcoholics, as well as a major lobbyist for a law firm specializing in tax advice and legislation, something he obviously knew a thing or two about.

As with any public figure that becomes ensnared in a sex scandal Wilbur Mills was the subject of constant late-night ridicule by Johnny Carson and others. I remember though that Carson soon refrained from making jokes about Wilbur when he realized the source of his behavior was a drinking problem. Carson himself had been a drinker and he knew what embarrassments could come from that. Carson soon refrained from making fun of the guy.

As for Fanne Foxe, she was no dummy. The joke about strippers is that they do what they do so they can earn money for medical school. But Annabel was the daughter of a medical officer in Argentina and was enrolled in a pre-med program before setting out to be a dancer.

After the dust from the Mills affair settled and she remarried, she earned a bachelor's degree in communications and a masters in marine science in 2001.

Her endeavors afterward earned her some money, a comfortable life, and praise from her three children. And they, after all were the only people she was interested in pleasing.

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The Age of Permanence

The second Fourstardave has now passed away—the human one that the famous Sultan of Saratoga was named after.

I know this because I was friends with Dave Piermont for over 50 years, from his college days to his most recent when horse racing didn't dominate his life, but FanDuel and Draft Kings did. Micro wagering that at times yielded fantastic multiples for the 25¢ or 50¢ bet. He never hit a top prize, but certainly enough to make the effort worthwhile. Failing eyesight made reading a past performance nearly impossible.

I always joke that I begin to think I might need a boost in my reading prescription when the past performance seems a bit difficult to bring into focus. There's no better guide to what your vision is than reading a past performance. You don't need that chart in an eye doctor's office. Self diagnosis.

At college at Kentucky Weslyean in Owensboro Dave furthered his growing interest in horse racing by going to Miles and Ellis Park, along with Kenneland, and I think a few trips to Churchill. Never the Derby however.

Keeneland in those days had no announcer. They just ran the races and you were on your on watching them and figuring out what you were seeing.

I always found it ironic that he took to horse racing, because his first trip to a track was with his brother, myself, and their barber James Kelly to Belmont Park on Belmont Day, 1968. Dave's brother Dennis and I had to vigorously roust him out of bed. He didn't want to go. His mother even got involved and convinced him to go. From there it became his vocation.

I don't remember if he won any money that first day—I hit the Daily Double (the only "exotic" bet in those days) cold for $22—and was sold for life on handicapping. But racing didn't become my way of life like it did for Dave. 

After a few jobs that went nowhere—even working for the company I worked for, United Medical Service (Blue Shield) as a claims examiner—Dave hit his stride by getting a job with Racing Star Weekly, a horse racing newsletter, phone service and magazine—American Turf Monthly—published by the Bomze family, Richie and Eddie.

Richie and Eddie were sons of "Old Man" Henry Bomze, someone who was making money from horse racing back in the days of he telegraph, the so-called "wire" days Indeed, the past performance publication from Walter Annenberg's Triangle Publications was named The Morning Telegraph. Another publication of Annenberg's was TV Guide. America. Horse racing and television. Apple pie as well.

If there is a heaven on earth it's working at something that doesn't seem like work at all. I remember Dave telling me about his interview with Richie. "Do you know anything about the bush league tracks?" "I sure do." The match made in heaven was sealed.

Dave picked horses to watch for tracks all over the country. He worked with his mentor Howard Rowe, a racing journalist. Tom Ainslie contributed writing to the publications, a racing writer who wrote a near best-seller on handicapping, "Ainslie's Complete Guide to Thoroughbred Racing" and who was really the Richard Carter who wrote a biography of Jonas Salk, and who also won the 1951 George Polk Award for a series on organized crime's influence on the waterfront. Ainslie's guide became my Bible in 1968.

Dave was learning handicapping from the best. Howie Rowe emphasized knowing about trainers, and following their success and failures. Their win percentages. Dave was in charge of compiling trainer stats in the days before trainer stats became the feature they are now in past performances. And doing it before computer spreadsheet software.

Dave also absorbed a New Yorker's extreme prejudice against anything upstate. Specifically Saratoga.

Howie Rowe filled Dave's head with the tales of how all the prices went up in Saratoga when the racing season began in August. Prices were taped over on the breakfast menus and higher prices were called for. Hotel rooms went for more money, etc. The whole place was described as a tourist trap. 

I don't know if Howie Rowe ever went to Saratoga, went and then stopped going, but I know Dave wouldn't set foot in the place, even after myself and another buddy started going annually (and still do). He couldn't, wouldn't buy into the bucolic beauty of the place and see it as a vacation destination. It always drove me crazy.

Being a handicapper also means being a bettor. And there are all sorts of bettors. Dave had conquered half the equation. He was a great handicapper. He stunk at holding onto the money won.

I used to sit next to him at Wantagh OTB and watch him go up and collect seemingly whenever a race was official at any of the many tracks being shown on the TVs. He'd be watching the board and circling horses' names in the past performance booklet for any of three or four tracks. I always stuck to the NYRA track of the day. Local was enough  of a challenge for me.

