Wednesday, October 8, 2014

Ordinary People

The nervous little man with the curly hair leaned over to urge his young daughter toward the movie theater door. He looked familiar, like an uncle out of context or an old school chum from high school, aged almost beyond recognition. When I realized who it was, the smile on my face probably telegraphed a warning to him that I might say something to interrupt his clearly cherished daddy-daughter time. He smiled reluctantly, desperately, as if to plead, “Please, not now. We’re good, right?” And then Billy Crystal continued toward the theater doors on a night out in Westwood Village in California, ushering his little girl ahead of him.
 
Life in Brentwood was surreal at best. Movie star sightings were less frequent than one might expect, but they were invariably a jolting reminder that our culture rewards an elite few with riches and status the rest of us can hardly imagine. These ordinary people experience a lopsided familiarity with millions of television viewers who sometimes expect the relationship to be reciprocal.

It seemed wherever we went in our adopted neighborhood in 1986, the quest for stardom was tangible, either in conversation with new friends who landed a part in a daytime soap, or as evidenced by 8x10 glossies hanging just about everywhere. Even our apartment manager’s office was lined with photos of her handsome, bald, aspiring actor husband. Perhaps he thought that the world needed another Yul Brynner. Unfortunately for him, Telly Savalas and Patrick Stewart came along with the same idea. Who loves ya, baby?

An essence of star-seeking scrutiny hung in the air like a bad stench. Seated near a window at a restaurant in Santa Monica, I recall being repeatedly stared at by passersby on the sidewalk outside. Maybe I was “somebody.” It was unnerving, and as a Midwesterner unused to this Californian curiosity, I found it completely annoying.  I instantly
assumed there was dressing on my face, splashed by a frazzled Meredith Baxter-Birney, who cut in line ahead of me at the salad bar with barely an “Excuse Me” as she returned to scoop up a forgotten item for one of her twins.

The phenomenon struck closer to home as well, only a half block from our back door. We found we could walk to Baskin-Robbins if we ducked behind the parking structure that shielded us from Barrington Court. We passed this routinely on our evening walks past the house where O.J. Simpson later went on a murderous rampage. Just your usual neighborly goings-on, California style.

The consistently gorgeous weather sustained a constant craving for ice cream during the endless summer of 1986. A short line led almost to the door of the 31 Flavors. Near the tubs of ice cream stood a very tanned man with a little square head. I could almost imagine him saying, “…sometimes I just go berserk!” while his cup of rocky road was scooped from the freezer case. Tom Laughlin had put on some weight since his success in 1971 with Billy Jack.


The early days of the frozen yogurt craze attracted a more health conscious crowd.  We were no different, and the perpetually nice weather resulted in a more active lifestyle, but no less desire for sweet treats. We sat curbside in our car one evening enjoying a cup of TCBY’s finest when a guttural-voiced fellow sauntered by.

“Who does this guy think he is, Arnold Schwarzenegger?” I commented, barely looking up from my Dutch chocolate. It was. The Terminator passed by without incident, though if we had it to do over again, I would have shouted, “I’ll be back” as we drove away. I bet he never heard that. The thing is, we left and we never went back. Southern California was too much for our Midwestern sensibilities. Money makes you stupid. Fame drives you crazy. Los Angeles has lots of both.




Monday, August 4, 2014

Physical

I wasn’t always the impressive specimen I am today. It took work. During my senior year of high school at Maine South in Park Ridge our gym class had a six-week weight-training module that most of us hated. We wasted time around the free weights and Nautilus machines and dreamed of nice weather and flag football.

The final exam for our weightlifting segment was straightforward. Demonstrate improvement against a pre-test in your ability to lift various amounts at half a dozen stations. These were basic lifts like curls, bench press, military press and deadlift. I flunked.

I went home that day and bought a 220 pound weight set from a neighbor. I then set about building a weight bench out of plywood and two by fours. Thinking back on the weights I rested on that un-engineered little piece of furniture makes me shiver. I’m fortunate that by the time I outgrew it and bought a real bench I hadn’t crushed my trachea under a pile of splinters and steel. It was all very “Pumping Iron” stuff in the basement, listening to Jethro Tull and ELO while I worked out – alone.

