June 23, 1998

"All men of whatsoever quality they may be, who have done anything of excellence, or which may properly resemble excellence, ought, if they are persons of truth and honesty, to describe their life with their own hand..."
---Benvenuto Cellini

I think I may have settled on a background for my Index Page. The painting is Zeno's Arrow by Rene Magritte. Magritte was not only fascinating and inventive, but in appearance reminds me of my Dad.

The quote, which I also added to my Index Page, is Cellini's introduction to his life's story. Cellini was talented, dertermined, and arrogant. No doubt these are positive qualities for the serious artist. I might certainly be able to use more determination and arrogance--at least in relation to my art.

The pace of my life is quickening, as I will be editing two other webpages besides this one. I will do my best to update this journal at least once a week. I am also determined to begin serious work on a biographical/genealogical addition to this site. [I might also add that I really would like it if folks who visit would sign my guestbook. Access to my guestbook is on the geocities banner near the bottom of my Index Page.

I really have to thank my wife and kids for a wonderful father's day. Deborah (my red head) is working at the Disney Store. She got me a great Mickey Mouse tie. Jason presented me with a little stuffed "Dogburt" to sit on my computer. It was good to have both of them home for the day. In the late afternoon we watched the DS9 season finale. In the evening, Estelle took us out to a favorite steak house for dinner. Afterwards we took a drive to see Tulsa Community College West Campus (I'm teaching a Humanities class there for a friend who's on vacation). A very nice day.

I would write more but this place is turning into chaos. My office is right next door to the Port Occupational Health Clinic. This week workmen are totally remodeling the facility. Need I say more?

Uh, yeah, guess I should. I heard a great joke:

What is the definition of Jewish foreplay?
---four hours of begging.

June 16, 1998

Just got through communicating with a guy on ICQ named Robb. I think we experienced some miscommunication. I hate it when that happens. I expressed amusement at an expression he used, "kewl beans," (means �great,' �fantastic,' or as Robb would say �kick ass."). I think it's a very creative use of the language. It sure beats "great" or just "cool." He may have thought I was poking fun--but that was definitely not the case.

Often I feel as though I'm just an observer of life. I don't think I haven't been living life, it's just that in many respects life appears to be one long feature length film. There I am alternately viewing and participating in the action. People are very interesting.

My conversation with Robb brought to mind some memories. Memories of people who had a colorful and expressive way of using language. Notably, Dick Poulton and Chris Helm. Two men as different as night and day. Dick Poulton--honest, hardworking, cheerful, encouraging, helpful, and funny as hell--who was an incredibly wonderful human being. Chris Helm--pleasure seeking, self-centered, arrogant, devious, lazy, womanizing, funny--a person I'll never forget. I worked for Dick about nine years. I worked for Chris about 4 years.

Dick Poulton was The Greatest to have for a first boss. The place was Renberg's, a family owned exclusive men's and women's clothing store. Dick was Men's Furnishings Manager, and seemed to always be cheerful and positive. He had been in retail sales all his life, and it was easy to see he combined his friendly personality with in-depth product knowledge to insure himself a large customer following. There was hardly ever a dull moment working with Dick. Ask him for a price, and he might answer in potatoes or rutabagas--"That's sixteen rutabagas" or "Fifty-two potatoes." Closing can always be boring and time consuming, but Dick would always make a person laugh. He might make up a song about the "Prune bakers ball," or dance a jig, or just engage in some sort of silliness to break the monotony.

But Dick was dead serious about quality work and doing a quality job. He was patient, yet had high expectations. Dick seemed to inspire hard work and loyalty. He was a beautiful caring upbeat human being. A good role model.

Chris Helm was a totally different kind of person. Chris was the District Manager for Taco Bell when I was hired. Chris lived in Joplin, Missouri. He used his inspection visits to Tulsa less to supervise area restaurants and more to take advantage of being in a city far from where he lived.

His use of language was memorable, although there is no way I could possibly duplicate the experience of listening to him speak. He had a unique way of weaving the message he wished to convey with expletives and short graphic expressions. I do remember a few of those graphic expressions. Chris used to say that when he entered a restaurant all he wanted to see was "elbows and assholes." When emphasizing the importance of regulations, he would admonish employees that if they broke the rules he'd be on them like "stink on shit." If he was given an excuse when he discovered something was not completed on time, he might admonish "excuses are like assholes, everybody's got one."

