Roundtable and Family

Shalom and good evening my friends. It is once again that time, when the Gentlemen convene and, united in common cause, put forth an offering for your approval. In quiet supplication, we do beseech you; bear witness to the fruit of our weekly joint venture. This is, of course, the Roundtable.

One of the goals we espouse here at These Gentlemen is that of creating a community. Even putting the Brett Ratners of the world aside, we seek to encourage conversation, discussion, and, as always, civilized discourse. Thus I set out this week with the task in hand of encouraging our readers to respond to the Roundtable. How, I wondered, could I best guarantee eliciting a response? Then, at the last tete-a-tete of Gentlemen, Bebop Graham provided the answer.

Talk about your family.

Everyone has a family story to share. Be it an anecdote, tall tale, family history, or personal memoir, everyone has something to tell about their relatives. These Gentlemen are no exception. Here are our stories. We'd love to hear yours.

Oh, and Ms. Graham's original inspirational recounting? It was about how her family weren't Nazis after all.


Daniel Strauss

My great uncle, Seymour Rechtzeit came to America with his Father from Poland in the early 1900s. He became a vaudeville star in the states, and sang a song called "Bring My Mother From the Other Side" to President Coolidge, who did just that (along with the rest of his family). That amazes me every time I hear about it.


Adam Z. Winer

My father, my grandfather, and David Pratt, are all intricately connected, and they have no idea.

You see, the Winer family is not traditionally a good story-telling family.
In fact, I know nearly nothing about my mother's lineage.
Unfortunately, there's really almost no one left to ask.

On my father's side, there is also not much known.
I've heard that the Viner family was run out of western Russian territory with the rest of the Jews in a series of violent pogroms in the early part of the 20th century. Supposedly we had a vineyard.

In America, Viner became Winer... we think.

My grandfather, from what I understand, worked during WWII fixing airplanes and the like. Len held many jobs over the years, including running a movie theater. My dad eventually began working at this theater as well. My dad's favorite film during that time? The Rocky Horror Picture Show (1975).

It would be a long time until I saw that film. Longer still before I saw a live version of it. But the second time I saw it live, I saw David Pratt perform the role of Dr. Frank-N-Furter.

And I saw this...



















The Winer family doesn't have much history that I know of... and in fact, we probably have very little in common with the Pratt family... but we do all like Rocky Horror.

Or we did, anyway.


John Ozkirbas

My father has, perhaps, one of the coolest stories I have ever heard.

He grew up as the son of Salih Özkirbaş- the Attorney General of Turkey. My father was a mischief maker and a scoundrel, nearly burning down his parents' house on more than one occasion. In high school, he effectively stopped trying at pretty much everything. He ran track, played basketball, and attended class, but I'm not quite sure if he actually did any work. At least whatever work he did do was enough for him to keeping going, but by the later half of his senior year he pretty much stopped attending class. He left for school every day, said goodbye to his mother, and simply decided to just go somewhere else instead. He used to tell me he'd go to the park, smoke cigarettes, read the newspaper, and listen to music. Although, I'm going to guess he drank a little bit. He hasn't told me that outright, but I have hard time believing that he just sat around a park all day reading the paper. I'm a little fuzzy on whether or not he even took his finals. Regardless, he failed pretty much all of his classes. His father was the Attorney General and this was a well known and respected military academy. Everyone knew who he was and this was a problem.

Having the highest ranking military position in the Turkish Navy, the man who I would have called "Dede" (pronounced "Deh-Deh") gave my father an offer. Now, Dede's job wasn't the most well-paid - it was a service position gained by climbing the ranks of the military of a 3rd world country. What he did have, however, was a considerable amount of power and prestige. Dede offered my father the high-school diploma from the impressive military academy that any other person would normally have to earn through hard work - no strings attached, no expectations, and he could do it with a phone call. He'd walk at graduation with his friends, embarrassment free. No one would know and the teachers would be told to forget about it. I don't know what went through my father's head at that time - whether he was struck by a moment of clarity, if this was just the limit to whatever moral ambiguities he may or may not have had, or whether this was simply another act of teenage rebellion - but, he turned my grandfather down and left. My father disappeared for three years.

