Author Archives: gordonglantz

Life Is A Carnival

By GORDON GLANTZ
Gordonglantz50@gmail.com
@Managing2Edit

GORDONVILLE – A week ago, prior to the devastating news about James “Tony Soprano” Gandolfini’s sudden death, I was prepared to deliver a bittersweet missive about an about-face on carnivals and the “carnies” who work at them.
Well … why not?
It is still a story worth telling, and that’s kind of what I do.
It was a few years ago that the song “Everybody Plays The Fool” by The Main Ingredient went from pleasant 1970s ditty to funeral dirge when, at the carnival hosted by the Lower Providence Fire Co., I was repeatedly fleeced at the booths.
I spent about $120 and came away with a tiny wolf stuffed animal – probably worth 50 cents at a dollar store – for my trial and tribulations of shooting basketballs at baskets smaller than the ball and tossing softballs at jars with holes not big enough to fit a marble.
When the wife suggested we take Sofia to another carnival — this one hosted by the Centre Square Fire Co. in our home hood in Whitpain Township – my initial reaction was that I’d rather sit through a zoning hearing or an episode of “America’s Next Top Model.”
But Sofia gave me that “Please Daddy” face, so off to the carnival we went – with expectations about as low as those we all hold for the Phillies to turn it around this season.
Much to my surprise, it was the complete antithesis of the mockery of a farce of a sham in Lower Providence.
As a matter of fact, the Centre Square Fire Co. should put out a “How-To” DVD on ways to not alienate families looking for innocent fun.
Not only did Sofia have a blast on the rides, the alleged “carnies” (who must have been born-again Christians or something) could not have been friendlier.
And at the booths, where the prizes are supposed to be won? They guaranteed prizes. Seemed dubious at first, but they weren’t kidding – or understating it.
We came home with more than our money’s worth in stuffed animals.
And, a goldfish Sofia named Marina (she scoffed at the names we suggested, taking great joy in mocking her Nana for suggesting “Goldie”).
We didn’t quite know what to do with Marina, as it was too late to acquire the proper creature comforts for it.
As it was, my wife put her in a vase while I managed to find two containers of fish food at CVS (sneaking in another affirmative blood pressure check while there).
We had some logistical concerns as well, as we have two cats to consider. The older cat, Hank, didn’t seem to care as much as the little one, Licorice, but that could have only been because he was not as hungry as that moment.
We decided the only safe place was the bathroom. Another dispute was over whether or not to cover the tank/vase. My wife said it would “jump out,” but I had never – in my whole childhood of winning goldfish – seen one jump for joy.
Nonetheless, you never win an argument with a woman, especially one who is also a lawyer, so I went along.
The next day, I hit a pet store. The woman there gave me a refresher course in Goldfish 101. She said that it if it lived past a month, it could live for years.
I was determined to make that happen, even though building a pond in the backyard – like her husband did – seemed a little out of my skill set (we Jews may have been “chosen” to do some things – like control the media and Hollywood – but being handy isn’t on the list).
Knowing Sofia’s sensitivity level, a short was going to lead to a long grieving period.

The carnival that lifted my spirits was on a Friday night. Sunday morning, the wife and I took showers in the bathroom where Marina was housed in her vase covered by a spaghetti strainer without much of a break in between.
When my wife checked on her a short time later, Marina had made her way upstream to Goldfish Heaven.
We broke the news to Sofia and got the expected, and heartbreaking, reaction.
The official inquest revealed that, indeed, the covering vase/bowl – and the combination of two hot showers – caused what seemed to be a happy and active goldfish to suffocate.
I’m more into mammals than fish, but it was still upsetting – mostly because of Sofia.
In her lifetime, which totals a little more than 6 years on the planet, she has lost three grandfathers (counting my stepfather in there, too) and two cats (Tyler and Donovan).
And while I could gloat to my wife that she was wrong about covering the vase/bowl, I am still responsible for letting Donovan slip outside one night. We were unable to find him until dawn, and he was dead of unknown causes by then.
They say a child doesn’t fully comprehend the brevity of death until they reach a certain age, but Sofia has always been ahead of the emotional curve.
When her Pop Pop died on her third birthday, she was told he was “with Jesus.” She asked if he was coming back and was bereaved when we told her it was not going to happen.
She fought through her grief for Marina by organizing a funeral, during which we buried her by a mermaid statue outside. We each said a silent prayer, during which she began to sob.
At that point, I sat her on my knee and said it was time for a discussion.
I promised we would get her a real fish tank with fish that live longer than goldfish and that we would always remember Marina, because she was her first fish (she even giggled when I said when would name this joint Marina Memorial Aquarium).
We also won’t forget the carnival that restored our faith in the American institution of cotton candy, bumper cars and guaranteed prizes.

Mom protests giving away goldfish as prizes at Ann Arbor carnival (faircarnivals.com)

In Memory Of The Sad Clown

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Wrote this immediately after the passing of the great James Gandolfini (Tony Soprano) a while back. At the time, I couldn’t bring myself to watch “The Sopranos” but I’ve come to realize that it wasn’t the best way to honor his memory.