Within six weeks I had shown remarkable improvement. The human body at age 17 is hungry for growth. Building muscle and strength is easy when you have a metabolism, motivating humiliation and all the time in the world. At school I caught my gym teacher during a free moment when he wasn’t yelling at someone.

“Mister Boyle, I’ve been working out at home and was wondering if I could take the weightlifting test over?”

“That’s over,” is all he said, and turned away.

It was a testament to his inadequacy as a teacher. A missed mentoring moment, a chance to make a real difference in a student’s future. All lost. I was demoralized, but in a strange way, it convinced me that redemption was to be my own, and to continue on a path to fitness was my only option. Boyle may have wandered off to molest a cheerleader or teach Driver’s Ed, I’ll never know. But I went home and worked out harder than ever.

College is a pivotal time when many kids get really excited about fitness, or completely fall away from it. I joined the Chicago Health Club, later to be acquired by Bally’s Fitness, and have worked out at health clubs ever since. Thus it came to pass that I was on an abdominal crunch machine at the Kennedy-Cumberland Bally’s one afternoon in the early 80s. Those were the days of legwarmers and headbands. Big hair and big arms. Olivia Newton John was “Getting Physical.” Jane Fonda, Body by Jake, Denise Austin, Chuck Norris and yes, Richard Simmons were all strutting their stuff and getting rich on the new fitness craze. Baby Boomers were aging and didn't like what they were seeing.

The equipment used to blast abs and thighs was all over the map. Total Gym, Nordic Track, Bowflex, Nautilus and of course Susanne Somers and her thigh master. Arnold Schwarzenegger hit it big in 1982 as Conan the Barbarian. Hulk Hogan was popular among WWF fans at the time. Major wrestling events were held at the nearby Rosemont Horizon stadium, a new venue for that spectacle.

But back to the club and my abs. I sat in a black vinyl chair that stabilized my back and restrained my ankles with black vinyl rollers. I was very comfy. A stack of black weights to my right was adjusted with an inserted shiny metal pin. I selected about five little steel plates that may have totaled 50 pounds. I grabbed the two black straps over my shoulders to further secure me in place, then bent forward to isolate my stomach muscles. This brought my shoulders down and my knees up, supposedly by virtue of my abdominals. Crunch and continue for three sets of 10 to 12 reps.

I soon noticed that on an identical machine two stations to my right another gym warrior was mid-set, in stride with my motion, but precisely opposing my cycle, so that when my head went forward, his went back. Of particular note, the entire stack of weights on his machine was moving up and down, slamming with a gladiator clang at the bottom of the stroke, then straining under the tension of the pulleys and cables as some unimaginably strong abdominals commanded them to do their bidding.

We proceeded like this for several sets. The upper part of the Nautilus device shielded my neighbor from my prying glance. That was where they displayed illustrated instructions that showed me exactly where my muscles were being developed, and the proper steps for achieving safe and effective results. A little further down the aisle, two big-haired Newton Johns were loitering and giggling quietly, watching the other guy get out of the machine just when I did.

Now, I am not a small person at six foot one. But as I unfolded myself into a standing position the giant at the other machine continued to rise until I stared at the shoulder of his bright yellow muscle shirt. His bandana-clad head was a full head higher than mine, and the rest of him occupied a proportional, outrageously muscled six foot seven inch frame. Hulk Hogan looked big on TV, but standing next to him was absolutely intimidating. He smiled at the girls, who followed him and tried to start a conversation while he lumbered like a brontosaurus into the free weight section. I headed the opposite direction to the juice bar for a protein shake and drank my feelings. As I raised the plastic cup to my mouth I surreptitiously glanced down at my bicep and flexed just a little bit, then drank some more.





Wednesday, July 2, 2014

To InfiniTEA and Beyond!

I was not quite one year old when Disneyland opened in Anaheim, California in July of 1955. I was twelve by the time my family could afford to go there, the only vacation that ever took us farther than the Wisconsin Dells.

In the 1960s we watched Walt Disney’s The Wonderful World of Color on our black and white TV. Thinking back, I guess I filled in a lot of the colors with my imagination, or did so in hindsight after I saw the real thing. But Disneyland was heavily promoted on that show. Its construction was overseen by Walt Disney himself and was a hoped-for destination for most young baby boomers. Going there was a dream come true.

 

Disneyland was a day trip, lacking the on-property accommodations of the Buena Vista property that opened in Florida in 1971. So I drew heavily on memories many years later when my daughter Melissa was at the perfect age to take a trip to Orlando.

 

Entering the Magic Kingdom at Disney World gave me goose bumps, like visiting the home where you grew up after a thirty-year absence. It was familiar, but larger, newer and lacking the middle-of-Anaheim feel of the original. So, to say that our daughter ran us ragged is putting it mildly. We had a finite amount of time to see every corner of the park, from Frontierland to Liberty Square, and she wanted to see it all.

 

But it was in Fantasyland that she had the ride of her life.

 

We watched from a distance once we’d begun to experience motion sickness from previous rides, so she had to go it alone, and did so eagerly. But the list of un-ridden attractions was growing lean by late afternoon.

 

“What’s that one?” she asked running toward the Mad Hatter’s Teacup Ride. 

 

The line was short, perhaps because it was intended for smaller children, or maybe because it looked too tame. But it easily accommodated adults who needed to ride with kids.

 

Melissa waited for the swirling multi-colored platform to come to a stop and for riders to exit on the far side, leaving the teacup doors open behind them. She scampered to an empty cup and watched all the other vessels fill with parents and children, or small groups of older kids. She was alone and looked longingly at us, willing us to join her and make the ride worthwhile. After all, each cup had a central wheel that riders gripped and turned to spin the cup. The more riders, the better the ride. Being alone pretty much guaranteed an unexciting time, if she had the strength to turn the cup at all. 

 

We looked at each other and mumbled a few words, evaluating our queasiness. We were still a pale shade of green. As we talked, one more rider passed through the gate. He may have noticed our daughter’s plight and decided to do her a favor. He was a mountain of a man, a refrigerator with legs. He had a crew cut on his round head and looked to be about Hulk Hogan’s size, undoubtedly a professional wrestler. His t-shirt bulged with gym-fueled bulk, and his neck was pretty much hidden between his shoulders and jaw. He grinned ear-to-ear as he entered the cup, closed the door and was seated across from the comparatively tiny other rider.

 

He didn’t appear to say a word before the door was latched shut and the rotating platform began to move. Melissa gripped the central wheel and strained against the weight of the cup, the man and her. She was barely able to rotate it by more than a foot or so before releasing her grip and attempting again. By that time their motion had stopped. She looked across at him as if she’d failed. He allowed only a moment to lapse before smiling and grabbing the other side of the wheel. His arms bulged as he squeezed the metal ring and began to turn it like a man possessed, steering hand over hand to maximize control and momentum. No ship captain avoiding an iceberg has ever spun a wheel with more intensity or purpose. 

 

Melissa attempted to keep up with the motion of his Popeye-like forearms, matching his hands in a coordinated dance around the wheel, but failed almost immediately. Instead, she was thrown back into her seat by centrifugal force, plastered like pasta against the wall. He laughed like a madman now, getting an immense thrill out of the entertainment he was providing and from the ride itself. They were masters of the Mad Tea Party, spinning seemingly out of control. She saw only glimpses of us, laughing as she passed us at the periphery of the platform, rushing briefly past her dizzy gaze, a snapshot in time with each revolution. Any concern we might have had dissolved instantly as her obvious joy became apparent. 

 

Spinning faster now, the big man mastered a rhythm that allowed him to accelerate the cup further, throwing his head back on his thick neck and bellowing in a joyful outburst that caused people passing by to stop and watch. They spun and spun and spun some more. Melissa was helplessly held against the side of the yellow cup, her shoulders pressed against the hard shell, her hair streaming behind. The obvious elation she felt in the dizzying spin was the stuff of childhood, the loss of control and lightness of being we leave behind as we age. She had the advantage of youthful resilience, her insides still tight within her young body, but with arms that felt like concrete. Lifting them was impossible, so she just sat and laughed, and laughed some more. And then the ride began to slow.

 

Soon it was over. The man let out a sigh and mopped his brow with the back of his bear-like hand. Melissa thanked him, still giggling, and then left the cup, dizzy and barely able to stand. The cute little teacups silently awaited their next victims, colorful and motionless. Meanwhile, the line for the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party was noticeably longer as we headed off to Space Mountain, and the big man disappeared into the crowd.


Monday, June 30, 2014

The Dolphin Is Also A Fish

They called him Flipper. In the history of network programming, no weekly half-hour television show has done more, with the possible exception of "Lassie," to bolster the reputation of an animal in the eyes of human viewers. The weekly frolicking of Bud, Sandy and their pet dolphin during the 1960's left an endearing legacy the effects of which are still emerging. The trend in "hands-on" dolphin encounters at megabuck resorts in Hawaii and the Bahamas is a testament to the lasting power of an image created almost fifty years ago.
 
In February of 1984 no such hotel-sponsored experiences were available. My fascination with dolphins, however, led me to the Kewalo Basin Marine Mammal Laboratory in Waikiki as a participant in Project Earthwatch (www.earthwatch.org).  Teaching Dolphins Language was enticingly presented in a catalogue as one of hundreds of ongoing scientific research projects being carried out worldwide. The Earthwatch concept of financially contributing volunteers involved in tax-deductible working vacations was the backbone of many of these expeditions.  For me, it was a cheap way to see Hawaii for a month while indulging myself in a Flipper Fantasy.

* * * * *

         Kewalo Basin Marine Mammal Lab

         "If you've come here in search of Flipper you're going to be severely enlightened."

I had. I was. And in my opinion, Lab Director Louis Herman could have waited a few days to burst our collective bubble.  He continued...

         "The dolphins we are teaching are wild animals captured for scientific purposes, nothing like those you'll find at Sea World, which were raised in captivity."

Flipper was wild, I thought to myself.

         "And for those of you who are concerned about restaurants with "dolphin" on their menus.....don't be.  That dolphin is a species of fish unrelated to the mammals we'll be studying. In Florida the Bottlenose Dolphin is called a Porpoise. The two names can be used interchangeably."

He went on with his opening remarks warning of the dangers involved with wild animal research of this kind. Being intensely social creatures, Phoenix and Akeakamai, our two "girls" as they were known, required hours and hours of tankside play. That was part of our job. The remainder of the day would be spent tossing various objects into the tanks where the dolphins were kept waiting for visual and auditory cues such as "Take Ball to Basket," while notes were taken, objects retrieved and dolphins praised and hugged for a proper response.

That would be the order of operations for the coming weeks:
         command, respond, reward
         command, respond, reward
The dolphins knew it well and came to expect it of us. How well they knew it would be revealed to me later in a private training session. What happened that day was not recounted until now, perhaps to the detriment of those running the decades-long project.

Like any job, the routine became boring and repetitive. And there were distractions. The views of Diamondhead, daily rainbows over the hills, and the fragrances of flowers, native cooking and suntan lotion filled the air.

Myths were constantly de-bunked. For instance, it was pointed out that the only reports of sailors being led to shore by dolphins came from those who survived the experience. Those who were led in the opposite direction obviously gave no account of their misfortune. Dolphins love to push objects through the water. And being the equivalent of approximately an 800-pound muscle, can do so with considerable force and ease.

On his experience with such an in-tank encounter, one young lab assistant related:
         "...it was radical...worse than any body-slam I've ever gotten playing football."

In-tank encounters were thus forbidden. Nor was safety out of the water a given. An irritable dolphin could signal for a "hug" at one moment, tire of the experience without notice and attempt to bat your head away like a tennis ball off a racket a moment later. And it seemed their irritability was the norm rather than the exception. They were wild dolphins.

It took the better part of two weeks for our lilly-white winter complexions to tan evenly. Defending against intense exposure to tropical sun with varying levels of sunblock produced a patchwork quilt effect on tanning shoulders and arms. A spot left untreated was scorched.  Pale handprints were not uncommon. Thirty minutes of exposure was dangerous. We were outside eight hours a day. I have never been, nor will I ever again be, as tan as I was by March of 1984.

By the third week on the project some special changes took place. The "girls" began to recognize us. This behavior was unstudied and undocumented.  It wasn't charted, recorded, or data-fied.  But it made the project worthwhile.

Previously oblivious to us as we wandered around the outdoor lab in the morning, we would be greeted tankside by a bobbing pair of noses, playfully splashing and chirping (you know that Flipper sound…) to get our attention, rising out of the water in the "hug me" position.  It was heartwarming, and very much like the tail-wagging dog/master feeling I'd known before.