From the ages of 18-21, my father, instead of going to college or finding a job, traveled Europe alone. He got by working odd-jobs and finding cheap rent. My guess is he stayed and worked in one place long enough to afford a train ticket to somewhere else. I'm not sure how many places he visited and where exactly he traveled to, but he eventually made his way to England. He found work there and hung out around london for awhile. He used to tell stories of this crazy Scottish landlord who would yell at him and whose wife would occasionally cook him breakfast for the morning. His room, apparently, was warmed by a coal furnace and his landlord would only let him use one piece of coal a night. In winter, it would get cold enough to nearly freeze to death, so the coal was rather necessary. Funny enough, my mother would be in England around this time. She, however, was not a complete scoundrel - but a religious, former high-school valedictorian on a Duke Study Abroad program in college. She was a nursing student and my father was a foreigner who could barely speak English. She would teach him english phrases, just to talk. And then she left for America. My father decided it was time to return home.

My grandfather and grandmother reactions were classic - she welcomed him home with kisses and hugs and food and complaints that he was too thin, while Dede took one look at him, turned around, left for the night, and made a phone call. The next morning there was a barber in the living room with scissors and a razor. When he was finished - Dede came out from his office and exclaimed "My son is home! My son finally came back home!" My dad speaks of this moment very comically. He went to work and got his high school equivalence, learned English. Pretty soon he moved to the United States and met up with my mother. He went to college and grad school - becoming one of the leading Mechanical Engineering majors at the University of Emmitsville, Indiana. The rest is history.

You wouldn't know any of this looking and talking to my father now. He's a master of his field, a 100% family man, and a fiscal conservative. He's well read and spoken. And, most of all, he's my hero.

Steve Bragale

My aunt has recently developed an interest in ancestry research, and I get a lot of benefits of this research second hand. When I say she traced our family roots back, I mean that she went very far back. So far back, in fact, that she found direct relatives from the Civil War to the American Revolution, and to the Mayflower and Jamestown. She even traced our roots back to England, Scotland, and a band of Swedish vikings.

But I'd have to say out of all of the stories I've heard about amazing people in history who are responsible for my existence, one sticks out in my mind. And luckily for you, you've probably already seen this story played out on the silver screen.

Ever see the movie Pochahontas? Of course you have. I did. Everyone's seen it. Everyone. Well it just so happens that the title character in that film is my great grandmother. I've always felt like I had a little bit of a tribal princess inside of me, and now I know why. All I need to do is figure out if this entitles me to a share of some random casino somewhere and I'll be set.


Max Nova

Unfortunately I don't have any grand stories of fabled pirate uncles or secret half-cousins. But here's a little story about my immediate family.

Back in the day, my sister was a regular reader (subscriber/purchaser?) of the Delia's clothing catalog. I'm sure the female Gentlemen remember it. But, rather than always buying stuff mail order, which had lead to a number of articles of clothing being returned for being too big/small, she figured it would make sense to track down the real store in New York and make some purchases there.

So on our next family trip to the big city we went a-huntin'. Now in the dynamics of our family, my mom walks everywhere, and generally the rest of us are game for a walk. But when we would go up to NYC, she used to be against using the subway for anything less than maybe 50 blocks of walking. So after wandering lower Manhattan on a very hot Saturday for what seemed like ages (in retrospect it was probably only 20 or 30 blocks) we find the location, a large office building. We take the eleveator up, and arrive at a very quiet offices. What we had failed to consider at the time was that there was no Delia's store.

Of course - years later Delia's actually did open actual retail locations.


Jason Schlafstein


Less a story, and more an anecdote. My last name, Schlafstein, is literally translated to "Sleep Stone" or "Sleeping Stone," another name for the Philosopher's stone. My ancestors were alchemists, that original breed of mad scientists obsessed by, among other things, the quest to turn lead into gold.

That I am descended from a group of people notorious for endlessly pursuing a completely unfeasible and impossible goal should really surprise no one.

Or that I am obsessed with Grant Morisson.


