On November 5, 2022, I surrendered to the inevitable. After years of verbally skewering friends, enemies, celebrities, and any innocent acquaintance who might catch my roving eye as I pontificated from a podium, I agreed to subject myself in public to all the abuse and aspersions a jury of three rowdy peers and one rebellious son could hurl at me in ninety minutes -- all for a good cause, of course.
How this originated will be revealed in good time. Suffice it to say that, once I took up the gauntlet, it was only natural that I partner with the non-profit agency of which I was currently chairman of the Board of Directors, Big Brothers Big Sisters of Central Virginia (BBBSCVA). Not only is its mission one which businesses and individuals would surely support, its staff had effectively orchestrated similar events in the past, most notably the long-running "Dancing With the Stars."
Big Brothers Big Sisters is a social action program whereby children between the ages of five and eleven, most from at-risk, single-parent environments, are paired with volunteer adults, often as young as college-age, who serve as mentors, confidantes, and counselors. Hundreds of successful outcomes over the years have demonstrated that the influence of a value-oriented role model can be the determining factor in whether a youth realizes his or her full potential for interpersonal, workforce, and community engagement.
With "Dancing" having been suppressed for two years by Covid and waning in popularity, the BBBSCVA Board of Directors and its Executive Director, Ash Gorman, enthusiastically embraced the concept of a Roast -- targeted at me -- as a suitable, and perhaps more lucrative, alternative.
For expert assistance, I enlisted Dawn Blankinship, a former BBBSCVA employee who had staged a number of its fundraisers in the past. She quickly assembled a talented committee which included Ash; his Director of Development, Jessica Merrow; media consultant Nina Porter; Schewel Furniture Company Director of Advertising Scott Allen; Liz Piasecki, my executive assistant; and, of course, our Roast participants.
Anticipating three hundred attendees, we contacted the staff at the Academy Center of the Arts, and reserved the Joy and Lynch Christian Warehouse Theatre, where the auditorium could accommodate table seating for all and the lobby was spacious enough for a cocktail hour and buffet servings.
Having cultivated a number of professional relationships over the years and hopeful that additional friends would rally to the campaign, I set a goal of obtaining $100,000 in sponsorships, only to be pleasantly surprised when it became apparent that that figure would be easily surpassed. Every prospect I approached was gracious enough to commit either $5000 as a "Big" or $2500 as a "Little," which entitled the contributor to ten seats at the event, an open bar, dinner, and recognition in the program and on a video feed. All of those benefactors are listed below, with the exception of Glideaway Bed Carriage, who signed on at the last minute.
Thirty-eight tables exceeded our room capacity of thirty-two, but many sponsors declined to fill their seats, which enabled us to sell six extra tables as well as fifty individual tickets at $100 each. At 3:00 PM on Saturday, November 5, we had 316 confirmed reservations, although probably twenty-five were unable to attend due to illness or sudden change of plans. Our total gross receipts were $150,000, which netted BBSCVA $125,000 after deducting $25,000 for expenses.
It's customary for the Academy to serve a special cocktail concocted and named by the host, an offer we took advantage of by honoring my ninety-seven-year-old mother with her favorite: Helene's Chivas on the Rocks, at least one of which she has consumed every day of her life since turning twenty-one.
Jessica Merrow persuaded her husband Sean, proprietor of the fine downtown restaurant Grey's, to share his culinary skills, and I doubt any one was disappointed in the delicious menu he prepared: tiger shrimp and charcuterie board appetizers; house salad queso fresco with choice of dressings; smoked trout cakes; grilled chicken with apple butter, thyme, white cheddar, and bacon; herb-crusted pork loin with apple compote; shrimp and grits; collard greens and garlic mashed potatoes sides; and desert pastries.
Since every fundraiser has a silent auction or a live auction or both, I concluded that something in that vein might be appropriate. As we weren't really interested in soliciting our sponsors for more money -- they had already been very generous -- what could better set the tone for the evening's merriment than a fake auction, an offering of prizes no one would want, much less bid for? A little creative thinking birthed the following items, each of which Scott Allen enhanced with an appropriate graphic:
A. Dinner for six cooked by Marc Schewel in his microwave oven
B. Six free tickets to the Lynchburg Christmas Parade
C. Your portrait painted by George Dawson's dog Zoey
D. One ski lesson by George Dawson at the Liberty University Snowflex
E. Overnight excursion at Matt Schewel's tree house with s'mores homemade by Ana and Ben Schewel
F. "Who's on First" performed by Bill Bodine and Charlie Catalano in your home
G. Four-inch square of repair leather from Moore and Giles
H. Finger-painted collage by Paul Munro first-graders
I. Schewels Home red hat autographed by Ray Snead
J. One bridge lesson for four in your home by Marc Schewel provided you feed him dinner
As folks gathered in the lobby and made their way into the amphitheater, they were serenaded by the soothing sounds of Frank Sinatra as sung by my niece's father-in-law, Tracey Bentley of Mount Airy, NC, whose melodies echo the voice of "'Ol Blue Eyes" as exquisitely as any pretender in the Schewels Home three-state footprint.
My handlers insisted that I plant myself on an elevated platform in front of the audience where all my facial and bodily reactions would be nakedly exposed as one insult after another was flung at me ruthlessly and relentlessly. But I respectfully rejected the gaudy, velvet-covered, crowned throne which the Academy unearthed from its prop repository, and settled instead for a slightly-worn lounge chair borrowed from the floor display at a local furniture store.
I was fortunate to recruit a cast of rogues as wily, wicked, and witty as any professional troupe and guaranteed to generate ninety minutes of non-stop laughter with a riotous repertoire of brash, bawdy, and brutal jokes and stories: Bill Bodine, frequent master of ceremonies, popular actor, inveterate quipster; my son, Matt Schewel, who leaped at the opportunity to deploy his considerable journalistic and improvisational comedic skills to eviscerate his father; George Dawson, health care visionary, prolific raconteur, relentless fundraiser, culinary virtuoso, and accomplished artist; Frank Snyder, road warrior, furniture rep extraordinaire, industry spokesperson, and master storyteller; and Ray Snead, legendary bon vivant, humorist, and yarn spinner, whose reputation for lambasting friends and acquaintances was sure to draw a crowd.
I asked each participant to supply an abbreviated biography loosely based on facts, which, after some minor editing, would be included in the program. Each one is reproduced below, followed by the speaker's remarks. Bill Bodine had not prepared a script, but was able to recall a few of his impromptu one-liners.
BILL BODINE BIO
Bill was born in a small log cabin in Kentucky, and learned to read by candlelight before moving to Illinois and running for the U.S. Senate against Stephen Douglas. Oh, wait . . . That was that other president.
Actually, he was born in Trenton, NJ, the son of a Scottish immigrant and a petty thief. His early years were marked by gross underachievement and a false sense of impending greatness.
His academic prowess became evident in high school, when he graduated in the upper half of his class -- by one student. His social graces earned him recognition by his classmates as "most likely to succeed at something not yet identified" but "least likely to get a date at the senior prom." His athletic career was brief and unremarkable, as his quick wit failed to compensate for his lack of speed and size and a tendency to direct snarky comments at his coaches. He finally found one sport he could excel at: power-lifting beer glasses, which enabled him to drown his ineptitude in foam-induced fantasies.
Bill enrolled at Furman University before realizing it was in South Carolina where his New Jersey rudeness and accent fit in like a walrus at a beauty pageant. When he learned that no alcohol was allowed on campus, he hastily retreated to Lynchburg college, where a similar ban was easily circumvented by a smuggling scheme operated by the Jersey student body -- which was larger than than all the other kids back in Jersey.
Bill's life changed when he discovered he had a talent for acting. Pretending he was someone other than himself -- that is, someone who was educated, well-spoken, and amiable -- enabled him to hoodwink a surfeit of bosses, co-workers, and clients and navigate a circuitous career that ultimately culminated in the presidency of the Greater Lynchburg Community Foundation. His recent retirement could have been better timed: two weeks before the stock market crashed.
Bill is eternally grateful to his amazing wife Terry for agreeing to marry someone with such a shady past. Most people think she either lost a bet or succumbed to one of Bill's dastardly deceptions. Terry admits she was reluctant to go out with a man of so many roles, but says her reservations vanished when he revealed his true self -- on their second date.
BILL BODINE REMARKS
I'm honored to be here tonight. I was actually a last-minute fill-in for a couple of celebrities who were originally scheduled to be your MC. But for some reason Kyrie Irving and Kanye West were suddenly unavailable. (Irving and West had recently been widely censured for broadcasting ethnic slurs.)
It is appropriate that we honor Marc Schewel this evening since he has been so generous to this community. After all, he should be, given all the furniture that local citizens purchase from Schewels Home. No one in this room, of course.
We've all seen Marc running through the streets of Lynchburg at one time or another. His teeny-tiny steps are so familiar; he looks like a penguin who's late for a feeding. When I asked Marc if he was still running, he said he was getting too old and had switched to walking. That kind of surprised me because I didn't think it possible for him to move any slower.
Our first speaker is Matt Schewel, who is allegedly Marc's son. I mean, look at him. He's tall; he's handsome. It's hard to believe, isn't it?
I'm sorry, Ray. I've been mispronouncing your name. After hearing you speak, I know you're not "Ray Snead." You're "Ray Snide."
MATT SCHEWEL BIO
Matt was born in Lynchburg, VA on January 30, 1982, the youngest and worst-behaved child of Marc Schewel and Betty Rau. He is the fifth generation of the Schewel family to work in the furniture business but the first to do so voluntarily.
