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heart beats

Posted by cgcopy on June 2, 2014 in it's life, music

It was a pretty good crowd for a Thursday — about 20,000 people tucked into the Hollywood Hills as evening turned to night, anticipating the appearance at the Hollywood Bowl of a man most of us there grew up with. An artist whose music is a running commentary on love and life, casual moments at an Italian restaurant and serious advice about a symbolic Vienna, sadness and euphoria, uptown girls and downtown jazz, the beaches of Long Island’s East End and the streets of New York’s east and west sides. Then Billy Joel took center stage, his fingers met the keyboard — and the music moved us all.

My friends know that Billy Joel is the one artist whom I would see in concert whenever, wherever, and however I could. From the first time I saw him at the old Boston Garden when I was in college (the days when The Stranger came out and he was climbing on the piano and swinging on the stage curtain); to his concerts with Elton John (incredible performances by four of the best hands on the piano); to the concert a few years ago where it was clear he was aging in looks (“Hi, I’m Billy’s dad”) but not talent; to this most recent appearance at the Bowl, where the music was sprinkled with songs only true fans would know, his demeanor seemed one of pure contentment, and he still managed to rock the stage in an encore that included throwing (and catching) the mike stand — his star stands alone in my mind.

This most recent concert was an epiphany of sorts for those of us of a certain age — an age we thought was light years away when we first heard Billy Joel’s music. As he launched into the opening harmonica riff of Piano Man, the audience responded as one. Cell phones were waved in unison (when did phones replace lighters?) and 20,000 voices joined in singing.

As awesome as that is, what happened next was truly something. Billy sang the lyric about the manager who “knows that’s its me they’ve been coming to see … to forget about life for a while.” And at that instant, all of us, as if in acknowledgment of the fact that we’re older, that life is tougher than we thought it would be, and that these moments of joy need to be fully lived and appreciated — all of us let out an audible sigh.

For all of Billy Joel’s extraordinary talents, that night, in that one venue under the stars, he gave thousands of middle-aged fans the one thing that we all truly needed and that not many are gifted enough to offer — a rare few moments of utter, heartfelt peace.

Encore.

© 2014 Claudia Grossman

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write? wrong.

Posted by cgcopy on May 14, 2014 in it's life

When you’ve spent your career as a copywriter – one who writes advertising – there are five small words you’ve come to despise:  “I’m not a writer, but …” Whether they are uttered by an account person (reaction: snarl), an art director (reaction: hmmm…) or a client (reaction: sure, I’d love to have your input followed by snarl), those words really mean, “Allow me to do your job for you.” And, on particularly rotten days, “What’s so hard about what you do? I can do that. See?”

On behalf of all of us who do this for a living, yes, we do see. We see that you’ve come up with a headline or a product name a couple of times in your career. We also see that we come up with these things on a daily, if not hourly, basis for years and years.

Imagine the “I’m not a (fill in the blank), but …” attitude toward other professions.

Said to a neurosurgeon: “It’s not like it’s brain surgery.” In fact, that’s exactly what it is.

Said to a lawyer: “I could do what you do. I love to argue.” Right. But do you know how to argue in a way that’s intelligent and based in law? (Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah is not a defense.)

Said to a working actor: “Oh, so you’re just doing commercials until you become an actor?” No, I’m doing commercials because I am an actor. Right now, to be polite, I’m acting like you’re not an idiot – see how convincing I can be?

Said to a professional athlete: “How about a little one on one? I used to toss the ball around in high school.” Seriously? I’m an NBA player sinking buckets to the tune of 15 million dollars a year and you’re an out-of-shape tough guy downing a bucket of fried chicken.

Of course, writing to sell a product or service is not like saving a life, arguing before the Supreme Court, winning an Oscar, or scoring a three-pointer at the buzzer to win game 7 of the NBA finals.

What it is, though, is a very sharply honed talent, an ability to find words that others cannot, an incredibly good ear, a sense of drama, and a sense of humor. It is its own kind of brilliance.

It’s being write-handed.

