A Return to the Holy Land
This week, I am making a pilgrimage to the land of my ancestors, southeastern Florida. For generations Jewish New Yorkers have migrated towards those sunny latitudes to retire, play cards by the pool, and complain about the heat. At the border each aged traveler is issued a pair of white shoes, a white belt and a white pocketbook (women only). Following a brief orientation, new residents are released into the wild with a list of eateries that offer two-for-one early bird dining specials and directions to the nearest Publix supermarket.
The first time my mom met my soon-to-be wife was on a pre-marriage trip that Janet and I made to Florida. This would be Janet's first direct exposure to my mom's southern habitat. In honor of her future daughter-in-law, my lovely and gracious mom planned an afternoon lunch party to introduce this new member of our family to her friends. The events that followed still tickle me to this day.
The luncheon was a site to behold, a wide variety of Jewish delicacies covered Mom's dining room table, all of which would be a challenge for anyone living south of New Jersey to identify. Janet is not a fan of fish regardless of how it is prepared, and this table looked like cast of "Finding Nemo." Smiling bravely, Janet moved politely along the buffet searching for a glimpse of sustenance. This would be a light lunch for both of us.
Perhaps I was kidnapped as an infant by a band of roving Jewish housewives or perhaps I was switched at birth with an Italian child, but I am not fond of Jewish cuisine. To me, it seems like everything has been passed through a special secret de-flavorizing machine prior to serving. Very bland. I consider a kosher boiled chicken the Al Gore of foods. Nuf said? I had been around this stuff for the duration of my formative years and had successfully managed to avoid ingesting most of it. That day would not be the exception.
Following the feast came coffee and bunt cake. Small conclaves huddled and conversed independently of each other until the subject of hospital transportation was breached. This hot topic appeared to bring all of the groups together on common ground.
Stories of ambulance calamities filled the room, one tale more horrible than the next. One woman was abandoned six blocks from the emergency room (her driver was dispatched to another more dire emergency) and was finally escorted to the E.R. by a passing stranger who asked her why she was walking down the street in her bathrobe.
"I told him that I got lost on the way to the kitchen," she quipped "this a question to ask someone in need of medical attention?"
An elderly man struggling to balance his cake and coffee on his lap, recalled a time when an EMT technician tried to sell him two tickets to a charity dance while he was on the way to the hospital
"I'm on death's door and this yutz wants me to go to a dance? I told him NO, so now he's putting the hard sell on me. He says "you can surprise my wife with the tickets", so I tell him look, my wife has been dead for three years, so seeing her out on the town would be a surprise for everyone including her, and besides I'm not digging her up just to go to a dance."
Every person in attendance had a story hilariously embellished to the point of absurdity. The combination of the tales, the accents and the stage gestures created the perfect storm of rescue squad comedy.
It became immediately clear that this gab-fest had grown into a full-fledged throw-down competition. If "one-upsmanship" was an Olympic event, world records would have been falling like General Motors stock. Janet and I had a ringside seat for every yarn, the principles performing directly to us like a small theatre group interacting with their audience. Although our stomachs were growling, Janet and I thoroughly enjoyed the afternoon matinee and would have recommend my Mom's theatre as fun day trip for anyone visiting the greater Fort Lauderdale area, if the Parrot Jungle was closed.
Following the festivities Janet and I dashed to McDonalds, annihilated a few Big Macs and debriefed. Eventually I will return to the Sunshine State, shod in white and eradicating the mere suggestion of taste from some poor chicken. I don't want to go, it's my destiny.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Yard Sale
A tip from your good friend Jon, do not attempt to stage a yard sale in the dead of winter. While this might be obvious advice to most of you, first time front yard vendors like me and my family could have benefited from a recommendation of this kind prior to emptying the contents of our basement on our lawn.
Sincere in our efforts, we decided that the unholy clutter which had swallowed our bottom floor needed to be eradicated before our foundation began to sink. Once swept of unwanted items, the space could serve as a haven for the wayward teenagers who often descend on our den, banishing Janet and I to the chilly confines of the living room.
Whether they are channeling Stevie Ray Vaughn on Guitar Hero or mowing down an online group of foul mouthed hooligans on Halo 2, there is no shortage of noise, food consumption and food related debris left in their wake. Janet and I thought that if perhaps these shenanigans took place below ground we might salvage our sanity for our senior years and remain in the serenity of the den until Will goes off to college or when we deposit his hinny on the curb if he doesn't go to college, which ever comes first. Hence the basement conversion project was born.