Matt had many interests as a child, but the furniture business was not one of them. He excelled in writing and social studies, winning a prize in the fourth grade for his essay, "Why I Will Never Sell Furniture."
At the age of eleven, Matt moved to Charleston, SC. While attending middle school there, he dated the daughter of a local weatherman at the behest of his mother, who was anxious to obtain early hurricane warnings. He spent his high school years in Concord, NH, where he learned that maple syrup is "wicked good" and narrowly escaped being crushed during the toppling of the Old Man of the Mountain.
At a towering 6'2" and in the interest of diversity, he was recruited by Coach K to serve as Duke University Blue Devil mascot, a role he held for one preseason game. He was later transferred to the football team, which never won a game during his four-year tenure.
After graduation, Matt decided to leave Durham and teach elementary school Spanish in order to meet and impress Latina Women. The plan came to fruition when his fluency drew the attention of the lovely and intelligent Patricia Rodriguez, a native of the Dominican Republic. Her father, Don Julio, a notable physician and baseball lover, allowed the couple to marry provided they produce at least three competent outfielders and train them by the age of four to complete a baseball scorecard.
Having attained his goal, Matt fled the halls of academia for the swamp of Washington, DC, in pursuit of a calling even more scorned than mid-level bureaucracy: journalism. Fortunately, he chose a field so abstract, esoteric, and downright boring that his articles generated little interest, attracted few readers, and avoided any hint of controversy. In between his puff pieces on anti-dumping duties and tariff-rate quotas, he and Patricia found time to start a family. In 2014 their first child stepped up to the plate: Ana Maria Rodriguez Ortiz Pujols Sosa Martinez Schewel.
Two years later, Matt moved back to Lynchburg, and traded his state-of-the-art laptop computer for a Schewels 1995 desktop terminal. While the original plan was for him to take over the company upon his father's retirement, Marc has found a way to cling to power while making Matt do all the work. Between that and his growing progeny, which now number three, Matt spends all of his free time in the fifteen-minute drive from his home on Locksview Road to his office at 915 Main Street.
MATT SCHEWEL REMARKS
It's an honor for me to speak tonight since there were so many other people who wanted to make jokes at my Dad's expense. At first I was a little hesitant, but then I figured, what the hell, if people don't think my speech is funny, I can always use it as a eulogy -- although hopefully that won't be for quite a while.
Some of you may know that a few months back my Dad gave a speech at the Lynchburg Bar Association, where a member of the audience urged him to sit down after his remarks veered into Covid skepticism. While a lot of people might think I was offended by this, on the contrary I'm glad that after thirty years on the Lynchburg public speaking circuit, someone finally had the courage to try to shut him up. Spoiler Alert: it didn't work.
That incident exemplified Marc Schewel's cardinal rule of public speaking: it's only a good speech if you piss somebody off, and it's only a great speech if that person is another speaker. Like the time he and Jerry Falwell Jr. both received awards at the same event. It was right after Schewels closed its downtown store, and my Dad said he needed to get together with Jerry Jr. and explain to him the real meaning of a non-profit business.
A conversation after the event led to a love-hate relationship between the two. Jerry Jr. loved that my Dad sold him a comfortable corner chair for his bedroom at a deep discount, but hated it when my Dad said he couldn't return the chair when he no longer needed it.
I guess the two men realized they had a lot in common. They're both from prominent Lynchburg families. They both worked in the family business. And they both have a pool boy! But what my Dad and Jerry Jr. most have in common is that their love lives are the talk of Lynchburg. Yes, I'm referring to my Dad's long list of wives and girl friends.
Which reminds of the time the time he decided to name all new models of mattresses after current and former significant others. His girl friend at the time was really excited to learn that the top-of-the-line mattress was named after her -- until she went to the store and a saw a luxurious pillow top mattress named after his previous girl friend. Needless to say, that was the quickest Schewels ever discontinued a mattress.
But I have to give him credit. He's never been shy with the ladies. Back when I was single, I asked him for a few pointers about how to meet girls. "It's easy," he said. "I just think of a woman in Lynchburg whom I want to go out with. Then I look up her number in the phone book, and I ask her out to dinner!"
Now he's moved on to internet dating. In preparing for this speech, I thought I should do a little bit of research, so I logged into www.seniorpeoplemeet.com to get the full story. I couldn't find anything under Marc Schewel, but I kept searching and finally happened upon this profile:
User Name: Daddy Marc
Age: 74ish
Sex: Yes, please
Preferred Pronoun: Thou
Location: Lynchburg, but willing to travel to . . . Charlottesville, Roanoke, Danville, Altavista, South Boston, South Hill, and forty-three other cities and towns in the tri-state area.
Hobbies: Cycling, wine-tasting, travel -- basically anything my girl friends tell me to do.
About Me: I like long walks in furniture showrooms, fine wines as long as they cost less than $20 a bottle, and eating food off other people's plates. I'm looking for a woman who likes big balls . . . because I have so many charity galas to go to. I prefer someone who is not concerned with looks or height and who doesn't mind finding hair in unexpected places. She must get along equally well with attention-starved 97-year-olds and boisterous 7-year-olds. If you're looking for someone to make you the best peanut butter and jelly sandwich you've ever had, send me a message.
Wow! That's truly frightening.
It's been a long journey, but I know I speak for my two siblings when I say we are happy that our Dad has finally found a woman who will stick with him through thick and thin and put up with all his bad habits. So, please, let's have a big round of applause for his mother, Helene P. Schewel.
A lot of people ask me what it's like to work for my Dad. Let me just say I've learned a lot from him over the years about how to run a furniture company -- mostly what not to do. So let me share a few pointers:
Number one: When you visit one of your furniture stores, always remember to walk right past all the employees without acknowledging them and go find the store manager.
Number two: Don't remember the names of any employees, even if they have worked there thirty years.
Number three: Start moving furniture and don't let anyone help you.
You see, my Dad's main form of therapy is moving furniture -- and breaking furniture. He would go into a store unannounced, set his brown bag lunch in the manager's office, and just start moving stuff. Then, a half hour later, the staff would hear a huge crash. Marc had broken a curio, shattering all the glass and injuring himself in the process. When an employee would hurry over to ask if he needed help, he would just respond: "I'd offer to buy it, but I already own it." Then, after refusing first aid, he would go to the break room, and eat his peanut butter and jelly sandwich alone.
Part of me thinks we should go easy on the guy. I mean, he's had a hard life. For the first half, anywhere he goes, people are asking him: "Are you Bert Schewel's son? You mean 'Schewel,' like the furniture store?" Now, when he goes out, all he hears is "Are you related to Ana Schewel? That little girl who acts in the Academy shows?"
It must have been difficult being the son of Bert Schewel, because those were some big shoes to fill. I mean, do any of you know what it's like to grow up with a father who's good-looking, gregarious, a celebrated humorist, and community hero? Seriously, I'm asking if any of you know, because I don't.
One thing you probably know about my Dad is that he's a huge nerd. His favorite activities are reading and writing. I mean . . . in high school he was known for his coke bottle glasses and his presidency of the Latin Club. He was never much for sports in high school, but I do believe he lettered in bridge.
I asked my grandmother if she had any embarrassing stories from his high school days, and she did provide this juicy tidbit. "The only thing I remember is that every time I would leave the house, I would drive by his window, and he would always be sitting there studying." Which is funny because if you drive by that same window today, sixty years later, you will see him in the same position doing the same thing.
Writing is a hobby he took up later in life. Blogs had just hit the scene, and I was doing one myself. I suggested he try his hand at it. Since then, he's written 112 articles consisting of 392,000 words -- so many that my computer froze when I was trying to add them up.
Let me see a show of hands if you've read one of my Dad's blog posts. I was going to ask for a show of hands from people who actually FINISHED one of his blog posts, but I didn't want to embarrass him.
I'm still waiting for him to post a blog with all of his parenting advice, because there were really were some gems. For example, my Dad's advice on relationships? "Use a condom." (True story) On career choice? "Any job is great, as long as it doesn't delay joining the family business for too long."
As for work-life balance, he was always happy to spend time with his kids on weekends . . . as long as it was at the store. There were always fun activities to share there . . . like answering the phone, testing out new waterbeds, tracking down delinquent customers, and -- I kid you not -- chasing down a burglar who stole a boom box from the showroom. But what he really loved was taking us on vacations . . . as long as they were to Myrtle Beach or High Point.
But he always made room for us in his life . . . like the way he fit the three of us in his two seater Mazda RX7. He always let us enjoy the sunroof . . . which was basically us lying on our backs in the glass trunk while he drove around town with an open beer in his hand.
And don't get me started on how cheap he is. Am I right? He's so cheap he's the only Jewish person who doesn't believe in circumcision -- because he thinks it's a rip-off.
If you really want to understand how cheap he is, just take a visit to his house on 3241 Elk Street. The first thing you notice is that he hasn't updated anything in fifteen years. This includes the furniture. I guess even paying wholesale at his own store is too much. And beware of consuming any food in his pantry because most of it expired in 2012.
Then there's his pool, which a few years ago sprung a leak which causes the water level to drop constantly. But he's so cheap that, instead of fixing the leak, he'd rather keep a hose running in the pool all summer. Meanwhile, he's got a family of bats in the attic, a mold garden growing in the basement, and a groundhog living in an empty hot tub he hasn't used in twenty years.
In fact he's only NOT cheap when it comes to three things: baseball tickets, his grandchildren, and helping out this community. Let's give him a round of applause for all the money he's raised for Big Brothers Big Sisters!
I thought I would wrap up my remarks by hitting upon a sensitive subject for my Dad. No, I'm not talking about his lifetime Viagra subscription. I'm talking about the $64,000 question: when is he going to retire? I get asked this all the time. I ask it to myself all the time. I ask it to him all the time. Somehow, I can never get a straight answer.
When I was thinking about coming to work for the family business, my dad tried to encourage me by saying, "You can try it out for three years, and if you don't like it, you can always go back to your old job."
Well, if any of you have worked in your family business, you know this is not true. Once you're in, you can't get out. It's like the mafia. But in that spirit, I'd like to speak directly to my Dad: "You can try out retirement for three years, and if you don't like it, TOO BAD. YOU CAN'T COME BACK!"
Thanks a lot! You all have been a great crowd. I hope I have offended at least one of you so that I made my Dad proud.
GEORGE DAWSON BIO
Unlike Marc Schewel, who was born into one of Lynchburg's most prestigious families and who enjoyed an idyllic childhood in the Peakland-Boonsboro neighborhood, George is a relative newcomer to the area, having lived here only forty-two years. His origins were Crozet, VA, notable only for its proximity to the University of Virginia, whose elitism young George spurned in favor of the more plebeian Wofford College.
Lacking the proverbial silver spoon of a burgeoning furniture empire, George entered the muddled field of hospital administration. He was recruited by Marc's relative, Rosel Schewel, to relocate from an outpost in rural Tennessee to Lynchburg's Virginia Baptist, which he later merged with the General to create Centra Health. It took all the charm, diplomacy, and professionalism he could muster to choreograph the random motion of hundreds of doctors and thousand of health care workers, but the reward was a regional system that in size and scope soon dwarfed the Schewel enterprise.
George says his toughest challenge was juggling the aspirations, assuaging the anxieties, and tolerating the antics of his disparate Board -- of which the most disruptive member was Mr. Schewel.
After posting an unblemished record of futility in every sport he tried for thirty years -- baseball, basketball, football, golf, tennis, and pool -- Marc emerged late in life as a competent distance runner and cyclist, cruising by when George's only attempt at the Virginia Ten-Miler landed him in the Lynchburg General Emergency Room (where he had to wait an hour for admittance) and repeatedly leaving George in his wake as they cycled for a week through the Black Forest region of the Czech Republic and Austria. But when it came to hand-foot-eye coordination, not even George's expert tutelage could keep Marc upright on a pair of skis further than one hundred feet.
George and Marc both share an interest in philanthropy though from different perspectives. If Marc's resources have enabled him to provide significant support to a number of worthy projects, George's leadership in identifying and soliciting prospects and in convincing them to elevate their level of giving has been critical to the success of those projects. While someone less determined might falter, George merely smiles and keeps on talking when greeted by a "not you again" response to a phone call to a friend or by a "deer in the headlights" look when he shows up an acquaintance's home, pledge card in hand.
Unlike Marc, George has been married to his childhood sweetheart Rosemary for fifty-three years. Marc says if he had been able to lasso a childhood sweetheart, he most certainly would have married her -- for at least thirty years.
Despite their differences, Marc and George have much in common, and share many passions and opinions. They both believe in social justice, hard work, free enterprise, the value of relationships, and Medicare for All. They are most proud of their collaborative efforts to improve access to their respective places of businesses: the Midtown Connector and two-way traffic on Main Street.
GEORGE DAWSON REMARKS
Well, Marc, this is quite a crowd that turned out for you. And such an interesting group. You have managed to pack 318 people into the Warehouse Theater. I'm just hoping the City Fire Marshall doesn't stop by.
By my estimate, at least half of the attendees are previous recipients of a generous Schewel donation. There's no way they would take a chance on ticking you off after you told them they had to buy a table.
Then there's the "furniture industry" crowd. For them, what's not to like? Free drinks, free dinner, a nice tax write-off, and a chance to make a sale.
Marc, the bad news is that the most of the rest of us are here because we are planning to ask YOU for money in the near future. There's no way we are missing this night either.
It's very impressive. In fact, I haven't seen so many people lined up in anticipation of money since I bought my Powerball ticket last night.
Speaking of the lottery, I see Ash Gorman sitting over there with a huge grin on his face. He's feeling like Big Brothers Big Sisters just won the lottery. Thanks to you, Marc, he's already made next year's budget, and is planning on coasting for the next twelve months.
Marc, I don't know why you bothered to list the members of the event committee in tonight's program. We know you micro-managed this thing from start to finish -- recruiting the roasters, deciding on the venue, selling the sponsorships, assigning seats, selecting the menu, planning the menu, and even writing our bios. I know of only one person in Lynchburg who's a more compulsive micro-manager than you: me.
I am flattered to be speaking tonight. When I saw the names of the other participants, I quickly recognized that I was out of my league and had no business being on the program.
For instance, Bill Bodine, our emcee this evening, is a really gifted actor and comedian. Bill, I'm sorry things didn't work out for you and the Greater Lynchburg Community Foundation, but I'm glad you landed this gig to tide you over until you can find something permanent.
And what about Matt Schewel? Talk about grace under pressure. Can you imagine what it would be like to spend every day working for a CEO like Marc who was also your Dad? Matt, is it true you have to stand for inspection every morning?
I hope we will get some real inside industry dirt from Frank Snyder, a long-time business associate of Marc's. I don't know about you, but I'm dying to find out what really goes on at that High Point Furniture Market every year. Did you ever stop to wonder why every trip Marc makes to the Market ends up with thousands of overstocked recliners? Frank, we'd like to know if Marc is just not good at buying, or could there be too much partying and alcohol involved? And so . . . just a few weeks after he returns to the store, we see and hear, "Everything must go! Prices slashed! No payments until 2034!"
And finally, there's Rayner Snead. I truly have no business on the same dais with a legendary wit like Ray Snead. Over he years he's roasted and toasted our community's best and brightest. Before he got so old, he was always sought after for an event like this one.
Friends, in all honesty, I shouldn't be here tonight. In fact, I was reluctant to accept Marc's invitation to be one of the roasters. By the way, is it just me, or didn't it seem weird to any of you when Marc reached out and asked you, "Please make fun of me. I like to to be laughed at?" I looked up Webster's definition of masochistic: "deriving gratification from one's own pain or humiliation."
Marc and I have been friends and colleagues for more than thirty years. He was on my Board of Directors when I was CEO at Centra. (By the way, we both left Centra before the merry-go-round). We've raised money for various community campaigns. Together we've ridden bicycles through the Czech Republic and Bavaria's Black Forest, driven to Nationals Park to watch our favorite baseball teams, and enjoyed some five-star meals. As for traveling, Marc's advice is, "Never buy trip insurance. The way I look at it, if the trip gets canceled, you end up saving money anyway."
Over the years Marc and I have shared opinions, questions, and advice, some wanted and some not. For example, Marc might say to George, "Here's what you should tell your doctors." And George might say to Marc, "Maybe you should be a little more discreet when you are behind the microphone."
Marc is one of the smartest and complex persons I have ever known. He describes himself as a child as a "cerebral, insecure introvert." He's frugal yet generous, private but anxious to talk about himself, conservative and progressive, an astute businessman but avid about his non-business interests, self-assured but self-doubting. He insists he's non-athletic, but he's addicted to fitness and enjoys running and cycling. He's a thinker, a debater, and an avid reader.
It can't be easy to grow up in a town like Lynchburg as a member of a high-profile family with parents like Bert and Helene Schewel. Bert was an influential business leader, humorist, and raconteur. Embracing philanthropy late in life, Helene has been a major supporter of a number of local educational, cultural, and social service organizations.
Marc in his own way has built upon and surpassed this legacy. His Board membership is too lengthy to enumerate, including among others, Centra, Randolph College, New Vistas School, Habitat for Humanity, HumanKind, the Salvation Army, and of course the YMCA, to which he and his family have made the lead gift to renovate the Downtown branch.
Speaking of Downtown, I can't overlook the recent move of the Schewel corporate headquarters to the Galleria. To appreciate the magnitude of this upgrade, you would have to have visited Marc's former office in the old Schewel building at 11th and Main and ridden up to the third floor in an antiquated freight elevator with a hand-operated sliding cage door. Marc is fond of inviting guests to lunch in the courtyard of the Galleria to regale them with story of how he got "a great deal" on his new building.
It's hard to walk the line at an event like this. Some subjects are clearly off the table as too sensitive. Far be it from me to mention anything about Marc's ongoing problems with members of the opposite sex, both wives and girl friends. No, I would never bring that up in public.
Other topics might risk boring the audience, like a summary of Marc's blog posts -- by my count one hundred twelve autobiographical articles since 2007, each one long, detailed, and occasionally insightful.
Then there his quirks and fetishes -- often unexpected and at times unfathomable. How many people do you know are fans of the Oakland Athletics baseball team and Elvis Presley -- at the same time? And now, by some strange cosmic twist of fate, the hopeless and hapless Athletics may be relocating to Las Vegas. Wow, that looks like a movie mashup of "Moneyball" and "Viva Las Vegas." I'm guessing Marc has already booked a suite at Caesar's Palace, and will soon be hanging out at the ballpark with Taylor Rodriguez and his gang of tribute artists.
So, before I sit down, I am asking you to celebrate the things we appreciate about Marc and his contributions to our community. Please get out of your seats, and sing and dance with me as we salute not "Baby Shark" but "Baby Marc." [Play video with "Baby Marc" substituting for "Baby Shark."]
FRANK SNYDER BIO
Frank was born tall. Although Goldsboro, NC, hospital records are unclear as to exactly how tall, his parents have confirmed that renowned UNC basketball coach Dean Smith was rumored to have slipped a business card into his stroller on the way home from the hospital . . . just in case. That turned out to be wishful thinking, because while Frank was born extremely tall, he was also born with an extremely low vertical leap: three inches.
Fortunately, Frank was witty and semi-intelligent enough to attend both the Universities of Virginia and North Carolina. It wasn't to obtain a graduate degree; it's just that the professors in Charlottesville tired of his idle chatter and recommended he transfer. That move distressed at least one student at the former institution as he immediately sunk to the bottom of the class, but was greeted with elation by his counterparts at the latter as each one immediately moved up in rank.
Frank's remarkable proficiency in glibness prompted him to consider a career in politics, but he ultimately rejected that line of work as beneath his lofty moral standards. Instead, he entered the furniture industry as a manufacturer's representative at the innocent age of twenty-two. It was difficult at first -- staying in Motel Sixes every night and eating at Bojangles for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, but in a few years he was earning enough to afford the Comfort Inn and Golden Corral, although his enormous appetite compelled restaurant managers to limit him to four buffet trips.
Frank has been closing sales and entertaining buyers with his showroom shenanigans for over forty years, and with two new knees and a reconstructed back is looking forward to twenty more. "Old furniture reps never die," he says, "but their chests do fall into their drawers."
FRANK SNYDER REMARKS (delivered without a single note, hesitation, or misspoken word)
Good evening.
As Bill said, I'm a furniture rep for Corinthian Furniture, and I have known Marc Schewel for over forty years. In my efforts to sell him the different lines I have been privileged to represent during that time, I have accumulated a jillion "Marc Schewel" stories. I loaded a bunch of them into what I thought was a pretty good presentation for you folks here tonight, but when I read the rough draft to my wife Melanie a few weeks ago, it lasted a smidge over three hours, forty-seven minutes, and twenty-two seconds.
NO, NO! It was good. I thought it flowed nicely, but Marc said it was too long. "We've got time constraints, and people have to get home before midnight." So I was forced against my will to narrow it down to the one story that is most revealing. I hope you enjoy it.
My story deals with the biggest issue we as sales reps have to overcome to get Marc to buy from us: his intelligence or, as I like to call it, his "brain capacity." To illustrate, my "brain capacity" is about the size of a shot glass. By comparison, Marc's BC or "brain capacity" is closer in scale to, oh say, an Olympic swimming pool. See what I'm up against? Which leads me to my story, which I call "Hot as a Banji."
I have been very fortunate over the years in my sales career to represent some really good furniture manufacturers, including the current factory I am privileged to represent, Corinthian Upholstery. One of the hottest, however, was a bedroom company called Trademasters, which I repped with my good friend David Moore.
David, where are you?
Trademasters produced five-piece bedroom groups that were exceptionally priced. The factories in China they used knew how to build a product that was so superior to anything being done in the U.S. that it was like shooting ducks in a barrel. Since that time, all kinds of tariffs have been imposed to level the playing field. But this was before then. We had a hot line, and everyone knew it.
So, David and I were in the Trademasters showroom at the High Point Furniture Market studying our prices to be ready for opening day. We walked around the showroom, and came to a bay where a brand new pine bedroom was being introduced. It was exquisite: solid pine fronts; veneered tops and end panels; big, turned pilasters and shaped base rails on all case pieces; huge six-inch bed posts; and an eleven-step hand-rubbed honey pine finish.
Leaning with his hand against the armoire and smoking a cigarette (you could smoke in the showrooms back then) was the Trademasters rep from Florida, Jim Patrick. He was a snappy dresser. His plaid chartreuse sport jacket, white belt, white matching shoes, and perfect hair smacked of "old school" Florida.
"What do you boys think? Think you can sell a few of these?" he asked as he nodded toward the bedroom suit.
"Heck yeah!" we answered enthusiastically. "A ton!"
"I'll tell you what," he said as he inhaled deeply and the, for emphasis, exhaled, "that suit's hot as a banji."
"What did you say?" I wasn't sure I heard Jim correctly. "I said that suit's hot as a banji!"
I'm pretty certain neither David nor I had any remote idea what he was talking about, but we didn't care. We had our catch phrase for the market: "HOT AS A BANJI!" It was snappy. It was fresh. It was awesome. We started repeating it over and over, ecstatic over the free gift Jim Patrick had given us.
Marc and his buying entourage of Rose Evans and Dina McCray showed up first thing the next morning, and we were ready for him. "All right," Marc said, instantly getting down to business. "Let's see what you've got."
David and I were pretty smart about capitalizing on each other's strengths and weaknesses in our partnership. My memory skills and attention to detail were superior. So, when we presented product together, I was usually the pitch man. However, when it came to relationship building, there are two people in the history of time whose skills are without peer: Jesus Christ and David Moore. David could befriend a great white shark. He was -- and still is -- that good.
While I was leading Marc around the showroom, pointing out each introduction, David was doing his part -- schmoozing with Rose and Dina, whispering so as not to raise my ire as he pressed palms and passed out compliments like Hershey kisses. Finally we reached our "ace up the sleeve," our sure-fire home run, the ONE bedroom suit we just knew Marc was going to buy.
I went into my pitch. "Marc, this is our new 5150 Key Biscayne bedroom group. It features solid pine drawer fronts, veneered tops and end panels, solid pine pilasters, shaped base rails, and six-inch solid wood bedposts. Marc, this bedroom screams value, and demands an immediate slot in your bedroom line-up. In fact, of all the the new bedroom groups you will see this market, this is the one bedroom, the ONE BEDROOM, you must buy!"
Then, as I turned to face Marc, Dina, Rose, and David, I paused for suspense, and used the catch phrase I was sure would deliver the final knockout punch: "Quite simply put, Marc, this group is HOT AS A BANJI!"
Marc had been scribbling something on his note pad while I was talking, but now stopped and removed his glasses. "What did you say?" he asked, squinting at me as he refocused and put his glasses back on.
Itching to use the catch phrase again, I said, with emphasis this time, "I said this bedroom group is HOT - AS - A - BANJI!"
"What do you mean by that?" Marc queried. "Hot as a banji. What exactly does that mean?"
I looked at David and he looked at me. Since neither one of us had bothered to ask Jim Patrick exactly what he meant, I did what any other sales rep would have done at this point. I faked it.
"C'mon Marc. Everybody knows what that means. HOT as a banji! You know . . . hot . . . like a banji."
"I know what I heard, but I'm not sure YOU know what you mean." he said. And then Professor Marc took us to school.
"By 'hot as a banji,' do you mean 'banji': B-A-N-J-I? In black urban hip-hop culture, a banji is defined as a young black or Latino homosexual male who dresses in stereotypical masculine attire to attract the company of older men. Is that what you mean, hot as a banji?"
I looked at David, and he looked at me. No offense to young black or Latino homosexual males who dress in stereotypical masculine attire, but I'm pretty sure that's not what Jim Patrick had in mind when he said our bedroom suit was "hot as a banji."
"No," we said, "that's not it."
Marc continued. "Well, do you mean 'hot as a banshee': B-A-N-S-H-E-E? In Irish folklore, a 'banshee' is a forlorn female spirit that forebodes the impending demise of a beloved family member. Is that what you mean, hot as a banshee: B-A-N-S-H-E-E?"
I looked at David, and he looked at me. We were pretty sure Jim Patrick wasn't Irish, although he did like to drink. "No," I said, "I don't think that's it either."
Patiently, Marc continued. "Perhaps you meant 'hot as a bantam': B-A-N-T-A-M. In barnyard vernacular, a bantam rooster is smaller than your Jersey giant or Brahma varieties, but compensates for its diminished stature with a discernible cocksure swagger among the female hens, or in Latin phraseology, gallinae. Is that what you mean: 'hot as a bantam'?"
We were pretty sure there was no connection between gallinae and a pine bedroom suit, and by this time David had grown impatient. "Marc," he said, "are you going to buy this bedroom suit or not?"
"Look," Marc said, poking his bony finger in our collective faces, "when you guys figure out what you're trying to sell, I'll figure out what I'm going to buy." OUCH!
Now, what made this smack down even more painful was that while our buyer was hellbent on discovering the genealogy of the word "banji," Jim Patrick was knocking it out of the park with the very same catch phrase. Only his buyers could care less about "forlorn female spirits" or "small barnyard roosters." And do you think Jim Patrick even bothered to mention one lousy feature of that bedroom -- like solid pine pilasters or shaped base rails? Heck no. Just this same catch phrase, over and over: "Gentlemen, this here suit is 'hot as a banji.'"
And here's how his buyers responded. Badcock: "You ain't kidding. We'll take twenty containers." City Furniture: "We'll take twenty-five containers, and back it up with twenty-five more." El Dorado: "Jim Patrick, you are the best salesman ever!"
Unbelievable! But I guarantee you'll all be saying "hot as a banji" when you leave here tonight. Just be sure you use it in the right context. If your boy friend is a snappy gay dresser, then he's "hot as a banji": B-AN-J-I. If someone in your family is feeling ill and was scared by a ghost recently, they are "hot as a banshee": B-A-N-S-H-E-E. And, if you're down on the farm and see a bunch of small roosters wandering around, they are "hot as a bantam": B-A-N-T-A-M. Got it?