©2023 Claudia Grossman

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batter up

Posted by cgcopy on April 23, 2014 in it's life

pancake breakfastWhen it comes to planning the future, some people read fortune cookies. Some read horoscopes. I read menus. Breakfast menus, to be exact. It seems that whenever B. and I have had some kind of major life decision to make, we’ve figured it out over Sunday breakfasts out. To wit:

When we were still doing the cross-country-courtship thing and B. was visiting me in New York. Breakfast at the Carnegie Deli. On the menu: Are we ready for me to move out of NY and in with him in Santa Barbara? Survey says, “Yes.” Server says, “You want a side of hash browns with those pancakes?”

When we were living in Santa Barbara. Breakfast at a natural-foods restaurant (hey, it’s California). On the menu (aside from the not-even-in-the-same-category-as-real-pancakes whole-grain pancakes): Is there a compelling reason for us to get married? (Remember, my breakfast-buddy-for-life practiced law for a couple of decades). Answer: Seriously?

When we were planning our wedding. Breakfast at a bagel place on the coast. On the menu: Should we have a big wedding? Answer: Not so much. Let’s get married in a couple of weeks. Sort of like eloping to Las Vegas. Without the Las Vegas part.

When we were visiting LA. Breakfast at Art’s Deli, Studio City. On the menu: Should we move to LA for our careers? Two-part answer: a) this is the best corned beef and eggs I’ve ever had, and b) yes.

While we’ve been living in LA. Breakfast at a neighborhood spot. On the menu, over years of Sundays: Should we have kids? Nope, then we’d have to take them out to breakfast with us. (Only kidding. About the reason for not having kids, not about the not having them.) Should B. leave law to teach? Yes. Should I leave my employer to work for myself? Hell, yes. Should we buy a house? Nah. Should we keep our friends close and our dear friends even closer? Absolutely.

There’s nothing like breakfast out for unscrambling our thoughts, for toasting our future (cranberry juice for B., apple for me), and for taking a tall stack of problems and whittling them down, bite by bite.

See? You can have your pancakes and eat them too.

 

 

© 2014 Claudia Grossman

 

 

 

 

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petal pusher

Posted by cgcopy on April 10, 2014 in coloring outside the lines

seamlessly_flower_vector_background_278284I’m not a rose person. Yes, I think they’re pretty, but if you really want to grab my attention (and my heart), bring me a bunch of tulips (bright pink), peonies (bright pink) or chocolate (milk chocolate). Seriously, I’m not the kind of woman who wants her husband to send three dozen roses to her office so that everyone can look impressed. Instead, I love the “I saw these and thought of you” bouquets that B. has been known to bring home unexpectedly. And delightedly.

But if roses are the flower du jour then my choices are always those grown in someone’s garden. Garden roses have the most amazing fragrances that store-bought flowers just can’t duplicate. And homegrown roses actually manage to make it to full bloom looking gorgeous (sort of what I’m aiming for as I get older).

Which brings me to a mini romantic comedy that I witnessed recently in real life. While we are apartment people (once a New Yorker, always a New Yorker), our neighborhood is filled with lots of houses, many surrounded by an abundance of trees and flowers. One of these houses boasts hundreds of rose bushes around its perimeter with something like a gazillion white roses. We’re talking enough roses to carpet at least one Rose Bowl float. (Floats covered with hand-picked, hand-placed rose petals? Really? Does that sound like what nature intended to you? But I digress).

On this particular day, as we were walking by this Casa Rose-a-rama, a young Romeo on a bicycle pulled over and stopped beside the flowers. He took a small pen knife out of his backpack and quickly cut off three or four of the white roses, presumably for his Juliet. All of a sudden, the lady of the house appeared (I use the term “lady” quite loosely here). In one magical moment, this lovely, personal-trainer-honed, Beverly-Hills-stylist-blonded, Porsche-driving princess turned into a shrew with a major, major potty mouth (my sincere apologies to all potties out there). Shrieking at Romeo to “get off my #$%@%&I-ing property right now or I’ll call the #$%@%&I-ing police,” our genteel heroine actually took off one of her Louboutin pumps and threw it at him. (You know, she had a pretty good arm.)