I've got a bundle of "Chris Helm" stories. The time he embarrassed me the most was when he insisted I accompany him and the City Manager (Paul West) to a local dive. During Chris' Tulsa visits he spent about 5% of the time doing the work he was supposed to do, and the other 95% at strip joints. I was Training Supervisor for the District, but usually was not asked along because he knew I didn't care for bars. This particular time I wasn't able to refuse his request. The three of us went to "The Stables." A few months before, Paul and Chris had ducked out the backdoor of The Stables after a fight broke out and police raided the place.

The Stables lived up to my image of a sleazy bar. The music was loud, it was dimly lit, with a local talent slowly displaying her body from various angles. I suppose the patrons were supposed to get a good view of each orifice. Not only did Chris insist I drink a beer (I can't stand the stuff), but he told me he'd give me twenty bucks if I would retrieve the bill from a certain part of the dancer's anatomy. I declined.

June 14, 1998

I guess I�ve always felt I�ve lived a sort of a charmed life. I�ve never had any broken bones. I�ve never been in jail (not that I�ve ever done anything that would have landed me in jail). I�ve generally been pretty healthy. But, you know, I haven�t had an easy ride either. Some pretty awful things have happened to me, and I�ve lived through some tough times, but in my mind it all could have been a lot worse. So yeah, I think I�ve been lucky, but life certainly has not been a piece of cake. For some reason--no matter how bad things get--I�ve always been able to see the bright side of every situation. Mmmmm? Ignorant bliss?

Did I say I never did anything that would have landed me in jail? Is it any wonder I am reminded of the time I almost bought the big one? The year was 1973--sometime in April. The place: Istanbul, Turkey.

My arrival in Istanbul was like being caught in some sort of time warp. No gleaming glass and steel air terminal--the floors of the terminal were concrete with railings formed of pipe. It was if I had landed in another century. Choosing a hotel was fairly easy. There were three major criteria. It had to be reasonably priced. Lodging in Turkey is cheap, so this was no problem. Secondly, the hotel had to be located near the ancient heart of the city. It was off-season, so I had plenty of choices. Third, the hotel room must have �Western-style� plumbing.

Turkish plumbing is very interesting--no porcelain throne. I remember asking directions to a restroom. As I opened the door I spotted the sink easily. But where was the....uh, you�ve got to be kidding! There on the floor was this molded square porcelain thing. It looked quite hefty. It had two spaces about twelve inches apart to place ones feet, then--strategically placed behind this--a hole. One is expected to stand and squat. When in Rome? Uh, sorry, not this time.

I stayed at the Hotel Akserai, across the street from the Validisultan Mosque. The Akserai was nondescript, but the mosque was very distinctive. It was different in appearance than the famous mosques of the city. The Validisultan Mosque is a tall square building topped by a high dome. The decoration is dignified and features typical Islamic pointed arches.

My first morning in Istanbul began abruptly with a loudspeaker blast from the Mosque. The faithful were being called to prayer at 5:00 in the morning. The next sounds I heard were those of a horse and cart. I looked out my window onto a remarkable sight. A rather modern-looking four lane off ramp curved past the hotel. The only traffic at that time of the morning was a horse driven cart. This was typical of the contrast of old and new in this former imperial capitol.

My destination on �day one� was Hagia Sophia and the precinct of the old imperial palace and hippodrome. Hagia Sophia was magnificent. It is a marvel. Looks pretty good for a 1400+ year old building. The rest of the area was a disappointment. Nothing remains of the palace. The only indication of the site of the hippodrome is a lonely obelisk.

I came to Istanbul to see remains of the Roman world, I would soon discover the elegance of the Ottoman heritage. Close by Haiga Sophia and St. Irene is the entrance to Topkapi Serai or Topkapi Palace. The splendors of Topkapi more than made up for my disappointment at the remains of the Roman/Christian city.