In 1971, there was made-for-TV movie released called "Brian's Song." It was the story of Gale Sayers and Brian Piccolo, both members of the Chicago Bears football team of the 1960's. What made this movie special was that it documented the bond that two rookies formed as teammates -- they were the first interracial teammates in the history of the NFL -- and the friendship that sustained them when tragically Brian Piccolo was struck with cancer at the age of twenty-six and died after only four seasons with the Bears.
What also made this movie memorable for me as a fourteen-year-old was the scene in which Gale Sayers -- played by Bille Dee Williams -- accepted the George S. Halas Award for Courage. In his acceptance speech, he talked not about himself but about Brian Piccolo -- played by James Caan -- and the courage he displayed each and every day in his battle with cancer.
Then Billie Dee Williams said something I will remember forever. "I love Brian Piccolo, and I'd like all of you to love him too." What did he just say? "I love Brian Piccolo?" I remember half-snickering at the line (through my tears, of course), and yet, there it was: one man openly declaring his affection for another. Remember, this was 1971, and I don't know about the rest of you guys, but there wasn't much in the way of public affection spoken back then -- by men anyway. Heck, my own father didn't tell me "I love you" until I dragged it out of him in his late 70's.
All of this is to say: "I love Marc Schewel, and I'd like all of you to love him too." Not because he's battling cancer in a made-for-TV movie, but because he's one of the most genuine people I have ever known. Marc Schewel is the real deal. His priorities are in the right place, and his example of living life is worthy of a book (or a made-for-TV movie).
I'd like to propose a toast instead of a roast: "To Marc Schewel. May his days be without end, and may his tribe increase." SALUTE!
RAY SNEAD BIO
Ray was born July 10, 1944, in Independence, MO, the name of which he has aspired to personify -- and has done so quite successfully -- by a life of relentless rebellion. "If there is a rule, it should be broken to test its sustainability and worthiness" is the precept he has faithfully followed since his earliest years.
Ray holds a record unlikely ever to be broken; he was dismissed from or suspended by every school he attended (except the University of Virginia Law School, where his military service in Vietnam earned him a special dispensation). These include Miss Jane's Kindergarten, Washington Elementary School, Woodbury Forest, Warren County High School, and Virginia Military Institute. In displays of misplaced sympathy which they afterwards regretted, the latter two actually readmitted him. His father says Ray's inability to conform is due to confusion about his conception, which occurred on a train somewhere between Hope, AK and Uncertain, TX.
Ray's greatest accomplishment was convincing his hometown sweetheart Mollie Smith to marry him fifty-five years ago, much less to stay with him all that time. He obtained her parents' reluctant permission after agreeing to take her dog along with her. Ray says the dog was called "Nugget," but the real jewel was Mollie.
In 1972, Ray joined the prestigious law firm of Edmonds, Williams, Robertson, Sackett, Baldwin, and Graves (and several others whose names were not on the masthead as they were not yet deceased). The receptionist was out of breath every time she answered the phone. Practicing law ostensibly for fifty years was just a cover for Ray's more lucrative (if you can believe it) professions as golf hustler and card shark.
He has served on a number of non-profit boards, all of which ceased to operate during his tenure.
He is a loyal friend to anyone who will invite him to a vacation home gratis. Reduced to reminiscing about "the good old days" of some of his favorite activities, he expends his still limitless energy hunting, gardening, travel, and playing with his adored grandchildren, who call him "Red Hat." You can too.
RAY SNEAD REMARKS
I will not go laboriously on and on as others have done.
I feel very much like the mosquito who flew into the nudist colony, looked around at all the exposed skin, and said, "Where do I begin?"
This is so much fun. I feel guilty taking money from Marc for doing this. Maybe he wanted editorial control. It didn't work. Are you other roasters getting paid? I would have done it for free.
You know, Marc hasn't had this much attention since his Bar Mitzvah. He had this poster done which says this is "a celebrity roast." Marc, who the hell said you were a celebrity?
I think I'll begin with my fellow roasters, a good group but each with his own limitations. I feel very comfortable with this group of unaccomplished men, none of whom have distinguished themselves.
Take Bill Bodine. He's a fine fellow, but he has precious little in his resume. By the way, Bill, thank you for the introduction. Of all I have ever received, that is the most recent.
Bill is an aspiring actor, aspiring because he doesn't always get the part for which he auditions. Recently, he tried out for a bit part -- really a cameo. He was to walk across the stage and wave to the audience. He didn't get the part so he stormed back to the director demanding an explanation. The director said, "We were hoping to get someone well-dressed and handsome."
Then there's Matt Schewel. At one point Matt was the heir apparent to the Schewel Empire, but that's gone by the wayside. With the current supply chain problem, Marc is going outside the family to someone who can really fix it: Pete Buttigieg.
Matt was initially made sales and marketing director, but the company almost went under. You've seen the ads: No Down Payment, No Interest for Twenty-Four Months, No Payments for a Year. Marc went to Matt and said, "This is killing us. Sales are up, but we're running out of cash because nobody's paying." Matt said, "Don't you know we have the right of repossession?" Marc said, "Son, do you know what a Barcalounger looks like after a year in a family of five. It looks like it's been in the feral cat section of the animal shelter." So now Matt is the assistant warehouse manager, and is doing well.
Most of those ads are so far-fetched, they make the Million Mile Warranty look real. My favorite one is "Christmas in July." I didn't think Jews celebrated Christmas, so I asked the Rabbi. He told me, "We make an exception for retailers."
I love the one with the three Schewels: Matt, Marc, and Jack all dressed up, and Marc says, "We consider our customers family." I mean, if that won't get you to buy a Barcalounger -- becoming part of the family, maybe get written into the will, or be appointed a trust beneficiary -- nothing will. As for "Bogo" ads, the "get one" is either very old inventory, or the "buy one" is way overpriced.
And of course, we have George Dawson -- a man who has an unjustified over-inflated opinion of himself. Some people refer to George as a "has been," but it's hard to be a "has been" if you're also a "never was."
George was really upset after the incident with his successor, Mr. Tibbs, and the girl in the hotel room. He said if he had only known what you could get by with, he would have had a much better time as CEO of Centra. I understand Mr. Tibbs is now teaching a course at Liberty University on leadership and morality.
George is the only guy I know who doesn't have a tie to go with a white shirt.
And then there's Frank Snyder. Who the hell is he? He's not from around here, and nobody seems to know anything about him. When I googled his name, my screen went blank. I think he's a CIA operative using furniture sales as a cover. He showed up tonight without a ticket, and almost didn't get in. Frank's claim to fame is that he looks good in cheap clothes.
But, all in all, I'm happy to be included in this group. It's so easy to look good by comparison.
So, now I turn to Marc, who makes these other fellows look like saints.
I want to start with a little history. When I came to Lynchburg fifty years ago, I was privileged (and I mean that) to be included among a group of businessmen who met every morning for coffee or breakfast at the Revco Drug Store, formerly Patterson's, on Main Street. That group included, among others, Ken White, Judge Norman Moon, Edmund Schaefer, and Bert Schewel, Marc's father, whom I became friends with.
Bert was one of the wittiest and funniest men I ever met. He could have been a stand-up comedian. He was a sought after speaker at roasts and all manner of functions. I remember one event where George Stewart was roasted by Bert, Lea Booth, and Jerry Falwell -- that would be Senior, of course. Jerry Jr. is usually tied up after dinner and otherwise occupied.
Anyway, Bert confided in me that he was concerned about his son Marc who was then in his late teens. He had sent Marc to Charm School, but he flunked out. Bert said Marc's biggest problem was maintaining a lasting relationship with members of the opposite sex.
Well, it looks like nothing much has changed over the years. Marc has had so many wives and girl friends he can't remember their names. That's why his cardinal rule is: "Never date a woman whose name is similar to an ex." For example, he would never date a Holly if he'd previously dated a Polly; that would be too confusing. Marc can attract 'em; he just can't seem to keep 'em.
Intrigued by this, I invited several of his ex-wives and ex-girlfriends to a round table discussion. A couple of bottles of wine served to loosen their tongues.
My first question to the group was, "What attracted you to Marc?" They all looked at each other, and no one spoke. "So," I said, "let me suggest a few things. He's well-educated and well-read. Is that it [No.] He's well-traveled and worldly. Is that it? [No.] He's well-spoken and has a good sense of humor. Is that it? [No.] He has no car payment. Is that it? [No.] Well, what is it?"
Finally, one woman spoke up. "It's his hair." I was dumbfounded. I'm old enough not to be surprised at most anything, and I've also spent a lot of time trying to figure out what and where the female on/off switch is, but this answer, "His hair!", left me in shock -- which was hardly mitigated when another said, "It's the perfect blend of black and gray," followed by "Yeah. And when you run your fingers through it, he purrs like a cat."
When I recovered my composure, I said, "Okay, ladies. Now what is it that typically causes the break-up?" Without hesitation, one woman spoke up. "That's easy," she said. "After the third date, he insists we pay our half."
Well, to give Marc equal time, I told him about the round table comments, and asked him what thought. He said, "As to half of them, I gave each my heart and soul, and it cost me an arm and a leg. To the other half I gave a ring, and they gave me the finger."
Recently, Marc was between girl friends, a familiar condition, and he decided to go to the Caribbean for a vacation. He checks into a fancy hotel and figures he might as well go for a swim. He puts on his bathing suit and sunglasses, and strolls out to the beach. He spies a beautiful girl sunbathing, so he saunters up to her, sucks in his stomach, puffs out his chest to the extent he is able, and says to her, "Hey, good looking where have you been all my life?" She slowly looks him up and down, and then says, "Well, for the first half of it, I wasn't even born."
Marc recently signed up for a trip for two to Greece next September, which will give him plenty of time to find a female companion. He's advertising "Dutch treat," so odds are he's gonna be traveling alone.
It reminds of the bicycle built for two he bought back when he was cycling -- before he gave it up after a Joe Biden-like crash. He could have saved his money -- at least half of it -- because he couldn't find anyone to ride in the second seat.
Here's something you probably don't know about Marc: he's a doctor. Seriously, I know he stayed at the Holiday Inn, but I had no idea he was a doctor. A sign on his desk says: Dr. Marc A. Schewel, doesn't it, Marc?
It seems Marc was asked to give a speech at the Virginia University of Lynchburg. He was their second choice as Clyde, the shoe shine guy at the Bank of the James, had a conflict. Anyway, they awarded him a Doctor of Humane Letters. Now, I don't know what the hell that means, but what I think it means is they don't know what else to give you and you're not qualified for anything else. I guess it's better than a Doctor of Inhumane Letters.
Marc fancies himself a public speaker like his Dad. You will hear from him soon, so you can judge for yourself, but don't expect much. He was receiving an award from a local organization, and, as he was between girl friends again, he invited me to go as his guest.
His acceptance speech progressed from some feeble attempts at humor to a more serious discussion on the historical basis of liberty in the United States and recent constraints imposed on it by the courts and legislation. I mean, he could have simply said, "Thanks for this award. I really don't deserve it."
People were not on the edge of their seats. I heard soft snoring at the table behind me. Suddenly, a young man stood up, approached the podium, and said to Marc, "Sit down. You've said enough." I don't know if he was motivated by boredom or alcohol or both. It was very awkward, but at least it woke everybody up. Eventually, the fellow returned to his seat, and Marc finished his speech.
When Marc sat back down, he asked me, "Well, what did you think?" I said, "At least he didn't bitch slap you like Will Smith did to Chris Rock at the Academy Awards." Marc said, "No, no. What did you think of the speech?" I said, "I told you. At least he didn't bitch slap you."
Here's one last story about Marc, which I will attribute to Jerry Falwell Sr. at that George Stewart roast forty-five years ago.
So, Marc and Matt and Frank Snyder were going to dinner in High Point one night, and all three were tragically killed in a car crash. They found themselves in separate cubicles waiting to be interviewed by St. Peter to see if they could get into Heaven.
St. Peter comes to the first cubicle, and there's Frank handcuffed to the ugliest woman you've ever seen. St. Peter says, "Hey, Frank." Frank says, "St. Peter, I have sinned, and this is my penance." St. Peter goes to the next cubicle, and there's Matt handcuffed to an even uglier woman. "Hey, Matt," says St. Peter. Matt says, "St. Peter, I have worldly sins, and this is my penance forever." St. Peter goes to the third cubicle, and there is Marc handcuffed to the most beautiful woman in the world. St. Peter says, "Hey, Marc." The woman speaks up, and says, "St. Peter, verily I have sinned, and this is my everlasting penance."
Marc by his own admission is not a devout practitioner of the Jewish faith. So, I went to the local Rabbi to get some information about this. He asked me, Marc, to give you this yarmulke and see if I could convince you to come to the synagogue. But if you won't come, he said to please send money. Really, though, I hate to cover any of that beautiful hair. But you might want to put it on -- and send money -- to cover all bets just in case you might otherwise be on the wrong side of God.
I'd like to conclude my remarks with Ralph Waldo Emerson's definition of success: "To laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people of contrary views and the affection of children; to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; to leave the world a little bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition; to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived, this is to have succeeded."
By that measure or any other, my friend, Marc Schewel, is a success.
MARC SCHEWEL BIO
A native of Lynchburg where he was born seventy-four years ago, Marc demonstrated his precocity and his preoccupation with the printed word by memorizing at the tender age of five the entire copy on the boxes of Wheaties, Sugar Crisp, and Frosted Flakes he scarfed down every morning and on the packs of Lucky Strike, Camel, and Pall Mall cigarettes his parents left lying around the house.
His social dysfunction was evidenced during his childhood as no elementary school would retain him permanently, and he hopscotched through a different one every year until entering the ninth grade at E. C. Glass High School. There he earned the dubious distinction of being named Freshman, Sophomore, Junior, and Senior Class Nerd. Rejected by four other institutions, he used his father's influence as an alumnus to gain admittance to Washington and Lee University, where he was recognized upon graduation for having spent more hours in the McCormick Library than any other student in the college's two-hundred-year history.
Marc's father put him to work in the family business when he got tired of seeing him hanging around the house reading books. Lacking the aptitude and skills for finance, sales, or management, Marc quickly intuited that the key to his survival would be the delegation of all duties and responsibilities to capable surrogates. This strategy proved so successful that before long the team was encouraging Marc to spend less time on the premises. Always accommodating, he joined a number of non-profit boards, where he developed a reputation as a trouble maker and a public speaker who delighted in insulting as many persons in the audience as possible.
Thus, it is only appropriate that tonight this presumptuous roaster should agree to sacrifice himself on the altar of ridicule and derision. But even Marc admits he was overwhelmed, if not embarrassed by the enthusiasm with which so many people in the community seized the opportunity to part with so much money to witness his humiliation.
MARC SCHEWEL REMARKS
Didn't these guys do a great job? Let's give them a big round of applause.
I've roasted a lot of folks over the years, so it's only fitting that I take my licks now.
Looking back at some of my speeches, I find myself longing for the good old days when there were so many easy targets -- when scandal rocked the voter registrar's office, when Main Street was a war zone, when the Academy was launching its tenth Capital Campaign, when the Falwells were front page news.
Actually, they still are; only it's the front page of National Inquirer.
So we have to make do with what we have. Like our new City Manager Wynter Benda. When I first heard his name, I thought it was a Japanese video game. Wynter's here tonight, but he almost didn't make it, as he just returned from Atlanta where he was doing a photo shoot for GQ Magazine. He was recently named Best Dressed Man of the Year. He barely beat out the three other finalists: Dennis Rodman, Elton John, and Howdy Doody.
Speaking of a freckle-faced kid, I'm delighted that Vice-Mayor Beau Wright could join us. If you see him, please congratulate him. At the recent Boy Scout Jamboree in Phoenix, Arizona, he was recognized as the only active Boy Scout ever to hold such a high public office.
I didn't expect Councilman Jeff Hegelson to attend but I did extend him an invitation. "Where's your Roast being held?" he asked. "At the Academy." "The Academy," he said, "Isn't that Downtown?" "It is," I said. "I'll be darned if I'll give one cent to anything Downtown. What a colossal waste of money." "Jeff," I said, "You don't have to pay for it. You will be my guest." "That's the trouble with people these days," said Jeff. "They all want something for nothing."
Your City Council's been hard at work. I understand they spent weeks deliberating what to name the brand-new Lakeside Drive Bridge. Of course, they ran into some problems along the way. Mayor Dolan and Vice-Mayor Wright drove to the site to make an inspection, and got stuck on the roundabout for two hours. When they finally got off, they tried to follow the detour signs, and ended up in Rustburg.
But they did come up with a good name, choosing Rosel and Elliot Schewel over a number of local dignitaries, public officials, and philanthropists. As for me, I'd rather be alive when something's named after me. So, if Council is looking for someone to name their new police station after, I'm available.
My brother Jack and I rarely agree on anything, and naturally we didn't agree on this one. He said it should be named after him since he's accumulated enough speeding tickets to pay for it.
Speaking of that, I ran into Chief of Police Ryan Zuidema the other day, and asked where he had gone for his vacation. "Actually, Marc," he said, "I've been very lucky. I've been on three vacations. I went to Hawaii courtesy of Jamerson-Lewis Construction Company, to Paris as the guest of Coleman-Adams Construction Company, and to Tokyo with Doug and Beverly Dalton of English Construction Company. They were all great, but the English Construction junket won the prize." I guess it did, I thought to myself, considering the prize was a forty-eight million dollar contract.
Forty-eight million dollars for a police station. That's got to be one of the most expensive buildings in the City of Lynchburg. If I could just get hold of one change order, we would have enough money to complete the renovation of the Downtown YMCA.
I understand many of us will be invited to the Grand Opening. I asked Ray Snead if he would be going. "Heck, no," he said. "I've seen the inside of a police station too many times in my lifetime. I never want to see another one."
Now, I have to give myself a little credit for picking these guys. After all, when I announced that I would be subjecting myself to a royal roasting, I was inundated with over one hundred calls from friends and enemies clamoring for a chance at the microphone.
I knew immediately whom I wanted as emcee: Bill Bodine. Bill was somewhat reluctant until I told him just to consider it another episode in the never-ending saga of his ongoing retirement as Executive Director of the Greater Lynchburg Community Foundation.
I also had to buy Bill's ticket for tonight. He's a little short of cash, since he's now having to pay his own entrance fees for all those golf tournaments he played over the years courtesy of the Foundation. Since the new director, Kathryn Yarzebenski, doesn't play golf, I understand the Foundation has saved over $100,000 in operating expenses.
Bill's well-known around Lynchburg as an actor -- but not anywhere else. He's a man of many roles, including three under his chin. I told him to stick to the script and remember he is supposed to be roasting me and not George Dawson.
I became aware of Bill's talents on the stage when I saw him play Richard, a blind, drunken Irishman in Wolfbane Theater's production of The Seafarer. "That must have pretty difficult," I said to him after the show. "Not really, Marc," he said. "I went to Ireland to learn the language, and in two weeks I was fluent. I've been drinking gin since I was twelve. And I've always done my best work in the dark."
I did make three mistakes in planning: first, putting Ray Snead on the program; second, allowing him to speak last; and third, listening to him when he came up to me at a party at my house and said, "Marc, we need another roast. We haven't had one since we put Robin Wood on trial five years ago."
"Yeah," I said to Ray, "that was a lot of fun. But Robin was such an easy target. Who can we find as clumsy, as messy, as clueless, and as dorky as our friend Robin?"
Ray just laughed -- he's always laughing, especially at his own jokes -- and said, "How about you?"
So, Ray, remind me never to invite you to a party again.
Speaking of parties, whatever happened to the one you've been promising to have for the past four years? The one where you were going to hand out the two hundred red Schewels Home hats I was so generous to give you? The one in celebration of your retirement?
By the way, there are plenty of your former law partners and clients eager to celebrate your retirement. In fact, most thought you had retired ten years ago, since they rarely saw you in the office.
The only creatures not very excited about your retirement are the poor turkeys you'll have more time to flush out of their nests.
Years ago Ray went out to hunt turkeys with his only companion a bottle of alcohol. It didn't take long for him to pass out dead drunk. When he awoke, he had no ideal where he was, and neither did anyone else, as a search party fruitlessly scoured the area day and night. But Ray never gave up hope, and sure enough, who should come stumbling out of the woods but his wife Mollie. "I can't believe I found you," she said. "I knew you would," said Ray. "You always find me when I've been drinking."
I asked Ray what he had been drinking that got him so inebriated. "Rose wine," he said. Apparently he's trying to become more sophisticated, and that's his new drink of choice. Ray, I talked to the bartender a few minutes ago, and I asked him how much Rose wine he had served. He said, "One hundred glasses to women, and one glass to some guy who looked a little prissy."
Ray's hunting buddy, Rodger Fauber, likes to tell about the time Ray was stopped by a game warden. The warden looks at Ray's sack of doves, pulls one out, sticks his finger in the dove's butt, sniffs it, and says, "This dove is from North Carolina. You got a license to hunt dove in North Carolina?" "Yes, sir," says Ray, and shows the license to the warden.
The warden picks up another dove, repeats the examination, and says, "This dove is from West Virginia. You got a license to hunt dove in West Virginia?" "Yes, sir," says Ray, and shows him the license.
The game warden dumps the rest of the doves on the ground, picks one up, sticks his finger up the butt, sniffs again, and says, "This dove is from Alaska. I presume you have a permit from there, too." "Right here," says Ray. "Gosh darn," says the warden. "How are you getting all these doves? Where are you from, anyway?" Ray turns around, drops his pants, bends over, and says, "You're the expert. You tell me."
Now that Covid is over, Ray, you realize that you have no more excuses for not having that party. But what I've finally concluded is that the only party you ever intended to have was a non-party, or rather a fake party. It's in keeping with your lifelong career in fakery, which began inauspiciously when you reached puberty and awakened to the charms of the opposite sex.
Ray, do you remember when you were supposed to be learning to drive your parents' old Henry J car, but spent most of the time parked in the front yard with a girl, and your heads could only be seen when your brother tapped on the side of the car? Or when you went apple picking with the same girl in your Uncle John's Orchard, and came back with only a big smile on your face? Or when your picture appeared in the Little Washington newspaper with your friend Missy at the VMI Ring Figure Dance after you had told your other friend Mollie that you were going to be confined to the barracks for the weekend for missing formation five times -- and Mollie felt so sorry for you that she sent you some homemade cookies?
Wait a minute. Is that true -- that a cadet who was guilty of breaking more rules than any other in the long storied history of VMI actually had the audacity to fabricate a violation?
I'm not about to claim Ray faked his way through UVA Law School or his years of employment at Edmonds, Williams, et. al. But an examination of of the firm's logs revealed that once again Counselor Snead set a number of dubious records.
He never found a title he was unable to examine in two hours or before noon, whichever came first. He never failed to complete his work by 12:30 PM, so he could get to Boonsboro Country Club in time for his $100 Nassau with Thornton, Forehand, and Pool. He managed to avoid scheduling any client work during the months of July and December, which he was convinced were put in the calendar strictly for vacation. He essentially bankrupted one of his clients on the golf course, but graciously agreed to represent him court pro bono.
How could he afford so much time off? Easy: he really didn't do that much work for his clients; he just convinced them to pay him an annual fee. Is that why they call you Rayner the Retainer?
Ray is the only person I know to have acquired a fake reputation. Several months ago, I got stopped for speeding near Sperryville in Rappahannock County, "Mr. Schewel," said the officer, "Do you know how fast you were going? Fifty in a thirty-five-mph zone. That's pretty serious."
"Officer, "I said, "I have a friend back in Lynchburg named Ray Snead. He's from Rappahannock and well-known in the area. Maybe that name might be worth some leniency." The officer wrote down Ray's name, went back to his vehicle for a few minutes, and then returned to my car. "I found Ray in our records," said the officer. "And it turns out we did mis-calibrate your speed. It looks like you were actually going sixty miles an hour. I'm going to have to charge you with reckless driving."
And then, to add insult to injury, he said, "Perhaps you'd like to contact Mr. Snead about representing you in court."
Upon seeing the list of speakers, a friend questioned whether Frank Snyder would really roast me considering he might jeopardize our business relationship. I told him not to worry. If I have remained loyal to Frank after all the lies and misinformation he's thrown at me for forty years trying to sell me another couch or bedroom set, a few measly insults from his fertile but totally unreliable imagination are not going to make a difference.
I've known Frank for so long that, back when we first met, he was actually two inches taller than he is today, which meant there was more crudeness and immaturity to cope with. Those I attributed to his having matriculated at both the Universities of North Carolina and Virginia. He was well-known for attending those schools for two terms: Nixon's and Carter's.
Frank was leading me through a showroom at the High Point Furniture Market -- I'm sure of some company long gone -- boring me to death until I finally stopped and asked him why he felt it necessary to talk so loudly. "It's simple," he shouted. "So shrimps like you can hear what I'm saying."
I was really naive when I went into the furniture business. I regularly told the truth, and assumed that others did the same. It was only after I met folks like Frank that I was introduced to a whole new mode of expression: exaggeration, obfuscation, and prevarication.
Here are some of Frank's -- and his colleagues' -- favorite falsifications.
"If this doesn't sell, we'll pick it up." No, his factory is not going to pick it up, and even if they thought about it, it would cost me an arm and a leg. What he really means is, "If this doesn't sell . . . remember all the winners I sold you."
"These are two different animals. It's like comparing apples and oranges." Talk about mixed metaphors. I'm trying to decide between two bedroom sets, so I ask him which will sell better. What he really means is, "Are you crazy enough to think I'm going to pick one set over another? I want to sell you both."
Frank and his buddies love to tempt you with tales of other dealers' successes, regardless of the facts. "Badcock's sold a hundred trucks of this sofa last month," I remember him saying. What a minute. Badcock's sales are five times Schewels, and the most we could sell of any sofa during a month would be five trucks. Do the math. What he's really saying is, "Surely he won't do the math and realize this is a bald-faced lie."
"Buy it now, or sell agin it." This one's kind of nasty. Frank's threatening to sell a sofa to another dealer should I decide I don't want to buy it. But I'm not worried. He's not that good a salesperson.
And of course, "This bedroom's on fire. It's hot as a banji!" Which none of you will ever forget.
Frank did get me back for calling him out on the meaning of banji.
Not long afterwards, guiding me through another showroom, he asked me to test out a very fancy power-reclining sofa upholstered in top grain leather with individual nail head trim. Well, I had just had lunch, some chili beans, and I was felling a little bloated. The sofa did look plush, so I said, "Okay, Frank, if you insist." I plopped down, and, sure enough, let out a loud fart -- loud enough for Frank to hear, even at a lofty 6'5".
His eyes shot wide open, and I guess he said the first thing that came to mind. "Marc, if you did that just by sitting down on this sofa, when I tell you the price, you're gonna shit."
I couldn't believe it when my son Matt jumped at the opportunity to join the roasting team. But now I know why. Just remember, Matt, once you're no longer Mr. Nice Guy, it's hard to go back.
So many people in Lynchburg who have met you since you moved back here are always asking, "How did your son get to be so nice and well-mannered?" implying that . . . well, you know what they're implying. "It must have come from his mother," I say.
Then someone else, usually a female, will ask, "How did your son get to be so handsome?" Again, "It must have come from his mother."
And then someone else, a real pinhead, might ask, "How did your son get to be so tall?" That's a tough one. The tallest person I know is Frank Snyder. And when I did introduce him to my wife, the first thing he said was, "Wow! You're hot as a banji!"
And then, of course, someone will ask "How did your son get to be so smart?" I answer that a different way.
You think he's smart? Do you know what he said to me when he started thinking about working for Schewels? "I'd like to try it out."
"Try it out?" I said. "It's like being pregnant. You can't try it out. You've got three kids. How did 'trying it out work' in that situation?"
You think he's smart? Many years ago, when he and I were stranded on Bald Head Island, we went out to play a round of golf in ninety-five-degree weather, in spite of a look of skepticism from the pro who had just given us both an hour lesson. After losing twenty-four balls and one club (it slipped out of my hands and flew into a pond), I was ready to call it a day -- when my brilliant son pipes up with "You mean, we don't get to play the back nine?"
You think he's smart? He's the only guy I know who lost money flipping homes twice in the DC area during a housing boom, and then of course came to Dad for a bailout. And now he wants to take over the Schewel real estate department.
You think he's smart? He claims to be fluent in Spanish, but apparently it wasn't the same language spoken in Playa del Carmen a few years ago when he and his brother rented a couple of motor bikes. Naturally, they had an accident, and Matt tried to talk his way out of a pretty hefty repair bill. Considering the amount of pesos Dad had to shell out, it's obvious that whatever he was saying, no one south of the border could understand a word.
You think he's smart? Ask him how smart it was when, on his first trip to Santo Domingo to meet Patricia's family, he accepted a challenge from her two brothers to join them in a drinking contest -- with rum, no less. I heard he ended up passed out on the bathroom floor while they were still getting warmed up.
You think he's smart? How come every car he's ever had, driven for miles by siblings or parents with never a problem, blows up with him behind the wheel? You know those cars need oil, Matt? And how is it in just fifteen months, you've managed to collect more tickets for parking overtime on Main Street than anyone in the City records?
You think he's smart? Maybe he's too smart for his own good. I consider myself a decent writer, yet why is it that every article Matt has asked me to write for Schewels Grapevine or his historical exhibit he has found it necessary to edit? "Every writer needs an editor," he always reminds me. Every writer, that is, but one, I discovered when I edited the biography he submitted for tonight's program, much to this outrage.
Matt showed he really was pretty smart not long after he came to work in the business. Having three children, I gave him a third of my stock. Then I thought it might be a good idea to let him experience all the different departments to find out what he had an aptitude and liking for. After three months, I called him back to my office.
"So, you worked in sales," I said. "How did you like that?" "Well, Dad," he said. "I don't really like talking to strangers, so I don't think that will work." "What about credit?" "Making cold calls to people who don't want to pay their bills is not my thing either." "What about advertising?" "Dad, how many people do you think actually fall for all those ridiculous half-price sales? I refuse to be a part of that." "What about the warehouse?" "It's really nasty and dirty out there. Plus moving all that furniture around is boring and tiring."
"Okay, Matt," I said, getting rather exasperated. "What is it exactly you would like me to do?" "It's simple, Dad," he said. "Buy me out!"
I've been around this town a long time, had a fairly successful career, tried to be a good citizen, and met a lot of people. But as Matt has already mentioned, maybe I'm not as well-known as I thought.
Like the day last week when I was checking out a book at the library and the new clerk said, "There's a wonderful lady teaching my daughter Spanish at St. John's Day School. She's so friendly and helpful. Her name is Patricia Schewel. Are you related to her?"
Or the time I swiped my credit card at Isabella's and the server said, "Did you see the Academy Youth Theatre's production of Schoolhouse Rock Live JR? A cute little girl named Ana Schewel played Shulie the sassy student. Are you related to her?"
Or the morning I was scanning in at the YMCA and the new attendant said, "I saw this five-year-old boy swim a lap by himself at the Oakwood Gators' swim meet, and the whole crowd was cheering him on. His name is Ben Schewel. Are you related to him?"
Tonight, I'm a celebrity. But otherwise I'm a has-been.
I was fortunate to recruit a real celebrity for tonight's event, my friend George Dawson. George's talents are too extensive to enumerate, but let it suffice that he's left an indelible mark on our community, three actually: Centra Health, the Lynchburg Humane Society, and the Academy Center of the Arts.
George and I go way back. For years I served on his Centra Board of Directors. One day he called me into his office, and asked me if I would chair a capital campaign to build a new hospital wing. "I'm honored," I said, "but I want you to know I'm also chairing a campaign to build the Center of Hope for the Salvation Army, and I want to make sure there's no conflict."
"Certainly not," he said. "In fact, the two projects are quite complementary. Once our patients are discharged and get their bill, many of them head directly to the Salvation Army."
George is a lot smarter than I am, so I asked him to explain to me what being a non-profit hospital meant. "It's simple," he said. "We don't pay any taxes; the government provides half our revenue in the form of Medicare; and the more money we take in, the more non-profitable we are."
I'm in the wrong business. When I'm not profitable, I'm losing money. And if I don't pay my taxes, the government doesn't send me money; it sends me to the IRS.
In spite of what he might think, George is not perfect. In fact, sometimes he can be downright annoying.
You know, like when you ask him what time it is, and he tells you how to build a watch.
When I approached the other fellows who were so kind to roast me tonight, it took each one about ten seconds to say "Yes," and the only reason it took that long is that they were laughing so hard.
But with George it took a little more work.
"George," I said, "I'm working on a project. I'm volunteering to be roasted as a fundraiser for Big Brothers Big Sisters."
"Wait a minute, Marc," he said. "When I think of roast, I think of pork, pig, ham, and hog jowls, none of which is kosher, although I know you're not kosher, since I've had you over my house for pork loin. Even so, you need to consider all the people who will hear about this or will be attending. And even if you tell them it's not pork you're roasting, they might immediately start salivating over some other variety of meat, like roast beef, veal, leg of lamb, brisket, tenderloin, beefsteak, or barbecue.
"Then you will have to explain that you're using the term 'roast' metaphorically and that you intend to deprecate, disparage, insult, abuse, torch, blister, burn, and generally humiliate a real human being, whom I understand is you. Although when the roasters are done, you'll be nothing more than an overcooked slider."
By this time I was exhausted. Nevertheless I soldiered on. I asked him how many people might attend, two-hundred-fifty?
"To see you get roasted? At least three hundred, maybe more. Which prompts the question, where should you have it? There aren't many venues around that can accommodate that many people, especially since you'll want to serve them dinner, which needs to be something good, like pork, pig, ham, lamb, veal, brisket, barbecue . . . well, you get the idea. You might consider one of the Country Clubs, or the Lynchburg Grand, or the Virginian Hotel, but what about the Academy Warehouse Theater, right downtown on George Dawson Boulevard?"
"I think that's Dawson Way," I said, while he was taking a breath. I told him who the other roasters were, and asked what he thought of them.
"Bill Bodine, he's so fine, as long as he doesn't play himself and sticks to his role.
"Matt Schewel, that will be cool. We need someone from the younger generation to make us old guys look better, although I'm not sure anything will help you.
"Ray Snead, there's a different breed. You better put a censor on him; he's the only person I know who will stoop lower for a joke than you. But at least his are funny.
"And who's this guy Snyder, your outsider? He makes his living by selling you furniture? And you expect him to tell the truth? That's a stretch, as I can see just by looking at him.
"And have you considered the matter of DEI -- Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion? This is the most homogeneous group I've seen since Merita created white bread. The closest this cast of rogues comes to DEI is the number of DUI's they've accumulated."
"George, watch your language. Besides, what you're saying is just not true." I said. "We've got a Catholic, a Methodist, an Episcopalian, a Jew, and an atheist stepping up to the podium." "You call that diversity," said George. "I call it the beginning of a bad joke."
By then I was perilously close to throwing in the towel. But I did rally enough to broach the sixty-four-dollar question.
"Well, George, that pretty much sums it up. I really need you on board because you can attract some of our elite citizenry to the event -- like some former hospital executives and college presidents.
"Plus, although you've won some dance contests and taught skiing, I know sometimes you have a problem navigating stairs. You will only have to make one step up onto a short riser to give your remarks."
"If you put it like that, Marc," he said, "I'm awesome Dawson, and I accept."
And I'm glad he did. George, you raised the quality of our program at least five percent. Which wasn't all that difficult.
So, let me thank you George and your colleagues for making this a wonderful evening. And let me thank our thirty-nine sponsors whose names are in your brochures for raising $125,000 to support the mentoring program at Big Brothers Big Sisters of Central Virginia. I would also like to thank and recognize our committee members who worked so diligently to make this event possible: Dawn Blankinship, Jessica Merrow, and Ash Gorman at Big Brothers; Nina Porter at Media Partners; and Liz Piasecki, Toby Brooks, and Scott Allen at Schewels Home.
I've had a lot of good fortune over my lifetime. My father was a great mentor to me. My mother -- well, she was an average golfer, an adequate bridge player, and a fabulous cook, in none of which did I follow her footsteps. As a young businessman in the community, I had the opportunity to meet and learn from many sterling role models, some of whom are in this audience.
Even the Vietnam War proved to be fortuitous as it caused me to abandon an academic career and enter the family business. Not only did the furniture business turn out to be fun, challenging, and rewarding, it brought into my life many long-time friends and a cadre of loyal, dedicated, and diligent workers without whom the company would not be where it is today nor would I have had the time or opportunity to contribute in some small way to so many community organizations.
Finally, of course, my family has been an amazing source of pride and comfort to me over the years, culminating with my son Matt joining the company in 2016.
I'm grateful to all of them, and I'm grateful to all of you who came here tonight in support of Big Brothers Big Sisters.
Good night. I hope to see you again soon.
And with that, I invited my roasters to join me on the stage, where I handed each of them a tee shirt imprinted with my gleaming caricature while Frank Sinatra aka Tracey Bentley brought the festivities to a most fitting conclusion with an exhilarating rendition of "My Way."
It was truly a night to remember.
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