First came the excavation stage. Will and Janet initiated a search and destroy mission, separating the good junk from the bad junk. Limbless Power Ranger figures were cast in the pit of no return, and a Revolutionary War fort made out of Popsicle sticks became fireplace fodder. In a matter of days this archeological crew was able to unearth what looked like carpeting covering our lost basement floor. Who knew?
Stage two involved schlepping our quality junk to the front of the house, pricing each item and greeting the masses who were sure to come. Yours truly would be enjoying a busman's holiday, serving as the main sales point of contact. My son and his helpful friend Chris papered the neighborhood with home-made advertisements. Janet, who did the lion's share of the pre-sale work would function as inventory manager, re-stocking as goods as they flew off of the tables. We were ready for the onslaught!
As it turned out, our goods were flying off of the table all right, but not selling, the movement was due to a twenty mile per hour easterly gale and temperatures threatening the frost point. In all, our enterprise netted around $83.00, thanks to some hard-boiled, die-hard yard sale mavens who braved the elements in search of a bargain and our benevolent neighbor who took pity upon us and purchased some old toys for her young boys.
Left were a large amount of remnants of my son's youth, a couple of pristine exercise bikes, an equally well preserved treadmill (my plans of building a healthy body were lost sometime during the Reagan administration) and a few odds and ends. Returning these treasures to the cellar was not an option due to the pending construction of Will's new playhouse, leaving us in a bit of a pickle. Following a brief discussion (In such family discussions my wife and son play the part of the hammer and I reprise my reoccurring role as the nail) it was decided that we would rent a storage space to house these unwanted, yet valuable items.
For those who haven't had the pleasure of renting a small metal room in Roanoke, let me tell you it is an experience. The amount of paperwork necessary to execute this transaction rivals that of Donald Trump's standard pre-nuptial agreement. Included in the service pact is a laundry list of do's and don'ts for renters. There are a few do's and volumes of don'ts, including a clause prohibiting the renter from storing any living being alive or dead in the unit. Upon, hearing this rule my wife asked for a clarification, wondering aloud if a deceased husband cooling in a freezer might qualify as a violation of that stipulation. The three women present were enjoying a good laugh as I surveyed the property for a friendly witness.
When I returned home (in an unfrozen state) I checked the Internet for articles about bodies which had been recovered from storage spaces. There were 1,260,000 entries. Perhaps these provisions set forth in the rental contact are merely suggestions to their clientele, rules of thumb as it were, not as regularly policed as their other stead-fast requirements.
If my byline should suddenly disappear from these pages, you might find me in a small storage depot on Peters Creek Road developing some frost on my salt and pepper beard.
If you have easy access to a crow bar and a hairdryer please tote them along, there's a free
like new treadmill in it for you if you arrive before I glaze over.
A tip from your good friend Jon, do not attempt to stage a yard sale in the dead of winter. While this might be obvious advice to most of you, first time front yard vendors like me and my family could have benefited from a recommendation of this kind prior to emptying the contents of our basement on our lawn.
Sincere in our efforts, we decided that the unholy clutter which had swallowed our bottom floor needed to be eradicated before our foundation began to sink. Once swept of unwanted items, the space could serve as a haven for the wayward teenagers who often descend on our den, banishing Janet and I to the chilly confines of the living room.
Whether they are channeling Stevie Ray Vaughn on Guitar Hero or mowing down an online group of foul mouthed hooligans on Halo 2, there is no shortage of noise, food consumption and food related debris left in their wake. Janet and I thought that if perhaps these shenanigans took place below ground we might salvage our sanity for our senior years and remain in the serenity of the den until Will goes off to college or when we deposit his hinny on the curb if he doesn't go to college, which ever comes first. Hence the basement conversion project was born.
First came the excavation stage. Will and Janet initiated a search and destroy mission, separating the good junk from the bad junk. Limbless Power Ranger figures were cast in the pit of no return, and a Revolutionary War fort made out of Popsicle sticks became fireplace fodder. In a matter of days this archeological crew was able to unearth what looked like carpeting covering our lost basement floor. Who knew?
Stage two involved schlepping our quality junk to the front of the house, pricing each item and greeting the masses who were sure to come. Yours truly would be enjoying a busman's holiday, serving as the main sales point of contact. My son and his helpful friend Chris papered the neighborhood with home-made advertisements. Janet, who did the lion's share of the pre-sale work would function as inventory manager, re-stocking as goods as they flew off of the tables. We were ready for the onslaught!
As it turned out, our goods were flying off of the table all right, but not selling, the movement was due to a twenty mile per hour easterly gale and temperatures threatening the frost point. In all, our enterprise netted around $83.00, thanks to some hard-boiled, die-hard yard sale mavens who braved the elements in search of a bargain and our benevolent neighbor who took pity upon us and purchased some old toys for her young boys.
Left were a large amount of remnants of my son's youth, a couple of pristine exercise bikes, an equally well preserved treadmill (my plans of building a healthy body were lost sometime during the Reagan administration) and a few odds and ends. Returning these treasures to the cellar was not an option due to the pending construction of Will's new playhouse, leaving us in a bit of a pickle. Following a brief discussion (In such family discussions my wife and son play the part of the hammer and I reprise my reoccurring role as the nail) it was decided that we would rent a storage space to house these unwanted, yet valuable items.
For those who haven't had the pleasure of renting a small metal room in Roanoke, let me tell you it is an experience. The amount of paperwork necessary to execute this transaction rivals that of Donald Trump's standard pre-nuptial agreement. Included in the service pact is a laundry list of do's and don'ts for renters. There are a few do's and volumes of don'ts, including a clause prohibiting the renter from storing any living being alive or dead in the unit. Upon, hearing this rule my wife asked for a clarification, wondering aloud if a deceased husband cooling in a freezer might qualify as a violation of that stipulation. The three women present were enjoying a good laugh as I surveyed the property for a friendly witness.
When I returned home (in an unfrozen state) I checked the Internet for articles about bodies which had been recovered from storage spaces. There were 1,260,000 entries. Perhaps these provisions set forth in the rental contact are merely suggestions to their clientele, rules of thumb as it were, not as regularly policed as their other stead-fast requirements.
If my byline should suddenly disappear from these pages, you might find me in a small storage depot on Peters Creek Road developing some frost on my salt and pepper beard.
If you have easy access to a crow bar and a hairdryer please tote them along, there's a free
like new treadmill in it for you if you arrive before I glaze over.
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Old
Along with the usual collection of bills and advertisements, yesterday's mail brought a stark reminder of my own mortality. My very own AARP discount card had finally arrived just in time for my fiftieth birthday.
What a stunningly subtle souvenir for one celebrating a half century of life. Why not include a photo of an open grave with a caption reading "Good Luck in Your New Location?" At first, I must admit, I was both appalled and saddened upon the appearance of this laminated indication of my impending doom. I stared at the card as if it was a communication from the governor, refusing to commute my stay of execution.
A glance in the mirror served as an additional suggestion of what is to come. For most of my life, my outward appearance has been likened to the disheveled presence of an un-made bed and I have tried (somewhat unsuccessfully) to trade on that lived-in, rumpled kind of charm to some extent. Now, however, the mattress is sprouting some un-planned additions and I'm not talking dust ruffles. Adding more credence to Darwin's Theory, my ears are growing hair at an astonishing rate. Soon villagers will be chasing me down with torches and silver sticks bent on popping the first lycanthrope of werewolf season. My eyes are drooping as is my posture, and I am beginning to resemble Jedi Master Yoda, but without any of the folksy wisdom.
Similar to many men of my advanced years, my hind-quarters is headed for the endangered species list. I am not certain what laws of nature are at work here, however, I know now why so many older gents wear suspenders. My office chair has become a kind of a kiddie slide when I chance to lean backwards, my rear pockets heading South without any back-up. As many times as I have been to Atlantic City and this is the way I have to lose my butt? How undignified!
I had almost dialed my good friend Tommy, who markets headstones, in hopes of testing the discount waters, but I could not decide on a catchy epitaph. Cemeteries are such sad places; why not provide a smile for a passing mourner? Something like "I told you I was sick" or "If you are close enough to read this message you are probably standing on my head." Perhaps I can promote an advertising sponsorship deal offering the space on my tombstone to the highest bidder as a way of off-setting some of the burial costs? It has certainly worked for NASCAR. Question:
Does Chevy make caskets? I'm sure Tommy would know.
