{"product_id":"stay-interestingisbn-9781101986233","title":"Stay Interesting","description":"\u003cb\u003eWhat makes a life truly interesting? Is it the people you meet? The risks you take? The adventures you remember?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eJonathan Goldsmith has many answers to that question. For years he was a struggling actor in New York and Los Angeles, with experiences that included competing for roles with Dustin Hoffman, getting shot by John Wayne, drinking with Tennessee Williams, and sailing the high seas with Fernando Lamas, never mind romancing many lovely ladies along the way.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHowever, it wasn’t all fun and games for Jonathan. Frustrated with his career, he left Hollywood for other adventures in business and life. But then, a fascinating opportunity came his way—a chance to star in a new campaign for Dos Equis beer. A role he was sure he wasn’t right for, but he gave it a shot all the same. Which led to the role that would bring him the success that had so long eluded him—that of “The Most Interesting Man in the World.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA memoir told through a series of adventures and the lessons he’s learned and wants to pass on, \u003ci\u003eStay Interesting\u003c\/i\u003e is a truly daring and bold tale, and a manifesto about taking chances, not giving up, making courageous choices, and living a truly adventurous, and always interesting life.\u003cb\u003eJonathan Goldsmith\u003c\/b\u003e grew up in the Bronx, trained in theater in New York City, then moved to Los Angeles. After decades in Hollywood and many adventures, he moved to a farm in Vermont, where he now lives with his wife and two dogs.Don't Get Left Behind\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I didn't run away the first time. Mother did. I was only six weeks      old, just a newborn swaddled in cloth. The supermarket was just at      the bottom of the hill, only a few blocks from our apartment in      Riverdale. I'll never know what happened next. I do know that      Mother left the store, taking her groceries home, but she left one      package behind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mind you, she was busy. And adored. She had started working for      Conover's Cover Girls, a leading model agency run by Harry      Conover, then the fashion czar of New York. The job was the      gateway to fame, stardom, and fortune. She modeled sable pelts,      feather boas, silk brassieres, hats, bathing suits. She was close      friends with Lauren Bacall, who also started her career as one of      Harry Conover's Cover Girls, and always ran late to auditions.      Maybe that was why, in the bustle of juggling grocery parcels and      a budding career, something had to get overlooked and left behind      in the aisle of a supermarket.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Unfortunately, that something was an infant. And, most      unfortunately, that infant was me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When I asked her about it years later, at least her answer was      honest.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I just forgot,\" she said. But I never did.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It would not be the last time she left me someplace. When I was      five years old, perhaps the earliest age a parent can legally send      a child away, I was enrolled in Mrs. Hunt's Boarding School, a      depository for errant children, in Cedarhurst, Long Island. My      memories? Pulling up to the brick building in a taxi, dressed in a      suit and tie, the late spring snow dusting over the windshield in      flakes that quickly disappeared.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mrs. Hunt was the headmistress, and she scared me. Even at that      age I could recognize an attractive woman, but her blue eyes were      cold, austere, and judgmental. My mother and I sat across from her      at her desk, my legs dangling from the seat. Mrs. Hunt listened as      Mother told her how I had become a difficult child at home.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The problem was, I was listening too. Apparently, I was a naughty,      unloving, unmanageable boy. This was news to me. I wanted to speak      up. She's lying! But, being five, I was not adept at personal      representation. So I just sat there, and soon I was watching the      taillights of her taxi disappear through the windows. I chased      after her, and when I knew she was not coming back and I could not      catch her, I hid under the yellow flowers of a forsythia bush,      already in bloom in spite of the late snowfall. As I had yet to      learn the finer intricacies of covert operations, I was soon      discovered, picked up under the arms by Mrs. Hunt, and ferried      through the dorm, which for some reason smelled like burned toast,      and into a quaint room. I watched the heavy door close behind me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The truth was, I wasn't a bad kid. I just missed my father. And      imagining him coming to rescue me, wearing the maroon Woolrich      coat he always did when we went fishing, the hood hanging back      over his shoulders, got me through my days. When was he coming to      get me?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e At night, I cried myself to sleep at Mrs. Hunt's, staring at the      ceiling. My mother was wrong about me, and I knew it. If I had      known more about her past or had the ability to understand that      she was doing her best, it would have been different. But I was a      five-year-old; my emotional maturity and deep sense of empathy      were less than developed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Your Body Can Do Anything You Put Your Mind To\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The truth is, Mother was not suited for parenthood, a predilection      that was not her fault. Her own mother had died in front of her,      suffering a stroke in a shop the family ran in Brooklyn. Her      untimely death left my mother, Greta, and her older brother, Eli,      to fend for themselves. They had their father, my grandfather      Alexander, but he was a radical eccentric, an intellectual, and a      drifter. And after my grandmother's death, drift he did.