Friday, May 17, 2002

I am grateful to be back home here in OLE Virginny, where the peace and quiet are disturbed by the chatter of the various colored birds, as they establish their territorial rights that, to the fittest go the spoils. To see these creatures of the sky dart and dive into the lake behind my house for a repast to tide them over, is a salve to the torment that life plays for humans to act out. I sit out on my porch and dream of the past glories that CBS implanted in my memory bank for me to enjoy, whenever the Viagra wears off, and my mind is on productive thinking and not on history's edifices, such as Cleopatra's Needle, or the Washington Monument. The farms that we pass on the way home all possess those erect silos that once again remind me of physical times of the past when nature exceeded my wildest ideas.
The trips up north, for my wife and I, are becoming tiresome. But then, who told us to move to Virginia? We are nothing but misplaced Brooklyn, NYC gutter rats, of sorts.
We left the North with our 401K ensconced in our pockets, and in the trunk of our car was a case of 5U4's and of course 1B3's. We dreamily thought these might be the icons that would bring us wealth. But, like all stolen goods, the greed exceeded the expectations. My meteoric rise at CBS was the talk of the town. How did I achieve this notoriety? Guile and a prune Danish, I imagine? I did mesmerize Bob Hammer into thinking that my Jewish aunt, by marriage, had transported her genetic makeup into overriding my Italian macho image, thereby making me a goomba-goyim. That is how I became Kevin Slattery's 2nd assistant in the crib. Who was first, you ask... everyone else!
I thoroughly enjoyed working in the crib. We had the best boss in Greg O'Connor. He left everything to Kevin and me. We turned chaos into calamity. Our prime concern was being first on the line in Studio 41, home of "The World Turns", for our prune Danish and free coffee. If we weren't first, the Telecine crew would have wiped out the entire melange of cakes. The Studio crew very seldom managed to get any goodies. We made it up to them at Christmas time. You see, everyone needed batteries for the hearing aids for their grandmothers. Some guys had grandmothers that could light up The Bronx with all the batteries they needed. As I muse further down the dark corridors of my mind, I remember Mary Durante, coming to the rehearsal room next door to the crib. As she practiced her Flamenco dancing, her whirling skirts and dancer's tights were what must have been the idea for the need for Coumadin to slow down the heart rates of the gallery of admirers. She was indeed a pretty lady, and lots of fun for everyone. I must say, the maintenance men of CBS deserved a better design for their work coats. After all, these men were a special breed. They actually feel that they knew what all those little atoms were doing down in the bowels of the equipment. But the gray coats they wear look like they were students of a Mortuary school, and when some of them were hung over from a deleterious weekend, it looked as if they drank to much embalming fluid.
Well, they were never known for the sartorial splendor generally reserved for the operations people. They preferred to be looked on as scientists. They could do the Times crossword puzzle in ink, but never could get the time cards right. Down on the street level, were the construction geniuses. They could build anything that man could conjure. Except Ben Taussig. He was on loan from the George Lukas Studios. He was the original choice for Darth Vader. On the screen test, Lucas got frightened, and sold his contract to CBS. They recommended they keep him in leg chains. Ben turned out to be one of the union's best-kept secrets. He truly is a nice man. I don't think he ever kicked a kid, or a baby.

Well, I guess I have mused enough for tonight. I will take my milk and Num nums, and put on my silk negligee, and sleep with teddy tonight. The bear, (the lady Pauline), wants the bed to herself tonight. Oh well, I have my dreams of CBS and all the machinations that took place, for me to recall. It is like those Betty Boop books that we had as kids, if you flipped the pages very fast, you would see action. Do that to the schedule book at CBS, and you can see who got screwed that week also!
Pleasant dreams, Harold Deppe, don't let the scorpions bite you.
Tony C.