If I was able to raise enough cash during this funeral venture, I could conceivably afford to upgrade my accommodations to a nice air-conditioned mausoleum. It could be a place where mourners could seek shelter from stormy weather and even enjoy a picnic. Ideally, I will not be buried in the conventional way, but stuffed and placed in my trusty recliner, on full public display between the hours of 12:00 and 3:00, Monday through Friday. Visitors could pose for snap shots with me (no flash photography please) and I would have a variety of outfits that I would wear only on specified bank holidays, just like a giant Build-a-Bear.
Hey this getting older stuff is really not that bad. Before the taxidermist loads me up with rags and ships me to my final resting place, I might take a turn as the neighborhood curmudgeon. Chasing kids off of my lawn, complaining about the weather, and allowing my dog Roscoe to fertilize the neighbor's yard seems like a fun way to pass what little time I have left. I have always said that if you gotta go you might as well go obstinate and cranky.
On December twelfth my AARP card will activate and I will begin my slow decent down the other side of the slope. Although I now feel somewhat prepared to face that final curtain, I would prefer to pass as my maternal grandfather (a curmudgeon of note himself) once wished. "If I had my druthers," he said "I would prefer to be shot by a jealous husband at the age of 104."
I am not really sure what "druthers" are, but there is a good chance that they are at least 20% off this month on the AARP website.
Along with the usual collection of bills and advertisements, yesterday's mail brought a stark reminder of my own mortality. My very own AARP discount card had finally arrived just in time for my fiftieth birthday.
What a stunningly subtle souvenir for one celebrating a half century of life. Why not include a photo of an open grave with a caption reading "Good Luck in Your New Location?" At first, I must admit, I was both appalled and saddened upon the appearance of this laminated indication of my impending doom. I stared at the card as if it was a communication from the governor, refusing to commute my stay of execution.
A glance in the mirror served as an additional suggestion of what is to come. For most of my life, my outward appearance has been likened to the disheveled presence of an un-made bed and I have tried (somewhat unsuccessfully) to trade on that lived-in, rumpled kind of charm to some extent. Now, however, the mattress is sprouting some un-planned additions and I'm not talking dust ruffles. Adding more credence to Darwin's Theory, my ears are growing hair at an astonishing rate. Soon villagers will be chasing me down with torches and silver sticks bent on popping the first lycanthrope of werewolf season. My eyes are drooping as is my posture, and I am beginning to resemble Jedi Master Yoda, but without any of the folksy wisdom.
Similar to many men of my advanced years, my hind-quarters is headed for the endangered species list. I am not certain what laws of nature are at work here, however, I know now why so many older gents wear suspenders. My office chair has become a kind of a kiddie slide when I chance to lean backwards, my rear pockets heading South without any back-up. As many times as I have been to Atlantic City and this is the way I have to lose my butt? How undignified!
I had almost dialed my good friend Tommy, who markets headstones, in hopes of testing the discount waters, but I could not decide on a catchy epitaph. Cemeteries are such sad places; why not provide a smile for a passing mourner? Something like "I told you I was sick" or "If you are close enough to read this message you are probably standing on my head." Perhaps I can promote an advertising sponsorship deal offering the space on my tombstone to the highest bidder as a way of off-setting some of the burial costs? It has certainly worked for NASCAR. Question:
Does Chevy make caskets? I'm sure Tommy would know.
If I was able to raise enough cash during this funeral venture, I could conceivably afford to upgrade my accommodations to a nice air-conditioned mausoleum. It could be a place where mourners could seek shelter from stormy weather and even enjoy a picnic. Ideally, I will not be buried in the conventional way, but stuffed and placed in my trusty recliner, on full public display between the hours of 12:00 and 3:00, Monday through Friday. Visitors could pose for snap shots with me (no flash photography please) and I would have a variety of outfits that I would wear only on specified bank holidays, just like a giant Build-a-Bear.
Hey this getting older stuff is really not that bad. Before the taxidermist loads me up with rags and ships me to my final resting place, I might take a turn as the neighborhood curmudgeon. Chasing kids off of my lawn, complaining about the weather, and allowing my dog Roscoe to fertilize the neighbor's yard seems like a fun way to pass what little time I have left. I have always said that if you gotta go you might as well go obstinate and cranky.