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Alexander was disabled, so it's amazing he drifted so far, landing      on that pirate boat off Costa Rica and living for a time on a      Navajo reservation. As a young child he developed a bone disease,      osteomyelitis, and his legs never grew. His disease was difficult      to treat professionally. So he treated it himself, most      unprofessionally: On his shin, there was deep open wound that      revealed his faulty bones. He'd take out his pocketknife, flip      open the blade, and start carving away at his shin bone, eliciting      a terrible odor that reminded me of rotten meat. I don't know why      cutting up his own leg caused such a foul smell or why it was      therapeutic, but I do know it happened. I assure you. I saw it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As odd as he was, Alexander was an inspiration. To compensate for      his failing legs, he followed an intense muscle-building regimen      for his upper torso, which came to resemble that of a Greek god.      He was so strong he could perform an iron cross, a gymnast's      maneuver in which he suspended himself between two steel rings      with his arms held horizontally. And yet he couldn't even walk on      his own. To steady himself, my grandfather used a shillelagh, a      cane made from dark hardwood, which doubled as a cudgel to      threaten anyone who disagreed with his Bolshevik politics, which      was just about everyone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He was hardly a nurturing soul. Once, I remember Flight, our      springer spaniel, jumped up on the nightstand and ate my      grandfather's dentures, then washed them down with a delicious      black slipper. Grandpa was pissed. Shillelagh in one hand raised      for battle and the surviving slipper in the other, he hobbled      spastically after the frightened dog, frantically whipping the air      with the footwear.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'll kill that fucking mutt,\" he said, expectorating brown      spittle from the Ivanhoe tobacco curled up in his lip. In his      frenetic effort to attack the dog, he lost his balance. But the      poor dog lost much more. Terrified, Flight sprinted toward the      second-floor window and, true to his name, jumped out. (The dog      survived his fall, but he ended up with a limp, just like      Grandpa.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Grandpa was caustic and unpredictable, but he was a dreamer, and      his mind swirled with energy and fantastic ideas. He was an      amateur mason and liked working with stone, and one of his many      cockeyed ideas was to invent a doghouse made from concrete. If he      could prefab the design (God knows how), he calculated a massive      fortune would follow. Not surprisingly, the cement doghouse never      made it to market, but his own personal adventure stories were so      riveting, they would inspire my own wayward travels. I remember      him describing the way he converted his Model A Ford into a      camper, retrofitting the back into his own sleeping quarters in      which he caravaned across the country. I can almost see him      stopping at those Navajo reservations, regaling the Native      American chiefs there with tales of  his travels and teaching them      herbal remedies found in nature, or, more likely, the Yiddish      theater. During the Great Depression he'd arrived in Los Angeles      and, with his knowledge about the body and his own natural      strength, helped found Muscle Beach. Then he was off to Central      America. I never learned how he found work as a cook on a pirate      ship, but he did tell me they smuggled mahogany out of Costa Rica.      His was a wild life, but as he explored the world, Mother and Eli      were left at home to fend for each other.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There Are All Different Kinds        of Heroes\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Before he disappeared to trek around the world in search of      adventure, Alexander left the custody of my mother and her      brother, Eli, to a handful of relatives, who shuffled them between      their homes like playing cards. The pride of the family was Eli,      who first lived in Jackson Heights with Uncle Louis. Uncle Louis      worked part-time as a masseuse in the Catskill resorts, never went      anywhere without a cigar in his mouth, shot craps in his basement,      and possessed the family gene that made him sharply critical of      everyone except himself. A cast of cantankerous characters-Cousin      Paul, Uncle Max, Cousin Herbie, and Monroe, each a bit eccentric      in his own special way-also helped raise my mother and Eli for a      while. Not having a family or place of their own left its mark.      Eli and my mother rarely had their own clothes as children, always      the recipients of hand-me-downs from the cousins and other family      members. My mother dreamed of a better life-or at least clothes      that were her own-for herself and Eli.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Soon, she would dream only for herself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My uncle Eli graduated from the Naval Academy in Annapolis, and,      since the war had begun, he was promptly shipped out to one of the      farthest outposts: the South Pacific theater.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e With her mother gone and her absentee father wandering the country      in his camper, my mother's closest family member was Eli. He      raised her as best he could. Back in New York, along with her      relatives, she eagerly read his letters from the front. Shortly      after the letters stopped, the military car arrived with the      navy's regrets from Washington. There had been an attack. He had      been on a destroyer, working as a lieutenant. It was a dangerous      assignment, considering Japanese destroyers owned those waters.      