313: “Are you back?” Yes, from every place I have ever been.
314:
Citi Field offers Nathan‘s hot dogs with free sauerkraut out in the open for anyone to take in any quantity, just like in the 60s at the second Nathan’s, in Oceanside on Long Island, run by Murray Handwerker (son of the original Nathan), who set up a stage in the back where you could see the likes of the Dillards for free as you ate your hot dog with unlimited sauerkraut. Yankee Stadium also offers Nathan’s hot dogs, but not sauerkraut.
315: Here’s your petard back. Now go hoist yourself.
316: My elementary school music teacher, Dr. Frisch, selects all but five fifth graders to be in the chorus. I am one of those left behind. Instead, I join the school newspaper, and play drums in the band (run by another teacher), marching in town parades. (I can still play “Cadence Number Two” with my fingers.) One day in music class Dr. Frisch overhears me say something snide about the chorus. “You think because you’re in the band you’re a musician. You’re not a musician—you’re a drummer. Drummers aren’t musicians. You’re a faker!” A couple of decades later, I return to my high school as Poet in Residence, warmly welcomed by former teachers. In the faculty room, I spot an old man in the corner dozing in an easy chair, his few tufts of hair like spent tumbleweed. Dr. Frisch. I slowly approach him, and he snorts awake, as another teacher says, “Alan Ziegler has returned to us. He’s famous!” I indulge in a few seconds picturing the young Vito Corleone being reacquainted with Don Ciccio. “Dr. Frisch, your chorus made me a writer!” I say. He smiles and nods his head. “Yes, yes, Alan…”
317 (from the untold history of baseball—Pitchers and Catchers): Herbert Steadmire, after noticing a large number of early-season arm strains, was the first team owner to see the wisdom of having pitchers come early to Spring Training. The following season, his team outpitched early opponents, but the pitchers suffered an inordinate number of leg strains. “We’d better also bring catchers next year,” he told his manager.
318: Lyrics on the cutting room floor:
You set me up just to knock me down
You could win a prize at the carnival.
You invite me home then you skip town
Never enough is always that’s all.
319: At Allard in Paris, after the lunch crowd has thinned out, Erin and I have two things in common with the old man under the painting: fine food on our plates and precious time on our hands.
We are luxuriating in our canard de Challans aux (beaucoup) olives when we notice the old man seems to have fallen asleep.
The serveurs leave him be. This is Paris. As we devour our profiteroles, the old man calls out, twice. A serveur approaches and the old man continues his chant, clearer: “Camembert! Camembert! Camembert!” The serveur bows and returns with a fine looking piece of cheese surrounded by grapes imbued with the seeds of life.
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