Actor and comedian Harvey Korman has passed away at the age of 81. I loved watching him and the gang on the old Carol Burnett Show, where he was recognized with four Emmys and a Golden Globe, and he had a memorable role in the funniest (imho) Mel Brooks film ever, Blazing Saddles as Hedy, I mean Hedley Lamarr.

As much as he could make me laugh, some of his funniest performances were in skits with the great Tim Conway where he did everything he could to keep himself from laughing. When I heard the news while driving home tonight that he had passed away, one classic scene came immediately to mind.

Thanks, Harvey.

bookmark to:

Boy, that three-day weekend came just in time for me. I didn’t crack the laptop for anything work related the entire time and it was refreshing. That doesn’t mean that I didn’t work; I mowed the lawn, moved a high spot in my side yard to a low spot in my back yard, put up the awnings (with Tiger Lilly and Ben’s help) and put a tonneau cover on my truck, plus doing the laundry, which is my usual weekend gig anyway. On top of that I still found time for some other notable moments. Here are the highlights:

Bike Bubba. (me, not him in this instance). I bought a used 10-speed from someone at work earlier this year with the idea that I’d try to get some rides in for exercise. Since then when I’ve had the time to ride the weather hasn’t cooperated. Saturday afternoon, however, even though I’d already “exercised” in my yard I decided to set off for The Black Sheep on my bike when my wife said we were out of coffee. It’s a little more than a mile each way, I think, so it’s not exactly the Kessel run, but there’s a pretty significant hill between here and there, and it’s up-hill on the way back.

Of course, that means it’s down-hill on the way over, especially if I take Marie Ave. where the slope is particularly steep. I was cruising down the hill at a good clip when I saw a white Mustang pulling onto Marie from a side street. The driver was talking on a cell phone, looking the opposite direction from me (natch) and stuck the nose of his car three-feet into the intersection, right in front of me, still without looking. Not having a horn, I later told my girls I had to resort to speaking Japanese. They gave me puzzled looks, so I elaborated: “AH SO!”

Coming back with the coffee I decided to take Southview Blvd. because, while the slope is longer, it’s not quite as steep. It’s still not easy, though, especially since it gets much heavier traffic and you don’t want to be wavering a lot on your two wheels. I set myself a goal of getting to the top of hill without walking or even standing on the pedals, even if I had to go all the way down to first gear. 100 feet from the top I was wondering if I was going to make it but I kept my momentum and made it up and over, gliding through the stop sign on the other side when there wasn’t any traffic because I didn’t trust my legs to put them down. Then I had to climb a much smaller hill before rolling back onto my street and finally into my driveway and garage. I got off the bike, went in the kitchen and put the coffee on the counter and headed for the living room to sit down. I got as far as the entry hall before my legs went to jelly, but I managed to get to my recliner before losing control.

Surrender Dorothy. Sunday afternoon my wife and I played golf with some friends visiting from back east. We were playing at Oak Marsh in Oakdale, in the northeast quadrant of the metro area. It was a sunny afternoon, but as we finished the first hole the tornado siren went off. Our friends don’t have this phenomenon in Jersey, so that was a bit of a thrill for them. Since the weather still looked nice I called the pro shop on my cell and asked if the siren was for tornadoes or lightning in the area. He said there was a tornado watch but it was up to us if we wanted to keep playing. We did.

A little while later as we were walking toward the fourth hole we could see the sky darkening in front of us. The wind, however, was at our backs and the sky in that direction was clear and sunny so we figured that we were going to stay dry. The fifth and sixth holes run west to east and as we finished the fifth we saw a strange sight: the prevailing wind was still out of the south, where it was still sunny, but looking west we could see low, dark clouds coming out of the north, against the wind as if to flank us. Not good. We kept heading for the sixth tee, where we finally saw some lightning, just as the temperature dropped by about 20 degrees. The clubhouse was about 100 yards in front of us so we started briskly pushing our carts in that direction as the winds got stronger. We made it with about a minute to spare before the rain hit, and then it was all over about 10 minutes later and we were able to go back out and finish our round. Later, of course, we heard that there had been at least one tornado in Hugo, about 15 miles north of where we were and that there was at least one fatality.

So far I’ve played golf three times in Minnesota this year. The first time I got snowed on, the second time we froze and got rained on, and the third time we dodged a tornado. I don’t think our friends from Jersey are going to be relocating here anytime soon.

The Mall Diva’s animal magnetism. Monday we decided to drive down to Northfield for a picnic. It was a wise decision because the weather stayed cool and overcast here in the cities but we had sunshine in Northfield (which is actually south of here). We got into town and set up our lunch at a picnic table alongside the Cannon River, after Ben first drove off a surly gang of illegal aliens, i.e., a flock of Canada geese. As we were eating some of the geese became bolder and moved closer. I noticed that a breeze had come up, and so had the goose-bumps on the Mall Diva’s arms and neck. “No wonder the geese are coming over here,” I said. “They think you’re one of them!”

It was mentioned that the Diva was rather pale for that. “They want to worship the Albino Goose Goddess!” I said. Everyone thought that was amusing, so I said they could feel free to use that in one of their blogs. Nobody did, however, so I had to do it.