Topkapi is different from the Western idea of what a palace should be. It consists of a series of large landscaped courtyards surrounded by rambling buildings made up of apartments, state rooms, kitchens, stables, slave quarters, eunuchs� quarters, and even a mosque. Set like jewels at random positions in the courtyards are pavilions. The most prominent of these are the Throne Room and Court Library. The pavilions are furnished, most of the rest of the palace is not. A museum in several former storage rooms displays Ottoman extravagance. The museum�s cases glitter with a profusion of gold and precious stones. Most notably a golden collapsible throne, and golden candlesticks about six feet tall. But it�s the emeralds that are the most dazzling--trays and trays of emeralds. My God, I thought, and this represents only the leftovers! Testimony to the splendor and opulence of the Ottoman court.

As you can see, I was really taken with Topkapi and naturally wanted to see all of the Palace. That first day there I did miss a part of it. The Harem rooms were closed. I didn�t bother about it. I knew I would have time to return.

I returned the day before I had to leave the city. Unfortunately I was again told that the Harem rooms were closed. However, I noticed a couple entering a doorway on the other side of the courtyard. I wondered if that was the Harem area. I followed them.

I entered a doorway and soon found myself in an open area. I looked to the right into a colonnaded atrium and saw the couple walking through that area. They were being pursued by a fellow who looked like a policeman. The guard was yelling at them. I figured he was telling them they had to leave.

Well, I decided that since no one was �minding the store� that I would just see what I could see. I walked into the atrium, but went the opposite direction. Turns out I was proceeding directly into the Harem. The rooms were empty. Walls were covered with beautiful Turkish tiles in a profusion of blue and white. One room had a rippling cascade fountain built into the wall. I proceeded from room to room until I saw something that made me stop and think. I noticed a divan with some items of carved ivory scattered on top. The items were small enough to be taken and concealed. I decided I had better leave. If anything was missing, I knew who they would blame.

I walked out the way I entered. When I arrived at the courtyard where I had entered all hell broke loose. I was shortly surrounded by at least five guards. They were all talking at once. Where had I been? How did I get in? It was like a scene from the keystone cops. Of course, I played totally innocent. I told them I had just walked in. One of the guards said, �Okay, show me where you have been.�

As I retraced my steps he stopped me in each room and asked if I had been there. Each time after I answered, he would then tell me about the room. Now I was getting the tour! What a deal. Shortly we entered areas I had not seen. We ended the �tour� in the Sultan Mother�s chamber--a beautiful domed room with a profusion of gold decoration. It was here, deep inside the palace, that the officer asked for my passport. I was questioned for about a half hour. I was pretty scared.

Finally, my passport was returned and I was allowed to leave. I breathed a deep sigh of relief. I really have to say that considering everything, the Turkish guards were very nice. I felt bad about my deception, but if I hadn�t taken the initiative I would never have seen the harem rooms. However, after viewing the film �Midnight Express,� I feel fortunate that my �luck� held.

June 11, 1998

Today is the 38th Anniversary of the Death of My Dad. Not exactly a happy day for me. I was very young when he died, and my memories of him are too few. I have written a very lengthy narritive on this subject. However, I am only going to print a small part of it here. There are certain things that might best be kept to oneself. If there are any folks out there who keep up with this journal narrative who would like to read the full text of today's entry.......

...just E-mail me with the request: � 1998

What follows is what I feel comfortable printing here.

So what can I print in my journal about my Dad today: Jacob (Jack) Avery, arrived in Tulsa with his family in 1921. It was sometime after the infamous Tulsa Race Riot. The Family had left Belaya-Tserkov in the Ukraine to escape pogroms instigated by the Whites and Reds during the Russian Civil War following the October (1917) Revolution. His passport gives his name as Yanchel Yvri. He was very handsome at 17. He looks even better in a Family Photo taken soon after arrival in the United States. That's my Dad second from left, between his sister Estelle and his brother Carl. Standing to the left of Carl is Carl Ravitz, then my Grandmother Goldie, then my uncle Nathan. My grandfather Abraham "Abe" is sitting in the chair in the center.

My Dad was the oldest and was very enterprising. When it came time for him to marry, he traveled to visit friends (the Baranoffs) in Milwaukee, Wisconsin--It was there he was introduced to my Mother. They were married on January 1, 1930. With my Mother's help he went into the grocery business. I think those must have been exciting times.

After my Dad's death I was to discover that he was almost a legend in the Tulsa Jewish Community. I guess he was very well known, and I suppose I resembled him. I was often asked by total strangers if I was "Jack Avery's son." He was one of those relativly few who had arrived with nothing and had made a virtual fortune. Yes, a fortune, but a fortune which could only be sustained by him-too few long-term investments, too short a life.

I haven't scanned photos of my Dad in later life. I think this family portrait of him with his mother and sister and brothers taken at Meadowbrook Country Club in the Fifties (My Dad is standing in the back upper right) is closest to his appearance in those later years. I often try to think of him as my Mother did during those many long years after his death. She kept a photograph of him on her chest of drawers always.

I love him and miss him very much.

June 10, 1998

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
��Shall lure it back to cancel half a line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.
---excerpt from The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

The pace of my life is quickening this summer--lot's of activities and a lot of projects. I have activated my guestbook. It is located near the bottom of my Index page. I hope that all the folks who visit this site will sign my guestbook.

The Museum Index is taking a little longer to arrange than I expected. It should be up in some form by the end of this month. I've had second thoughts about the arrangement and use of graphics.

The Miro Art Exhibit is progressing nicely. It should be complete by the end of this week.

WHAT NEWS: My good friend Mohamad Saleh, director-general of the Egyptian Museum in Cairo, will be visiting Tulsa next month. I plan to arrange a speaking engagement for him here at the Port. The Philbrook Museum of Art is paying for his visit. The Philbrook will be a venue for an exhibit from the Egyptian Museum at a future date.

Now everyone, you may join with me and destroy all your Charleton Heston videos. That's right! I'm even going to discard "The Ten Commandments." Heston is now president of the NRA. The NRA is one of my least favorite organizations. I don't advocate taking all guns away from people, but I think there should be a limitation on the type of guns available. I also think all guns should be registered. The argument that gun regulation doesn't work is ridiculous. Yes, criminals will always find a way to get the guns they want--but that will only serve to identify them as criminals. What concerns me are all the deaths caused by folks not generally considered criminals because of easy access to firearms.

June 4, 1998

Guess it's about time I updated this journal. Some folks seem to find it interesting. Others (my wife) might find it embarassing. Oh well. I just sort of like to write and say this and that. Not that what I say is really important, but I guess it just makes me feel good to actually be writing.

Writing. I remember a certain date I had with my high school "steady." As I recall, we were standing in a line waiting to buy tickets for a movie. Who was my steady? Her name was Brenda. She was very cute and very sweet (My God. She put up with me for six years during junior high and high school. She had to be a candidate for Sainthood!).

Brenda asked me what I wanted to do with my life. I said I wanted to go to college. I probably said I wanted to pursue drama and art. What I remember most about the conversation is that I said I wanted to write. I wanted to write a book-or several books.

Well folks, I'm 53 and I still haven't written that book. Writing has always frustrated me. I write and revise. I write and revise. I have written some things, well, I guess a lot of things. My thesis was pretty long, and it was bound. It looks like a book. (Title is: Life From Death: A Study of the Plague of 1347-1351 in England) Mmmmm? Well, if you count that I guess I have written a book. It's really not the type of book I had envisioned, though.

I am no longer plagued by the frustrations of the typewriter. Computers are a marvel! My current job as Curator requires a lot of writing. I've written text for labels in the Museum, I've written press releases, I composed the text for the Museum Website, I've written grant proposals, etc. etc. A book? I may tackle that after I complete a genealogical section for this Website.

The writing bug has really gotten to me because of the Internet. It has allowed me to blend creative graphics and art with text. It has brought me in touch with people with whom I enjoy communicating.

Okay, now it's gripe time. I just want to say a few words about all those strange little characters and jottings one sees in E-mail messages and interlaced in text on Internet sites. You know what I mean. Things like ":)" Mr./Ms. Happy Face I presume. Or ":(" Mr./Ms. Sad Face. There are variations of these, like: "=) or ;) or :o," and on and on. Then there are the other indicators of mood, such as *L*, *LOL*, *BG*, *VBG*, *VBEG*, or *VBSEG*, etc. etc. (From left, that would be: Laughing, Laughing Out Loud, Big Grin, Very Big Grin, Very Big Evil Grin, Very Big Shit Eating Grin). I usually do not use these symbols. I suppose it's gotten me in hot water with some folks. I tend to use sarcasm quite a bit. Sometimes sarcasm can be hard to grasp unless a person is comfortably familiar with the source.

It would seem that these expressions point out one of the drawbacks of the Internet. How does a person display the type of emotion in written form that is openly evident when people talk to one another in person? So, I suppose, our lives will be plagued by these little added codes tacked on to sentences in order to clarify intent and meaning.

Well now, why not just add some more! How about........
*B*= Bored
*VB*= Very Bored
*PFB*= Pretty Bored!
*MA*= Mildly Amused
*A*= Amused
*NA*= Not Amused
*D*= Disgusted
*VD*= Very Disgusted
*PDD*= Pretty Disgusted!
*S*= Sad
*VS*=Very Sad
*B*= Balling (Be Careful! Would "*C*= Crying" be better?
*BB*= Balling Buckets
*BFB*= Balling even more Buckets!

You see, I could just go on and on. One is only limited by the depth of one's imagination. Now how about those other little characters? What about:

:#( --Man, did I get a lousy nose job!
{:) --Do you like my new toupee?
;{) --Hey, you like fellows with a moustache?
<:( --Last time I go to a golf game when Dan Quayle is playing!
:|# --Yeah, yeah, so I cut myself shaving.
~:) --Tickle me on the chin, I am so cute.
:/ --Guess I'm recovering pretty well after my stroke.
;) ======> --Uh, I don't want to brag but.........
[#:| --Just a small ray of sunshine please, Dr. Frankenstein?
%\ --(Remember what happened to Leo G. Carroll in the movie "Tarantula?"(Or alternatively: "Guess I shouldn't have washed down my pain pills with a pitcher of Margaritas!)
:] --Please get off my back!

I think everyone should get the picture. There really is no satisfying substitute for face to face communication. We are bound by the limitations of language.

JUNE 1, 1998!
My wedding anniversary. I have been married to my lovely wife for 24 years today.

She is my friend, my lover, my pal, my confidant, my critic, my fellow parent, my advisor, my navigator, my partner, and my love. I can honestly say that our years together have been the best years of my life.

May 31, 1998

--continutation from yesterday--: Another fellow on the Net just simply fessed up. He had been using a pseudonym instead of his real name. He also explained his accent (German is his first language). His given name is really unique--at least in America. It was easy to understand why he didn't particularly like it. Although one can look at the situation and say that having a distinctive name can be an asset. When that name is called you know they mean you!

My first good college buddy was a fellow named Gil Campos. Gil was funny, passionate, idealistic, and very good looking. He was about 5'10" or 11", Dark hair, Dark eyes, and was the type who could probably convince a person it was raining outside when, in fact, the sun was shining brightly. He was very articulate, and very convincing. Gil was also an unbelievable womanizer. I�ll never forget watching in amazement as he made a conquest.

One day, while we were on campus, Gil took a fancy to a rather attractive girl studying near the student union. She had one obvious physical anomaly--her small nose was noticeably crooked. He struck up a conversation with her and commented on how cute her nose was. Here was Gil, using his velvety voice, telling this girl that her one problematic physical feature was her most alluring. She loved it! I was amazed.

Now and then Gil and I would talk about ourselves and our feelings. Gil was proud of his Hispanic heritage. He said his grandfather had ridden with Pancho Villa. We disagreed politically. Gil idolized Che Guevera. I am a staunch capitalist.

That Hispanic heritage that Gil valued so much also caused him a lot of anguish. One evening Gil told me, �when we first met I bet you thought I was a dumb Mexican, but when I began to talk you realized I was well educated.� I was stunned by this. I told him that was not the case at all. He seemed a little surprised at my response, and thanked me. He went on to say that he didn�t care for the stereotypical ideas people had about Mexicans. It had distressed him so much that the had practiced on his speech patterns to eliminate any Hispanic accent. That was why he sounded almost British, but certainly not Hispanic.

Gil eventually married a girl named Carol Luna. She was one of the most beautiful women I had ever set eyes on. During my first year at college I managed to read an 800 page condensation of the Arabian Nights. The descriptions there of the most beautiful harem girls was still fresh in my mind. Carol was that kind of beauty. Her heritage was Hispanic, but one would not have been surprised if she had said she was an Arabian princess.

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