Scott Maxwell


My great-great-great-great-great-(I think that's enough)-grandfather, James Maxwell (b. 1762, Co. Armagh, Northern Ireland), immigrated to the United States in 1768 with his widowed mother and sister, Ann. The normal thing to do in those days for a widow with young children would have been to return to the custody of her family, but for reasons (like her name) lost to history, Widow Maxwell wasn't havin' none of that, and decided to come to the New World anyway.

Young James then served in the Revolutionary war as an artilleryman... for the British. We know that he was there at Yorktown when Cornwallis surrendered in 1781, and that he quickly figured out after that that Loyalists were no longer welcome in the former Colonies (gee, ya think?). So he high-tailed it north to Canada, eventually settling in New Brunswick and founding the town of St. Stephen, which now sits right on the US/Canada border. It's directly opposite the town of Calais, Maine, which you may know as a place where you mail your credit card payments to. You're welcome.

Sometime in the early 20th century, my great-grandfather, Rendall C. Maxwell, snuck across the bridge into Maine under cover of night, and settled further west, just outside of Portland. Lesson learned - when America doesn't secure her borders, riffraff like the Maxwells find their way in.


Ali Daniels

My Grandma Daniels always used to tell people her family was from Poland. The truth is, her side of the family was from Galitzia (or Galicia, depending on who you ask), a small area formed from parts of Ukraine, Poland, and sometimes Russia. In case you don't know your Eastern European history, let me tell you who else came from Galitzia: gypsies. Nobody knows anything for sure, but there's a good chance our family was once a roving tribe of bandits.

And my dad on further good family stories: "Well, on our side, there's the question of whether your great-grandmother and great-grandfather were ever married."

Literally thieving bastards. We're a classy bunch.

David Pratt

Let's ignore the stories doubtlessly associated with the fact that my father's side of the family managed to effectively make our last name an insult throughout all of Great Britain. Instead let's focus on my mother's side. My mother, for those whom have met her, is a charming, funny, demure, incredibly classy woman. To meet her, you would never suspect she was descended from countless generations of thieves.

It all began with a nameless ancestor living, we believe, in Hungary. Back then, the last name was Spenardo, not Willner. This particular Hungarian, however, was no longer enamored with the Spenardo name, as it was written on wanted posters. To escape hanging, the penalty for as prolific a horse thief as he was, my ancestor fled Hungary and changed his name - likely to Vilna - which was Americanized to Willner after his descendants landed at Ellis Island. Or so the story goes, anyway.

Now, we have no solid verification that any of this is true. What we do have, however, is constant expression of these larcenous genes seeking to prove their otherwise theoretical existance. Grandpa Max, my great-grandfather, kept himself, his wife, and his four children well-clothed and happy while the Great Depression was raging. The success of his auto junkyard business was thought to be the cause. That is, until the FBI showed up at the house and took him in for dealing stolen goods on the black market. This is also my grandfather's earliest memory.

The trend continued in Grandpa Max's older son, my Uncle Eddie. Twice Eddie was arrested for embezzlment. Both times he got out of it by copping a plea of temporary insanity. This came back to haunt him when he complained about pains in his leg and got sent to a mental ward instead of a hospital. By the time a real doctor saw him, he was too far gone with cancer to stand a chance.

My Grandmother's side of the family is no less guilty; brushing over my Grandma Fran's continuous credit card fraud, we can look at the generous nature of my Great-Grandma Tootsie. Tootsie worked at a department store for years, and also, coincidentally, loved handing out random gifts she kept in her closet to people who came and visited. It was many years after a childhood spent adoring her grandmother that my Mom finally figured out Grandma Tootsie was stealing everything she could and then giving the purloined goods away as presents. She was clued in when she remembered shopping with Tootsie as a small child, and realizing her dolls and dresses had been hastily shoved in grandma's burgeoning purse.

As for me, I want to get into politics.




Thus concludes another edition of the Roundtable, but only for the Gentlemen. We now open the floor to you, the reader, and ask you the same question; what is your favorite family story, be it regarding members living or dead? Fill us in, we'd love to hear from you.

For now, we bid you adeiu, and promise to join you again next week for another edition of the These Gentleman Roundtable.

When You Need Help Just Call...

I grew up on the Disney Afternoon. Long before the Disney Channel became a basic cable station (that's right - it started out as a premium add on like HBO - imagine having to pay extra for such sensations like Lizzy Maguire and Hannah Montana), back when Nickelodeon boasted a daytime lineup of Lassie and Flipper reruns, and when cartoons not only still dominated the Saturday morning landscape but the afternoon frontier as well, there was a two hour block on UPN that I would watch religiously every afternoon - and while it's iterations changed often over the years there was really nothing quite like the originals (though Darkwing Duck and Goof Troop were both excellent additions):
Gummi Bears
Ducktales
Tale Spin

and most especially Chip and Dale Rescue Rangers.

I absolutely loved Chip and Dale. Dale with his carefree, wisecracking ways. Chip's relentless sense of determination, adventurism, his responsibility. His unrequited feelings for Gadget. They were my heroes, my friends. They were awesome.
And I only realized years later just how much they had infuenced my fashion sense, as to this day I still think that either a hawain shirt or leather jacket/fedora combination are the ultimate examples of 'cool.' I've sadly abandoned the hawain shirts, but that leather jacket is here to stay thanks to Chip and his bomber jacket ways.
And of course I would be drawn to the Disney Cartoon about a group of concerned citizens running around solving pint-sized crimes.

I had the Disney afternoon audio-casette that I listened to almost every night (why lie, I still have it somewhere), and was terribly disappointed that the theme song was the only C&D song on the tape (what a great tape, but too much Tale Spin). I can still sing the entire extended version of the theme song, including the little known break-down section.

"Some times some crimes go slipping through the cracks..."

Chances are if you grew up in the '90s you're humming along right now, despite yourself. Don't stop. They did cartoon theme songs right back in our heyday, the second (or maybe third) golden era of children's anmation, an era that is certainly over now as we move into the grand age of Pixar and computer animation while Saturday morning lineups drop like flys and cel animators are losing jobs even faster than the rest of us.

So chances are you may have loved Chip and Dale too.
But not as much as me.

So when I went to Disney World as a kid, all I wanted to do was see Chip and Dale. That was it. Forget rides, or roller coasters, games and food. I just wanted to see the Rescue Rangers. And I spent the whole day looking and couldn't find them.

Until we got to a stuffed animal kiosk and there they were - Chip and Dale stuffed animals, Chip with his hat and jacket, Dale in his trademark floral print. Not just Chip and Dale, Pluto's tiny tormentors. The full on, honest to god, Rescue Rangers.
I mean, this was the mother load. I was going home with Chip and Dale.

I was told I could have one. Just one. I had to pick.
Who did I want more?

I started to cry. I couldn't do it. Any choice would have been a complete and total betrayal to the other. To myself.
So I cried. Because I just couldn't imagine one without the other. And in my head, if to no one else, it wasn't a temper tantrum. It was a moment of genuine turmoil. I didn't know how to choose.

And looking back on it I think I was confronted with one of life's extraordinarilly hard realities for the first time that day, at least consciously. The idea of priorities. That no matter how much you love two things, eventually you'll be forced to make a decision to love one of them more.

I think we have to do that all the time.

Eventually, after crying and begging and pleading, I picked Chip. I think, deep down, I knew that I liked Chip just a little bit more but didn't want to admit it. It was the fedora, and the lasso, and him being the leader. It was just a tiny bit more. But I didn't want the shame of having a favorite. That sense of guilt. I genuinely didn't want Dale to feel less loved.
I went to sleep that night in our hotel room clutching Chip to me, both sad and glorious all together.

But when I woke up, Dale was there too.

Forget finding them in the park, that was the happiest moment of my little life so far.

It turns out that after I went to sleep my Dad went back out to the park during the night, and bought Dale to surprise me. He put him there with me and Chip while I was sleeping. When I woke up, I was surrounded. The team was together again. It was my first understanding of joy.

It was one of those incredibly nice and kind things a father does for his son. I still have those dolls, somewhere at my old home.

I've never forgotten it, and I probably never will.

I'm sharing this story now because I haven't had a lot I've felt comfortable writing about lately. The things I want to say, the things that are currently on my mind may not best be explored or shared in a public forum, even if I want to, even if this sort of writing is what helps me process. That's a lesson I've learned a few times over - from Livejournal, to Serpentina, to that damn stupid play. And it's a lesson I have no doubt I'll be forced to learn again and again.

But suffice it to say, things between me and my father aren't very good. They haven't been for a long, long time. No stories, no specifics, just a context. Things are bad there, and most of the time that toxicity is all I can remember ever being a part of that relationship.

But then there's Chip and Dale.
And I remember that too.



PS - I'm Back.

Francis Warner

There's a lot you can say about Francis Warner. Not a lot of it is very good. She is, by all accounts, the most self-absorbed woman to ever live. No one else I have ever encountered personally has ever been so demanding of others, so ungrateful for what she has, and so convinced that she deserves whatever she wants as Francis Warner. Her life is a testament to selfishness.

Or is it?

Her life has been marked with a single-minded dedication to herself. Not her children, her family, or her multiple husbands. No, she has been wholly concerned with her own wants and desires since at least the mid-60s when she walked out on her children to run away with a book salesman. Her ex-husband had to return that night to take over watching their two children. He eventually relocated them to Florida.

She spent the next two decades with various lovers in New York City. Her daughter moved back to live with her as a teenager, but the situation proved toxic. She ended up returning to Florida and joining the army. Francis alternated jobs at this point between working as a bartender and being a kept woman by a mafia capo.

At one point she begged her parents to take her back in. They let her come live with them in their small apartment, at which point she immediately stole money from them and used it to elope and move to Chicago.

Her husband died and she moved back to New York. At this time, her daughter returned from overseas and began living in Arizona. Francis invited herself to come live with her.

In 1986 she was living with her daughter and decided that her grandson, at the time three years old, was more than old enough to read and write. So she decided to teach him how. Within a few days he was going through childrens books in minutes. Within a few weeks he was writing his own stories.

The family moved again, and Francis did not go with them. She returned to New York and remarried. She began publishing a newsletter called the Mountain Climber for people who suffered from panic attacks like she did. It was circulated in 35 states and Canada.

While in her late 50s, Francis moved from Brooklyn, New York to California with her fourth husband. Having lived her entire life in either New York City or Chicago (where she lived with her second husband), she never had any need to drive. The longer she lived out west, the more she realized it was a necessity. So, at the tender age of 65, she began taking driving lessons, and on her third attempt she successfully passed the test.

It was also during this time that Francis beat cancer for the first time. She had been a smoker for nearly 40 years. She refused to quit.

Her long-estranged son briefly re-estabished ties with her, as he also lived in California. After several meetings, he once again withdrew himself from her life. Time with her was simply too insufferable to justify putting forth the effort.

By 2001 she had decided to move to New York, where her daughter was living. She found a small apartment in a retirement community and moved in. Her husband wanted her to stay in California, but she refused. They separated, and he died of a brain tumor a year later.

She purchased an obnoxious little dog that she insisted was wonderful. While taking it for a walk, she became tangled in the leash and fell, breaking her hip and most of her leg. Her mobility became extremely limited. At this time, her cancer came back with a vengeance. At the end of 2003, she was living in a hospice house. The tenants of the house are people who have only 90 days to live. 120 days later she was asked to leave, as she was not dying.

She took up residence in a nursing home. Originally, she had a roommate. After one day together, Francis was given a single, as it was clear she could not coexist with others. She began making increasing demands of her daughter. She wanted an allowance of $120 a month. She wanted to be taken out every week. She needed money to buy clothes and decorations for her room. Everything she demanded had to be performed exactly as she requested or she would grow bitter and spiteful. The members of her family increasingly pulled away from her.

Despite everything, her daughter remained with her. Francis was her mother, she explained, and she was dying. There was a measure of karma and her own peace-of-mind that needed to be taken care of.

Francis Warner was born in 1933. Her maiden name was Vogel, born to Murray Vogel and Beatrice Vogel, whom was affectionately called "Grandma Tootsie." She married Stan Willner, a World War II veteran 10 years her senior, and had two children. They were named Michael Adam and Marci Eve. Warner was the name of her fourth and final husband, Ron.

Marci Eve Willner went on to marry Vladimir James Pratt and have two children. A son also named Vladimir, and another named David.

Francis Warner is my grandmother. She died yesterday after a long and excruciating battle with cancer. She would have been 76 this Sunday.

Her life was a study of highs and lows. She was capable just as much of overwhelming love and generosity as she was blinding greed. For every act of theft or fraud she was guilty of (a common theme in my family) there was a corresponding story of kindness. When my mother was a child, Grandma Fran took in a black girl whom had been abused and let her stay until she could get on her feet. For every story about how selfish and vile she was, my grandmother has another story about times she had publically embarassed herself, which she lovingly retold to let others laugh. Her stories, all of varying degrees of verifiability, were nonetheless told with unparalleled humor. She could tell a story like no one else.

She was in love with Hispanic and African American culture (and men). Living to see the inauguration meant a tremendous deal for her. It was the last goal she set for herself. My mother knew the time was coming when she stopped talking about the future.

And perhaps the dark parts of her life are not without merit. Maybe, just maybe, we should all take a day, or an hour, or a moment, out of our lives to ask "what do I want? What can other people do for me? What would make ME happy?" I think my grandma would like that.

I know she wouldn't want me talking about her like this, but primarily because she's not around to enjoy the attention. But she's the one who taught me how to read and write, and I can't think of any better way to commemorate her life, for good or ill, than to honor the gift she gave me and write. She had a love of literature and words that belied her limited education. And she loved me. For all the bitter complaining she did, she loved all of us, and spoke of her family at every opportunity to others. To our faces, she only told us all we did wrong, but hey, she was a Jewish mother.

Goodbye, Grandma Fran. I love you, and I miss you. As my father said, "now she knows what all of us wonder about."

To which I replied "Not yet, first Grandma Tootsie has to get done yelling at her."


Francis Warner
March 1st, 1933 - February 25th, 2009

Best. Present. Ever.

Hello globe.

It's Christmas Eve and I'm really excited to give out the presents I made with my girlfriend, Jackie. We made chocolate covered pretzels out of chocolate chips and pretzel rods. I don't know if it's maturity or a sense of the "true meaning of Christmas," but I really don't care about getting presents this year. I'll gladly accept anything given to me of course, but as far as I'm concerned, once I give out my gifts, the transaction is complete, I'm happy, and anything else is an added bonus.

But in realizing this evolution from receiver to giver, I can't help but think back and dwell on the best gift I ever got as a kid. It wasn't so much the present as much as it was the way it was given that impacted me.

Real quick, for those of you who don't know me well, I've had an affinity for video games since I was 5 years old.

It was Christmas morning back in third grade or around about, and I was in Chicago spending the holidays with Grammy and Grampy and my uncle Aaron. I remember it being really cold inside because they didn't have central heating, but once the presents rolled out all of my senses were transfixed on the goods.

At one point I had opened all of the presents that were out. I remember being grateful, but disappointed that I didn't get a Super Nintendo, which had just been released. I wasn't acting like a spoiled brat or anything, I was respectful and genuinely happy about what I got, but the SNES was at the top of my list.

So Uncle Aaron comes out from his room with a present for me, saying he left it in his room.

I open it and I'm instantly deflated. Super Mario Kart. For the SNES. Not only did I not get the one thing I wanted the most, but, I can't even use it! I don't need a gun rack, I don't even own a gun!

So I look up to say something like "awww, but I can't play this," and Grammy is looking back at me with raised eyebrows.

"Why not?"

"Because I don't have a Super Nintendo."

Out of nowhere Grampy has a huge box in his hands and he's walking towards me and Grammy yells, "well you do now!"

Everyone is screaming.

Everyone screams real loud.

I think I cried a little.

I've gotten video game systems for Christmas before and it's awesome. But it was the surprise that made this the best present I ever got as a boy. I couldn't articulate it at the time, but it's the idea that these people care about me enough to spring this awesome present on me out from nowhere, that they thought about doing this just for me, and that they were thinking about me when I wasn't around, that makes it all so magical.

So my question to the globe is: what is the best present you've given or received, and how was it given?

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays everyone!