When brats attack. We came back from Northfield late in the afternoon to grill some odds and ends of meat from the freezer. This included some steak, a large chicken breast and several bratwurst. Tiger Lilly honed in on the steak, saying that brats were fat, greasy and gross. Her convictions could only have been deepened when Ben bit into his brat and a sudden jet of greasy fat shot out of the side of the brat and hit her in the cheek, leading to much commotion.

Yep, it was a great weekend.

Update:

Oh yeah, the Mall Diva asks how I could have forgotten to mention the flashy purple dress she tried on. We’ve even got pictures! Unfortunately, Ben was working the camera and his hands got so shaky when the Diva first came out of the dressing room that the first shot was all blurry. He calmed down enough to take the second photo.

bookmark to:

The Art of Manliness had a post last week in praise of the masculine sanctuary known as the barber shop. It struck a chord with me because of my own experiences, especially at one barber shop in particular.

Growing up, barber shops were something I went to with about as much enthusiasm as going to the dentist. In fact, if I could have gone to the barber shop as often as I went to the dentist (twice a year) I would have been happier. Nevertheless my mother would take me to get my haircut about once a month, dating back to the days when the barber would plop a booster seat in the big swivel chair and my mother would request a “Regular Boy”. I think she was referring to the style of haircut and not to me, specifically.

As I got older one of my aunts would often cut my hair in her beauty shop, though once I got to college my desired “twice-a-year-whether-I-need-it-or-not” schedule became more of a reality. Once into the corporate world I visited a succession of walk-in centers ala Cost Cutters or Fantastic Sam’s. Then in 1993 we bought a house over on St. Paul’s east side and I soon discovered a classic barber shop on Payne Avenue, just a couple of blocks from my house, called Parkway Barbers.

Walking in the first time I knew I was in a real-live, honest-to-goodness barber shop. It had the classic candy-striped rotating pole outside and four barber chairs inside. The barbers were a couple of older guys named George and Ted (who were in charge) and a couple of younger guys. Brick walls, sports magazines and Popular Mechanics defined the waiting area, with some chairs set along the wall in front of the barber chairs so people could sit and join in on the conversations taking place in the big chairs. The smell was a masculine concoction of leather, tonic, shaving soap, pomade and Clubman Pinaud as distinctive in its own way as walking blind-folded into a bakery. It was as comfortable as slipping into a favorite sweatshirt or old leather jacket.

I’d walk in on a Saturday morning, shortly after opening time and if the shop was busy (usually) I’d maybe get a cup of bitter coffee and flip through one of the magazines. More often I could just drop into whatever conversation was going on at the time. Most of the customers were guys my age or older, and it felt as if we knew each other, even if we didn’t. Some of the men were in there with young sons, introducing them to the Ways of Men. One time I was in Ted’s chair when hockey legend Herb Brooks came in and plopped down in one of the waiting chairs. “Hiya, Herbie,” Ted said. Turns out Herbie was another regular.

Most of the men who came in had “their” barber and would wait for him to be available if the shop was busy, but I’d generally take George or Ted, whoever had an open seat first. The thing is, nobody was ever in a hurry. It was a great place to hang out while knowing you were going to be able to check something off your schedule of weekend projects. Once you left the shop it was back to the “honey-do” list. It’s not that women weren’t welcome; I’m sure that any woman who came in there would have been treated very respectfully. It’s just that it was a place where men went to get their hair cut and there was no reason for a woman to poke her head in. Even after we moved out of the neighborhood I’d still drive back every month for my cut (no blow dry).

Both George (first chair by the door) and Ted (second chair) had an amazing ability to remember who you were and what you’d talked about the last time. Sometimes it almost seemed as if they’d pick up the conversation right were it left off in the previous visit, keeping track of kids, jobs and the golf or fishing trip you’d been planning. Some of those conversations inevitably turned to their retirement plans, to cutting down on the number of days in the shop, to moving to Arizona. Being men of their word, that’s what they ultimately did. I’m not sure what the transaction was but after they were gone the other two guys stayed on and I continued to stop in. Business may have been dropping off though, because one time when I went in they had converted the back half of the shop to a beauty parlor and a woman was operating a chair and a hair-washing station.

I went back a couple more times out of loyalty, and even had the woman cut my hair once, but it wasn’t the same anymore. The constant hum of the hair-dryers and the sound of the women trying to talk over them drowned out other conversation, even if you still really wanted to talk about putting a new front end into an ’89 Oldsmobile. The smell of the perming solution similarly overwhelmed the more understated, manly scents from before. You’d see one the regulars come in the door with a smile on his face and almost immediately go quiet, taking a chair to wait and fidgeting uncomfortably, perhaps taking a distracted flip through a magazine.

I’m sorry to say that it no longer seemed worth the drive for me to go back there to get my haircut. I found another barber shop closer to home. Still with some of the old-fashioned feel, though not quite as comfortable. I went there for a few years but never felt like I was part of a club. Eventually the time came around where my daughter started to cut my hair, and now when I get my haircut I just have to go downstairs. It’s comfortable all right, with all my stuff and favorite people around, but you know, somehow it’s just not the same. Maybe I need to buy some Clubman Pinaud.

bookmark to: