Tougher Than The Rest

The strong, silent type. Masculine, with a no bullshit attitude at all times, the kind that’s missing in these days. In arenas where men are constantly encouraged to get in touch with their feminine side, there used to be those that would have no part of that conversation.

My grandfather, Sebastian, was one of those men. I think of him often, and wonder what he would think of the myriad of ways that current events and attitudes unfold now. Sebastiano

I’m going to say he wouldn’t be pleased. He’d do what he used to, derisively uttering “God Bless America” in his sarcastic tone. And then I’d have to laugh.

Like most others of his generation, my grandfather felt he was entitled to nothing more than the opportunity to work multiple jobs to support his family. Factory worker by day, he became a bartender/restaurant worker by night. His customers did a lot of drinking, but he never did.

He simply had too much to do.

The Generation of “Non Complainers”

Sebastian did what he needed to do, without complaint. If he ever did complain, I never heard it. He was a grinder, working on tasks straight through until they were finished, no matter how long it took.

In partnership with my grandmother, Sebastian was a success as a business owner. When you run a restaurant, it’s like your mistress, and you spend most of your waking hours there. My grandfather had an incredible work ethic, one that he tried to pass down to all of us.

As an immigrant from southern Italy, my “Pops” sure as hell had his obstacles, and also more than his share of sadness. He had a brother, a soldier, killed in World War II, and his son, my uncle, died tragically as a teenager.

To have survived events like that are incredible feats. I’m amazed by the man even now, years after his death. I rarely saw him display sadness, remorse, or regret. He was one tough cookie. Tougher than the rest.

I owe my grandparents quite a bit. They’ve taught me to focus on what’s important, keep it simple, and have a sense of gratitude for it all. I miss having them here. It seems the longer they have been gone, the more complicated things are. They had a way to set it all straight. The path was clearer with them acting as mentors.

Forward, Always Forward

One aspect of following my grandfather around was his constant movement. Always going forward, working, making progress. He could be relentless. I recall mouthing off to my grandmother once when I was a kid.

His belt came off his pants at lightning speed, and he chased me outside the house, right on my heels. I couldn’t believe such an older man could be so quick.

My grandfather reminds me of Rocky Marciano. For you youngsters out there, Marciano was a heavyweight boxing champ in the 1950s who retired undefeated. I had relatives that talked about him when I was a kid, and I became fascinated by him later. He was also a success symbol for Depression era Italian Americans, many who were immigrants. Marciano inspired hope to those who were downtrodden, and convinced America’s “streets of gold” were a fallacy.

Marciano never lost a fight because he never stopped moving forward. Even when he was hurt, rarely taking a backward step. Never stopped punching. Kept coming at you. Never relented.

Sebastiano DeGiorgio, throughout his life, was a lot like him. Short and compact, but quick. Relentless and persevering. And tough. Tougher than the rest.

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Terrible Old School Career Advice To Blatantly Ignore

My daughter is now at the age where she’s started getting unsolicited career advice from well meaning friends and family that some of us got when we were teenagers.

You’ve probably heard it yourself.

“Go to law school. Become a lawyer.”

“How about doctor? You could marry one. Or go to medical school. Medical school would be a fine choice. ”

“I hear there’s a lot of money in computers” (Talk about general advice).

While I typically favor the practices of the old school, this is one old time suggestion that should be tossed in the garbage can. If I’m dispensing advice, I’m not comfortable going with either:

a) “do what you love” starving artist vs.
b) pursuit of law or medical school for riches and prestige.

You gotta meet somewhere in the middle.

For Love Or Money

I was told once that I had the personality for sales. In the beginning, I didn’t have a passion for sales, but I do like stuff that I’m good at. So I stuck with it. My passion is a full wallet and the freedom that comes with it, to do cool things with my family (see this post for that).

Note to children: Here’s your unsolicited advice from your father – find an activity that you are really good at, or find something that you enjoy practicing over and over again so you get good at it. That’s your start.

Find people that want to pay you for that one thing, and you are on your way to finding your career.

My daughter, as of this moment, is really into biology. The idea of dissecting a frog or perhaps another dead animal is her idea of fun. She loves it. It has potential to become her passion.

I know the mind of a teenager can change. Mine certainly did when I was that age. At this point, it matters not. I’m a proud papa anyway. If she chooses to go into a field like biology, that’s only icing on my pride cake.

Like Father, Like Son

In our basement (which I proudly refer to as “the dungeon”), I have an old heavy bag that I have used for exercise and stress relief for the longest time. How long, you ask? Well, the bag has the insignia for the Los Angeles Olympic Committee, circa 1980.

Don’t judge. I was a very young man back then.

When I was a teenager, boxing was to me what biology is to my daughter. I went to live matches, and followed all of the big fighters. I trained like a boxer to stay in shape after initially using that training to melt away well earned body fat.

My bag is an Everlast, and the fact that it’s survived almost three decades of beatings makes it one of more durable possessions that I have. I still enjoy using it frequently, and number one son has now taken to the feeling of satisfaction that is punching things.

Like father, like son? Very likely. After all, most of us would like to take after our fathers in some respect. Derek Jeter once said “My dad had been a shortstop….and you know, when you’re a kid, you want to be just like your dad.” My dad started as a bartender, so guess what I wanted to be?

Bad Advice, Not Taken

When I was a bartender, a “friend” of mine asked me when I was going to get a real job (read: desk job shuffling papers and dodging office politics). Apparently, my current gig was low status, and did not reflect well on me personally.

I’ll admit, I did consider this advice for a brief time. After all, my friend was only looking out for my best interests. How could he let me languish in my role as mixologist?

I ended up ignoring his advice because there were some aspects of the job he just couldn’t understand:

The privilege of being able to serve thousands of people
Forming relationships with dozens of them, some lasting to this day
Being able to work with family (OK, at times this wasn’t all that great)
Growing a business that was distinctly my own. My customers belonged to me
Having fun! Most people don’t get this at work
The physical nature. Every day on the job was a workout. Lots of running and lifting

The last one is really important. Despite all the second hand smoke, I was in pretty good shape when I was a bartender. Those with real jobs had to battle the middle age spread. Before middle age.

And there’s one more…

One particularly punishing 14 hour shift on a Friday in the early 90s. Wanting to go home, but circumstance not allowing it. Staying out, and meeting a girl who would become my wife two years later. If I had followed up on my friend’s suggestions, and gotten out of the restaurant business then, our paths may never have crossed (more on this in another post later this month).

Best career advice: Gut instinct. Follow it.

What say you? What did you do with that “helpful” career advice that was given? Did you follow it? Or toss it? Let me know in the comments, start a conversation! Using the share buttons would also be appreciated as well.

Cruel Summer, With A Life Lesson To Take To The Bank

When I was a boy, the summers seemed to stretch for miles, go on forever. I would look for salamanders, play hours of basketball, and walk over country roads to see my friends. I would jam out to Zeppelin, Hendrix, and Heart in my basement, and tackle lawn chores at my Nonna’s modest brick ranch, to be rewarded with a plate of macaroni with extra grated cheese. Summer was a boy’s best friend.

The summers of mid-life move faster. They slow down only for wakes and funerals, to pay our respects to the departed, some taken from us too soon. This has happened several times this summer, making a lump in the throat as frequent as a daily coffee.

Lest you think I’ve had nothing but a summer of discontent this year, let me correct you. Funerals notwithstanding, my family has done and seen a lot in the past couple of months. Here’s a sampling:

A trip to our favorite vacation spot, the beaches of Cape Cod
Two trips to baseball games at Yankee Stadium in New York
A live concert from Coldplay at the TD Garden in Boston
Before the show, a meal at a great Italian restaurant in the city’s North End
For me and my friends, a fun weekend in the woods of the Adirondacks
Multiple drives to our summer home away from home, Lake George

I had heard “Boy, you guys get around” more than once. I have to agree. If we didn’t have what was equal to a summer bucket list, we had plans made well in advance to enjoy every minute of the season that we could.

As soon as it’s here, it’s gone.

Life travels at the speed of sound. If there is a lesson for you here, it’s this: know how important and fleeting your time is. In our house, babies once crawled and toddlers walked the earth. Now, one baby has taken to the highway, tackling the rigors of the road. I no longer read her a story and tuck her in at night. She is a high school junior.

The little boy has had a growth spurt and a power surge. Months ago, I could field his grounders and catch his line drives with ease. No more. With his swings of the bat, Dad has to avoid rockets and laser beams that have potential to inflict great damage and deep bruises.

The only thing keeping the balls in the yard now is the black chestnut tree that stops their progress. This yard can’t hold him anymore. His day is coming.

With the car radio awash in the sounds of the 70s, it’s easy to drift back to when summers were slow and fruitful. Under those same unbelievably blue skies, the little girl is breaking out and heading to the highway. The boy is crashing fences and taking names.

It’s a cruel summer with a decidedly sweet aftertaste.

Let me know how your summer was in the comment section below. Start a conversation!

Photo credit of Cape Cod marsh to Gabrielle DeGiorgio.You can get free updates to content at this site by subscribing by email or feed reader. Feel free to share via Twitter and/or Facebook.

Thank You For Being A Friend

Although we only knew each other for thirty years, it may as well have been a lifetime.

You were the “wingman”. The nightclubbing partner I needed in our heyday of the 80s. Chasing skirts late into the night. You had a little bit of a wild child attitude in you, but our Roman Catholic upbringings steered us clear of any real trouble.

How many games did we go to at the old Yankee Stadium? Watching our pinstriped heroes play sport’s finest game, drinking our beers, our seats at the rail to spy the girls in their summer clothes, passing us by.

We haunted each others work places, me making the descent into the college rathskeller, you sitting at the bar of my parents’ restaurant. We had our drinks, smoked our cigarettes, and laughed long and uproariously at our jokes. God knows we weren’t that funny.

When I started dating the girl who would become my wife, not much changed. Still hanging out, three of us together now, in the restaurants, our places, in the smoky nooks of the Tap Room. Home away from home.

When my daughter was born, you were right there at the hospital to see her, just a couple of hours later. It’s a shame you won’t be here to hug her anymore.

On the winter day my son was baptized, you stood at the font as his Godfather, blessing him with holy water as we watched. I’m glad you were able to come to some of his games. I’m sad you won’t ever watch him swing the bat again.

You gave the finest best man toast in wedding history, deserving of the standing ovation you got. Against the backdrop of the story of first meeting my wife, you serenaded us (and a large reception crowd) with a favorite Sinatra song – on key, flawlessly, without hesitation.

When I watch it on video, I just laugh and shake my head, and wonder… how the hell did you pull that off?

How about hitting that replay button one more time? A little more “I’ve Got You Under My Skin”. Or better yet, how about just one more for the road? A toast to you this time, my friend, listening to the ultimate late night Sinatra torch ballad, with drink in hand. Just like we did in the old days.

You know how it goes…

Its quarter to three,
There’s no one in the place ‘cept you and me
So set em up Joe

…We’re drinking my friend
To the end of a brief episode
So make it one for my baby
And one more for the road

Thanks for the memories.

Thank you for being my friend.

Michael Muscatello, 1949-2012

I Know It’s Late, We Can Make It If We Run

“I saw rock and roll’s future and its name is Bruce Springsteen” – Jon Landau, 1974

Forget about the future of rock and roll. I have seen a man who performs as intensely now as he did in 1974, a true fountain of youth…and its name is Bruce Springsteen.

I’ve written about the undeniable power of music previously (see the article here). But that post tends to look understated when I think of my long relationship with the music of Bruce Springsteen.

Having just experienced my eighth live Springsteen concert, it’s no longer just a musical event or a wait and see if he’s still got it (which, by the way, he does. He’s 62, and has got “it” in spades). To say the man, who’s in his sixties, acts like he’s in his thirties, would be a gross understatement as well.

No, these concert events have turned into trips to see a dear friend. Go over, hang out in the living room, and there he is, telling you his favorite stories all over again.

Stories I’ve heard for nearly four decades. He’s no longer just a musician, or rock star. He’s a trusted ally, a sounding board, a friend to support in good times and bad.

He was there for me through break ups with teenage girls, and compassionate when I thought myself an outcast in school. The music was less of a getaway than it was a mechanism to know you were not solely on your own. Someone agreed with you, somebody else got it.

When I lost a good friend to an auto accident at far too young an age, his monumental double album “The River” helped stoke my rage and quell my sadness. It got me through the hardest of times. For that reason alone, I will always be a fan.

Being a fan, like anything, isn’t always easy.

The images within the music may make you want to cringe, to turn away. Bruce’s lyrics are replete with storms, rising flood waters, corporate greed, battered hometowns, and the haunting reference of a September 11th firefighter ascending a smoky stairwell to a certain death he can’t even see.

In live performance, those images are even more focused. But turning away from a force of nature is difficult. What you see is dropped into a tornado of light and sound, monster backbeats pushing you forward through the chaos, as you stand in all your fist pumping glory.

Springsteen’s America can be a brutal, unforgiving place. But after 3 hours of no holds barred non-stop singing, dancing, and sheer fun, you go back to that other place where faith, hope, and glory days and little victories are real again.

The little victories are what sustain you. Bruce played his music for me on my wedding day and when my kids came into the world, careening from speakers at decibel levels to make your pets run and hide. My daughter grew as a toddler, chanting the refrain from “Badlands” from the comfort of her car seat. Glory days, indeed.

I keep going back to that well because I don’t know how many more times I’ll get to see my friend. He’s getting old, I’m getting old(er), and the live tours can be years apart. But at 62, he can still outperform entertainers half his age.

Here’s to the hope the rest of us can hold out as well. Concerts with Bruce and friends are great nights in my life, shared with my wife, where we get sent home with our ears ringing, sweaty, tired, and inspired again by the “future of rock and roll” present.

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