Tank-side visits were off limits to humans after hours, by dolphin decree. They were extremely territorial animals, capable of splashing an unwelcome loiterer to a point just short of drowning. “Get away” was the clear message.

One memorable evening I sauntered over to the tank, hot and uncomfortable, looking to be splashed. The girls were docile, slowly swimming at the surface of the water in clockwise circles around the edge of the pool while I stood watching. The moon was full and the air was calm.  The only sounds were those of the gently lapping tiny waves created by the motion of the dolphins through the water, and the rising and falling of the surf in the nearby ocean. In a bold move I leaned over the edge of the concrete tank, dangling my hands in the water within reach of the two swimmers.  

As each approached I held my breath, expecting a deserved and inevitable splash. Two or three laps later, Phoenix and Ake (Ah-Kay) were still calmly swimming past my immersed hands, now rolling a quarter turn to gaze upward at my face and then swim on. A progressively more intimate relationship developed over the course of a half hour that evening. Phoenix initiated the behaviors and Ake followed suit. Their quarter turn roll became gradually more pronounced and the pace slowed as Phoenix extended her left flipper above the water's surface, first in a salute and on subsequent passes, in a sort of handshake, a touch.  

Several curious Earthwatchers silently joined me. All extended their hands toward the dolphins, touching, stroking and caressing the extended fins - firm, rubbery and wet. We watched each other, and as I gazed into their oh-so-human eyes, they seemed so much like my own that they appeared misplaced in this fishy form. I gradually became aware of the link that was broken somewhere in the ancient familial path that sent us on our separate evolutionary ways. Myths spawned by the old Samoans of reincarnated warriors in dolphin form became obvious manifestations of this kind of observation.

Soon the girls resumed their normal swimming pattern and we dropped back from the tank lest we ruin the moment with a splashy awakening. We withdrew to the moon shadows near the back of the lab and spoke in hushed tones. A second year assistant from California, a surfer, spoke for us all, saying, "dude...that was awesome!"

But that was just a hint of what was to come.

Several mornings later, daily tank-side prep and cleanup was in progress. I moved the usual research objects into place for our morning training session: beachball, surfboard, basket and Frisbee. The sun was scorching as always, and the dolphins swam leisurely in their pool. Phoenix watched me over the edge of the concrete tank, a light blue wall about four and a half feet high. Each circular pool was equipped with a central drain and a watertight access door to allow entry for cleaning when empty. The door was several steps down, with a two-foot square window for underwater viewing. That the dolphin was watching me was unusual. They tended to ignore us until appointed times for feeding, work or play. Because of this, I pretended to ignore her, relying only on my peripheral view for fear of scaring the watcher off. As minutes elapsed, water began showering lightly over my shoulders. I was being intentionally splashed, but not in the usual aggressive way. This was a gentle attempt to gain my attention.

I turned and faced my assailant, wished her good-morning and asked, “What are you up to?” Upon making eye contact, the dolphin quickly swam away as I feared she would. But she bobbed immediately to the surface of the water in the area by the underwater door, and then returned to her original position. Splashing water in the direction of the door, she dove again, disappeared under the surface, and now that I was paying attention, re-appeared, framed in the underwater window. Not only was this inordinately cute, deliberate and unprecedented, but the behavior held within it an equation that struck a chord I’d been trained to recognize: command, respond, reward.

It took several repetitions before the stupid human in this encounter understood the dolphin’s intentions.

Command: splash toward the door.
Respond: greet at the underwater window.

And with that, I walked toward the door, quickly descended the steps and met my dolphin counterpart face to face at the viewing port. All that was missing was a reward. And with that, the face behind the glass disappeared and the entire body popped above the surface of the water, extending in the “hug” position. My reward: command, respond, reward.
The Author Gets A Reward

I’d been trained. Oh my Gosh! The dolphin had trained me. I was a bit of a slow learner, but I eventually understood and was changed forever in my estimation of animal intelligence and my sense of place in this amazing world.

* * * * *

My month of participation was over. As the plane taxied for takeoff I paged through project literature. Nowhere were such experiences alluded to or mentioned.  Lou Herman's words echoed in my head.  “.... severely enlightened."  He knew. And now I did too.
  
“Like, totally better than Flipper, dude."  I chuckled under my breath, gazing out the window as Diamondhead slowly receded beneath billowing white clouds and the plane headed back to Chicago.