And our hero? In the best tradition of Robin Hood, Zorro, and Cary Grant, he blew a kiss to her as he took off down the street, true love winning the day, his bicycle speeding away before she could vent even more anger at now having only a mere gazillion-minus-four roses.

Way to go, Romeo. Petal to the metal.

 

© 2014 Claudia Grossman

 

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meatball heroes

Posted by cgcopy on March 26, 2014 in coloring outside the lines

Meatballs make me smile. Maybe it’s that song we learned as kids — “On top of spaghetti, all covered with cheese, I lost my poor meatball when somebody sneezed.” Or perhaps it’s that southern Italian cooking that anyone who grew up in New York knows. (You could throw a dart in New York City and it would hit a place that sells a great meatball hero, vs. in LA, where you could throw a dart and hit a place that sells a great meatless something-or-other.)

In my mind, there are two classic tributes to said meatball, both of which are TV commercials and both of which star a humble hero (in addition to the meatball, that is). The first, known as “That’s a  Spicy Meatball,” was for Alka-Seltzer (see it here). It was made in 1969 and raised the modest meatball to cult status. You’ve got to hand it to the actor in this commercial-within-a-commercial, doing heroic multiple takes of eating spaghetti and meatballs. And that oven door at the end? Priceless.

The second commercial, also from 1969, is for Prince Spaghetti (see it here). The commercial is set on a Wednesday evening, as Anthony’s mother calls him home for dinner by shouting from an open apartment window in Boston’s North End neighborhood, “Anthon-eee! Anthon-eee!” Our hero Anthony comes running breathlessly home just in time for his plate of Prince Spaghetti and, one imagines, meatballs. As a result of this ad, any kid growing up on the East Coast in those days could tell you, “Wednesday is Prince Spaghetti day.” And Anthony’s smile at the very end could tell you all about the joy of being a kid and playing outside until the very last minute.

So here’s to meatballs (spicy or not). To heroes (young or not). And, of course, to meatball heroes (extra sauce or not).

Mangia.

©2014 and 2021 Claudia Grossman

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grading on a curve

Posted by cgcopy on March 18, 2014 in coloring outside the lines, finding the good

I’ve always had a thing for men who teach. I don’t know what it is. Must be the intelligence, the power to make me think, the desire on my part to show that I understand. But before you go all “whoa” on me (hey, I’m talking about drawing hearts during class, not drawing leers during office hours!), I’m talking about an innocent crush. Or two. Or three. Think of the co-ed in the front row in Dr. Indiana Jones’s class who writes “I love you” on her eyelids — except without the eyelids part.

Where should I start? Okay, how about with one of my college English professors. Not that much older than me, totally adorable, and so smart. No one could discuss Hart Crane’s poetry like he could (or make me care about Hart Crane to begin with). The fact that he thought my papers were excellent (both my analysis and my writing) was enough to convince me that we were MTB (meant to be). So, on “Ask a Professor to Lunch Day,” I did. He accepted, I threw up before lunch from nerves, and the conversation was, shall we say, less than brilliant on my part.

Finally, when senior year ended (and I had gotten an A in his class and he was no longer my professor), I asked him out. He turned me down so nicely that I couldn’t even feel bad about it. Like I said, a good guy. Funny thing is, years later, I discovered at least one reason why he wasn’t interested — the man was gay. Now I could feel bad (in a dumb kind of way).

Okay, next. My Russian Lit professor, also senior year. Now this man had student groupies — girls who thought he was so good-looking, so charming, and so sexy that they signed up for his course just to stare at him for 90 minutes a couple of times a week and to go up to him after class with “questions.” Not me. I took his class for the content (or so I thought). For the chance to read Crime & Punishment, Brothers Karamazov, War & Peace, and Anna Karenina. The reading was tough (about a gazillion pages worth) but his classes were amazing. I was smitten. He was one of those teachers who really made the material come alive — and the fact that he was so attractive (did I mention he had a beard? I love beards) made my heart go pit-a-pat. But nyet, the man was married, so I (and the rest of the babushka-ettes) could only admire him from a few rows back.