Hit a $1 exacta for $70 at the Finger Lakes, then plow $40 into triples at Gulfstream. Oops, nothing. The only way Dave could go home with any significant jack was to hit he last races of his betting day and run out of betting opportunities to plow any money back through the window. Simulcasting was great. And was bad.

When the racing day was over and he came over for dinner my wife always asked how we did. Sometimes I got to tell her Dave made a few hundred. "How'd you do?" I didn't win a few hundred. I lost maybe $30." "I won $20." 

I was always naturally asked why didn't I just bet what Dave bet? "You are kidding, right." Only someone who doesn't bet would ask that. It would be impossible to mimic his bets when between the chair and the window his mind was still making selections. Twirling numbers and amounts around in his head like wash in a dryer.

Dave's boss Richie was of course equally smitten with betting on the races. Dave told me Richie told him that he kept a diary of every bet he made and the result. Richie was in the $200-$203 zone per race.

He had the means to pursue his interests, and eventually became a New York Breeder and owner of New York Breds. Eventually he was head of the association.

He had a sire Compliance who he bred to Broadway Joan, a mare he also owned as well. Compliance turned out to be a great turf sire. His best progeny was Fourstardave who was the first New York Bred to win over $1 million and who had a record over 100 starts of 21-18-16. He was a gelding and is buried at Clare Court at Saratoga. By the end of his career he had won $1.6 million, putting him up there in rare air.

Richie liked to name his horses after someone in the office. Fourstardave got his name because Richie

teased Dave that he wouldn't give out a four-star pick in the newsletter as the best bet. Richie always had the office gang at he track and there is a photo of Dave with the others after one of Dave's many victories.

The "Sultan of Saratoga" nickname evolved because Dave won at least one race a season at Saratoga for eight consecutive seasons, 1987-1994. He was a fan favorite. There were T-shirts and even a bobble horse giveaway. He was a star.

Richie's trainer Leo O'Brien had a meal ticket with Richie's horses. They once won the Yaddo with a horse named Junior Pitchunia at long odds that Richie had bred from Compliance, out of the mare he owned, Pitchoune. Richie cleaned up at the window as well as getting the purse. Those were fun times.

When the New York Racing Association remodeled the decrepit space called the Carousel under its grandstand and turned it into a sports bar with nice seating, food service and TVs at every angle, they ran a contest with the public for the name they would give it. When the votes were counted FOURSTARDAVE won convincingly.

For the past several years I have reserved seats in the clubhouse for a day, then the rest of the stay is reserved to be in the FOURSTARDAVE. The outside seats are narrow, uncomfortable and you're prone to being stuck in the middle of an aisle hemmed in by the upstaters who love to picnic at the track by dragging coolers to their seats. Going in and out of the aisle is a chore, stepping over their beverages and sandwiches.

And every year at Saratoga, except last year's Covid year, I would always shake my head that Dave would never come to Saratoga. Now he can't, for sure.

Turning 70 has presented health issues, to myself, and to Dave.  His overtook him before he could even turn 72. The unseen giant has removed all the days from a few people we know. A death is the age of permanence.

Usually when a racetracker like Dave passes away someone names a race after them. Not a permanently named race on the meet's calendar, but usually an allowance race on a given day named in honor of someone . These races are arranged by the track's hospitality department and generally involve a party of x number of patrons who have secured reservations in the dining room. Track management then accedes to naming a race after the honoree. The principals in the group get to have their picture taken in the winners' circle, or even present a minor trophy to the winning connections. It's all P.R.

A friend of mine knew the family of Harry Lazarus, a die-hard NYRA bettor. When he passed away there were T-shits handed out to the group party. My friend got me one. A few years after the inaugural race for Harry the Horse we were at the rack and I noticed a mid-card race named after Harry. It was perhaps the 8th iteration of the race. Obviously, the group was keeping up the tradition and getting a race named after Harry around his birthday. Nice to be remembered.

I probably talked to Dave nearly every day since he moved back into the area in 1996. Always about the events of the day and usually about race results. The phone would always ring immediately after a Derby or a major televised race.

This past Saturday I looked over at the phone that didn't ring when the prices went up for the exacta on the Southwest Stakes race at Oaklawn when the .90 favorite Essential Quality remained undefeated and stamped himself as the early favorite for the Derby. The second favorite, Jackie's Warrior, finished third, and is not likely to take on two-turn races in the future. 

But the second place horse, a Bob Baffert trainee, Spielberg finished second at 7-1. Spielberg was the third choice and certainly had to be considered in any exotics, and exactas. And what an exacta. Essential Quality paid $3.80 to win and Spielberg paid $5.00 to place.

A rough rule of thumb is that an exacta will be the product of the win and place price of the second place horse. Thus, a reasonable expectancy might be a $15 or so exacta for $2.

What came about because of the heavy action on Jackie's Warrior was an outlier price that yielded a $31.40 exacta for $2.  A windfall. We would have loved to talk about that. I miss that.

Dave is not going to command a circle of friends so large that hospitality will name a race after him. But there is absolutely no need. Even though ironically he never set foot inside Saratoga, there is already the Grade 1 turf race run at Saratoga every year named after Fourstardave—the horse of course.

But I knew the fellow the horse was named after.

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