Inevitably, a kamikaze pilot had attacked them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Inside their boat, the sailors were rocked, scrambling to put out      fires and keep the oncoming water from sinking the ship. Eli was      down in the hull, pushing through the chambers, trying to close      the large doors to keep more water from coming onboard. The water      kept rising, though. He came to a door and started to close it,      but there was no way to close it and get to safety behind it. As      the water filled up the chamber around him, he grabbed the wheel      and started turning it to lock the door tight, ensuring that the      others might have a chance to live and guaranteeing that he would      not.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Many years later, long after the war, Mother traveled to the South      Pacific to visit the grave marker with his name on it, which had      been placed in New Caledonia. She must have wondered why the      forces of nature had colluded so heavily against her, first making      her father disabled, then taking her mother before her own eyes,      and finally leaving her hero brother dead in foreign waters.      Without Eli, my mother's only protector was gone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It's one thing to understand the magnitude of these losses, one      after another, intellectually. It's quite another to understand      them emotionally. It took me some years to comprehend it all.      About fifty, if we're being honest. But, many, many years later,      on a dock overlooking a lake in Arizona, my mother and I would      talk, deeply, honestly, sincerely. She would apologize. And I      would forgive her. I came to understand that her circumstances      cornered her and drove her to selfishness. With everyone gone,      she'd had to fend for herself, she must have thought. And maybe      that's why she occasionally left me. And why she left my father.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He was a jock and a bon vivant of his own making. Sure, he had      dreams of fortune, but my dad, Milton, was always more than      satisfied with what was in front of him. He had been a semipro      basketball player for a brief time, standing at the towering      height of five foot eight, and was so quick on his feet that he      beat the New York City quarter-mile champ in a race once, wearing      street shoes. He trained boxers and became a physical education      teacher, an outdoorsman, and a fly-fishing fanatic. He had the      bank account to show for it. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When I was a boy, my uncle Herbie, my dad's brother, once told me,      \"Your father is the most successful man I know.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Why?\" I asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Because he has no ambition at all.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e His love was always good enough for me. Mother always wanted more.      A quick divorce was imminent, and after she married my wealthy      stepfather and carted me off to the suburbs, I was always trying      to find my way back to my father. I'd escape during the middle of      the day and at night. I'd sneak onto trains, run from the Harlem      stop to his apartment, and listen to him in the other room on the      phone with my mother.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I've got him,\" he'd say, and in the days or hours we could spend      together, I'd have him, following him everywhere. He was my      protector, my hero.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Someday you'll understand,\" he'd said about the fight and ensuing      legal battle over my custody. He was right. Eventually, I      understood. But eventually takes a long time to arrive. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e You Are Who You Know\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In the mornings, I'd stay on the couch under the sheets he kept      for me in the closet and listen to him leave about half an hour      before the sun came up. He'd kiss me on the forehead, then      disappear out the front door to do roadwork. For a time, he was      managing a prizefighter, an Irish prospect turned stumblebum named      Jerry McCarthy, whose idea of roadwork was six miles followed by      at least six Tom Collinses.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"He's a coward,\" he told me about McCarthy. \"He can only fight      when he's drunk.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e After those runs, he'd dress up, slipping his coach's whistle      around his neck, and wait for the Colonel. The Colonel was an odd      character who, like so many, adored my father; in his case, so      much so that he volunteered to be his chauffeur. The Colonel was      the owner of an old Lincoln that was so beat-up it would have      drawn glares and jeers in Tijuana. My father didn't care what the      car looked like. He saluted him with ceremony every morning.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Colonel, take me uptown,\" he'd say, snapping his hand in a salute      like a field commander.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Yes, sir,\" the Colonel would say, saluting with the wrong hand      and steering his limousine of sorts in the direction of James      Monroe, the high school where my father worked, in Fort Apache,      then and now one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in the Bronx.      There he maintained an eclectic group of friends-the maintenance      staff, the crossing guards-and during breaks he would disappear      into the boiler room to take a slug from his discreetly stashed      bottle of Hiram Walker bourbon and play a few games of pinochle      with the janitors and other coaches. He never spent the money he      earned in those card games on himself; instead, he used his      winnings on new uniforms, shoes, and equipment for students who      couldn't afford them. He must have been up in winnings one year,      because he financed his own basketball team and snuck them into      the high school league.","brand":"Dutton","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303346524389,"sku":"NP9781101986233","price":27.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781101986233.jpg?v=1730753965","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/stay-interestingisbn-9781101986233","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}