And lastly, professor number three. Also tremendously smart. And funny. An excellent writer. A terrific explainer and storyteller. Someone who, once you get him started talking about the Constitution, can light up the room with his love and knowledge of the subject. Incredibly nice. Very attractive (if you like the New York intellectual type). And the man can rock a beard. While I’ve never taken a class with him, I have learned so, so much in his presence. Like why marrying him was one of the smartest things this smart girl has ever done.

And, finally, I can say it — I get to sleep with the professor. Class dismissed.

© 2014 Claudia Grossman

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what’s up, doc?

Posted by cgcopy on March 7, 2014 in it's life

Drdevil2If feeling under the weather is a euphemism for feeling just plain crappy, then I’ve spent the last few days feeling sleety. With little to no chance of sun. Just a winter cold with all the inherent symptoms — but enough to make even thinking a huge ordeal. As someone who doesn’t take well to taking it easy, I have to say that this cold has forced me into submission. And into dosing myself with mindless TV.

Much to my dismay, I’ve found that daytime TV offers an unrelenting downpour of so-called reality shows, with a marathon of at least one each day (translation: 47 episodes back to back to back to … you get the picture). My viewing has been fickle (between Lifetime, Bravo,  and E! mostly) — anything that might distract me from actually giving in to feeling awful. What I discovered is that the only thing worse than choosing to watch this mind-numbing stuff is watching it because you feel like you have no choice (I’m telling you, even using the remote was too much effort).

From a loudmouthed matchmaker for millionaires, to a house flipper with a major ego, to a bunch of preachers’ daughters whose favorite accessory is an up-to-there mini skirt versus a hell-and-brimstone Bible belt, to real housewives from no place I want to live — these are the people I let into my home to pass the time between doses of Robitussin.

Did it help? Yes, in the way that dropping a brick on your foot can help you forget, briefly, the pain in your ear. Or the way that hearing a friend’s real heartache can make you realize how small your hangnail really is. Or the way that seeing the brutal winter snowstorms on the news can make you see how complaining about a single rainy day in LA is not ok.

Sometimes, to quote Dr. Timothy Leary (don’t even think about asking me who he is — look it up), you just need to “turn on, tune in, and drop out.” Hey, doctor’s orders.

© 2014 Claudia Grossman

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bowl-a-rama

Posted by cgcopy on February 26, 2014 in it's life

farmerandwifeIf you’re of a certain age and grew up in a certain time and place (let’s say 1960s suburbia), there’s a good chance that your mom’s kitchen included Pyrex mixing bowls of a certain pattern. In our house, it was the turquoise and white bowls of graduated sizes featuring a farmer-and-his-wife design (little-girl me always thought that this was the farmer in the dell and his lovely wife, Clementine — hey, are you really going to correct a little kid for mixing up nursery rhymes on mixing bowls?).

Two of the bowls were turquoise with the design in white; the other pair were the reverse. At any rate, these bowls serve as a memory of growing up at that time. From birthday cakes to Thanksgiving stuffing; from the tumult of the 1960s to the terrible outfits, hair and yearbook photos of the 1970s; from playing Barbies to packing up for college — all those snapshots come flashing back when I see those bowls.

No, not the original ones I grew up with. Those have long since disappeared with the passage of time, of people, of possessions (of avocado-green refrigerators and harvest-gold toasters). In one of life’s lovely little coincidences, it turns out that B. (growing up a mere ten minutes from me in yet another Pyrex-bowl household — who knew?) happened to be the recipient of such a set of bowls as leftovers from a shared college apartment. And, because they’re nearly indestructible, two of those bowls stayed with him from college to law school to real world, from city to city to, finally, our kitchen.