By GORDON GLANTZ

Gordonglantz50@gmail.com

@Managing2Edit

GORDONVILLE — We all need our dreams, and one of mine was that “The Sopranos” would return one day, either to the big or small screen.

The dream ended this past week when the man who made Tony Soprano a household name, James Gandolfini, died at age 51 of a massive heart attack while vacationing with his son in Italy.

For all the times I have been touched, and touched deeply by his acting, I remain in stunned silence.

Not much in the way of tears, or overt sadness.

Not yet.

That might come when I watch the show again, which I, myself, have been unable to do.

Not yet.

Right now, I probably won’t make it through the opening credits.

Right now, I’m just trying to make it through one of the most difficult columns I’ve ever had to write.

It was much the same way when I lost close family members – my father (2008), father-in-law (2010) and stepfather (2011) — during these intervening years.

It took a while for the reality to set in.

And mock me if you will, I almost feel like I lost a member of my family in Gandolfini.

“The Sopranos” was in perpetual syndication in Gordonville.

It never got old.

Why?

Perhaps, I craved that sameness amid the many changes in my life – good and bad, sad and glad, personal and professional — since it first aired in 1999.

Perhaps, it just appealed to me as a fan of the mob genre. After all, the great movie of my generation is “The Godfather.”

Perhaps, it’s a mixture of all the above, along with the fact that I saw a lot of myself in Tony (sans actually whacking people). I have been known to have a short fuse, but I also have a big heart – exemplified by a love of four-legged creatures displayed by Tony — and expend a lot of needless energy worrying what other people think.

In addition to sharing paranoia bordering on unhealthy, we both held disdain for those who drift through life – and in between the raindrops without getting wet — as the “happy wanderer.”

When he described himself as “the sad clown,” I completely caught his drift.

The most amazing times were the first viewings of episodes, on Sunday nights, when I would be thinking exactly what Tony was thinking before he made his gestures of war and peace, and understood the indecision that followed his decisiveness.

Part of the immediate appeal of “The Sopranos” – when I first caught it during one of those free enticement weekends of HBO — was that the star, while captivating, was not a dashing leading man in the traditional sense.

It gave it brevity and levity.

And it shot to No.1 with a bullet in my heart, my soul and mind.

I soon took to wearing jogging suits and using the verbiage. It gave me a shield for my sensitivity.

In 2007, the same year my daughter was born, “The Sopranos” aired its final episode, with the screen suddenly fading to black while Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” was halted at “don’t stop.” I defended it publicly, but secretly found it a bitter pill to swallow.

Still, I had the body of work — like that of The Beatles, Shakespeare or “The Brady Bunch” – to rely on.

And, like fans of the Fab Four – up until the death of John Lennon — I held out hope for more.

My little lullaby: The final show’s ending could mean anything.

Maybe Tony didn’t die in that diner, even though the fade-to-black hint was foretold in a prior episode. Maybe Silvio (Van Zandt) will come out of his coma. Maybe Chase, the show’s visionary, won’t take himself so seriously and will create a new world around Tony and Carmela (brilliantly played by Edie Falco) by using top-shelf Italian-American actors that would be at his disposal for a feature film or HBO mini-series.

And maybe Gandolfini, who turned Tony into the character that stirred “da gravy,” would wake up one day and have an epiphany. Maybe he would realize that he was meant to play Tony, not second bananas in big-budget movies, and call Chase and get on the same page for a new chapter.

While it seemed less and less likely, “The Sopranos” never let me down.

The show became my beacon. Nothing before it, or since, will ever take its place.

Part of its brilliance is that it never gets old.

It has kept me grounded, and kept me thinking.

I don’t drink, gamble or smoke. I don’t even golf or play cards with the guys.

My outlet, when the house is dark and no one else is awake, is to watch “The Sopranos.”

The more I allegedly evolve – or at least change – the more I glean from watching it on a continual loop.

My holy trinity – if Jewish guys are allowed such things – consisted of Sofia, Springsteen and “The Sopranos.”

And Gandolfini is the main reason it achieves such lofty status.

A night or two before I learned of Gandolfini’s passing, I watched an episode on HBO Signature. It was the one where the inner-circle holds a drug intervention for Christopher Moltisanti (played to perfection by the unheralded Michael Imperioli).

Christopher lashes out at each person in the room, including Tony. He tells him that he is going to die of a heart attack “before 50” if he keeps eating the way he does.

Ironically, Gandolfini – in a rare interview – was quoted as saying it would be “kind of lame” if the show ended with Tony dying of a heart attack.

Instead, that’s how the dream ended.

As much as Hollywood thrives on remakes, the curtain has now fallen on “The Sopranos.” The greatest compliment to Gandolfini is that if they made a remake 50 years from now, it wouldn’t work. No one can replicate his masterful portrayal.

In that sense, he was a true original.

He takes that to his early grave.

I am not one of Gandolfini’s loved ones — a group that includes both family and his many professional associates — and I can’t pretend to imagine how they feel.

But I count myself among his legion of enduring admirers.

Together, in ways we can’t yet fully express – or shouldn’t have to explain to those who “don’t get it” – we mourn his loss.

And I mourn my lost dream.