I use them all the time — they’re my go-to, no-tech basics in a kitchen with more than one higher-tech option. If you didn’t know it, you wouldn’t recognize them as the farmer-and-his-wife bowls because the turquoise design is all but gone from the white background — there’s just a hint of it here and there (the remains of a cornstalk, perhaps?).

But you know what they say — it’s what’s inside that counts. Hi-ho the merry-o.

© 2014 Claudia Grossman

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stand-up guys

Posted by cgcopy on February 17, 2014 in coloring outside the lines

UnknownYou know what’s funny? No, I mean it — do you know what’s funny? We’ve all got our own laugh barometers and mine is usually set at “smart” — not me (although I am) — the person creating the laughter. Let’s face it. Smart guys make the best comedy (smart women, too, obviously, although today I’m talking men). Some of my favorites:

The Political Guys

We’re talking Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert and, of course, Mort Sahl — the man who started the politics-as-a-laughing-matter genre (although sometimes politics is so pathetic it’s really no laughing matter). Brilliant, stiletto-sharp, and so, so funny.

The Life Observers

Jerry Seinfeld heads up this list. When you realize just how smart and timing-savvy one needs to be to create what to the naked eye appears to be a show about, well, nothing, you see how difficult that is. Although to someone like Seinfeld, the brilliance lies in making that challenge look so easy. And in making us  laugh so hard. Jerry Seinfeld doing stand-up in person? Even smarter, edgier, funnier. Other notable entries on this list include Robert Klein, Billy Crystal, Paul Reiser, Alan King.

The Storyteller

When it comes to capturing the humor of the human condition — with a dose of New York’s Upper East or Upper West Side Jewish culture — Woody Allen writes the sharpest, smartest, funniest stories and dialogue. Annie Hall, Radio Days, Hannah and Her Sisters, Midnight in Paris — all amazing examples of one of the most dazzling comic minds ever. And if you’ve never heard Woody do stand-up, check out this 1960s clip of him telling his story of The Moose. It’s one of the funniest bits I’ve ever heard.

The “Stop, Stop, You’re Killing Me!” Characters

Mel Brooks, Carl Reiner, the late-but-so-great Sid Caesar, Robin Williams. These are the comics who are so relentlessly funny that they take my breath away. Literally. I laugh so hard watching them that I can’t breathe. Or speak. Their comedy is flawless, side-splitting, hilarious — and brilliantly conceived and delivered. Check out Mel Brooks as Uncle Phil in this episode of Mad About You. And don’t say I didn’t warn you.

The Geniuses

Finally, the Marx Brothers. Inspiration for so many of the funny guys described above. Watch this classic scene from A Night at the Opera with an eye toward just how much genius went into the choreography, the writing, the timing. And while Groucho’s non-stop patter delivers non-stop laughter, don’t underestimate the comic brilliance of Harpo.

Not a dumb blonde. Not at all. Honk, honk.

© 2014 Claudia Grossman

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i tink i can

Posted by cgcopy on February 6, 2014 in searching for myself ... or for some chocolate

20140206_080433My muse, my inspiration, my touchstone for getting through life is  — wait for it — Tinkerbell. She’s smart, she’s sassy, she’s fearless. She’s got the blonde-hair-green-eyes thing going on (me too). Wherever she goes, glittering pixie dust follows (seriously, how cool is that?). But mostly, I love Tink because she believes in believing.

Millions of kids grew up watching some version of Peter Pan (I saw the TV special starring Mary Martin numerous times) and being implored to “clap if you believe in fairies” so that Tinkerbell might live. I nearly clapped my little hands off for Tink and guess what — she made it. Her tiny fairy light, which had almost stuttered out, began to grow, glimmer, and gleam. “Tink lives!” I thought. She made a believer out of me.

Of course, I know that life isn’t so simple as to think that just believing will make something happen. But I also know that not believing will almost certainly not make it happen. What Tinkerbell inspires in me is the desire to put myself out there, to imagine without limits, and to believe in myself (even on those days when my light is less than brilliant).

Shine on, Tink. Applause, applause.

© 2014 Claudia Grossman

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