On December twelfth my AARP card will activate and I will begin my slow decent down the other side of the slope. Although I now feel somewhat prepared to face that final curtain, I would prefer to pass as my maternal grandfather (a curmudgeon of note himself) once wished. "If I had my druthers," he said "I would prefer to be shot by a jealous husband at the age of 104."
I am not really sure what "druthers" are, but there is a good chance that they are at least 20% off this month on the AARP website.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Wind
I work near the windiest corner in Roanoke. Say what you will about whatever confluence of avenues toss an occasional chilly gust in your neighborhood, the gale-force tempest in my neck of the woods could launch a Sumo air-born on a still summer day.
What is the deal with the wind around here lately? When I moved to Roanoke some twenty-five years ago the weather was delightful. Now, all of a sudden, I routinely witness giant blue garbage bins bouncing down the boulevard like stampeding cattle escaping a spring branding.
Earlier this year my son's backyard batting cage sprouted wings in a high wind and was threatening to topple our neighbor's new patio set. Janet, Will and I braved the weather and managed to corral the would-be aircraft, which, at one point, had lifted me three feet off of the ground! You might not be able to tell by glancing at my grinning headshot that accompanies this column, but I am not a small man. In fact, the last shirt I purchased came with a set of tent stakes and a free Coleman lantern. Therefore, when unseen forces lift me skyward, you are looking at a bona-fide Typhoon.
This is not my first battle with the elements of nature. Years ago, I worked in a dress factory (with my Dad and sister Emily), located on West Fifteenth Street and Tenth Avenue in Manhattan. The southwest corner of that location was known to be the windiest corner in all of New York. Those who dared to turn that evil corner would be treated to an Arctic blast of biblical proportions. Legend has it that one powerful blow cleared every street in Manhattan of it's garbage, carrying the refuse Southeast and thus creating the great state of New Jersey.
Connie Sorrentonio, a life-long co-worker of my father, and I woman to be reckoned with, once traveled to work from her apartment in Brooklyn, spied a patch of ice on Fifteenth Street, watched quietly as a group of unsuspecting commuters were knocked flat by an unfriendly current, spun around and returned home to Brooklyn unscathed. Connie was no more than forty feet from the factory door when she surrendered to the elements.
Though it might not be as formidable has the Fifteenth Street Terror, my Roanoke location still packs quite a wallop. If you are ever bored enough to test the draft of which I speak, drive down to the little strip mall in the outer ring of Valley View Mall, where sits, Sprint, Catherine's, and the Casual Male Men's Shop. Begin your journey at the Sprint Store and point yourself due east towards Shaker's. When you reach the end of the men's store, turn left and grab your hat, you have just entered the Valley View Mall's "Squall Zone."
During optimum conditions there is a constant gust wafting over a large unobstructed field sitting behind the building that serves as a gathering vortex. Add a roof skimming in-bound flight landing at nearby Roanoke Regional Airport and the atmosphere reveals the burial ground of where umbrellas go to die.
Thankfully, the incoming airplane traffic is minimal in Roanoke, unlike in my previous homeland. ( I once dated a young lady would lived smack in the middle of the International flights landing path at JFK airport in New York. Every seven minutes her house would shake and rattle like a freight train was passing through their living room, earning their dwelling the nickname "Little House on the Runway.") Any more landings in Roanoke and our little store might be thrust over the rainbow, claiming a new retail home on a vacant street corner in East Munchkinland.
Since my impromptu flight with the batting cage I have remained earth-bound despite the ill winds that blow outside of my office door. My son commented that I should contact the nice folks at Macy's and offer my flight services for the upcoming annual Thanksgivings Day parade, perhaps replacing the M&M's balloon that crashed into a lamp post last year. While I appreciate Will's sincere recommendation, I believe I will remain grounded, just like my fresh-mouthed spawn, who's car keys now reside in my roomy pocket.
I work near the windiest corner in Roanoke. Say what you will about whatever confluence of avenues toss an occasional chilly gust in your neighborhood, the gale-force tempest in my neck of the woods could launch a Sumo air-born on a still summer day.
What is the deal with the wind around here lately? When I moved to Roanoke some twenty-five years ago the weather was delightful. Now, all of a sudden, I routinely witness giant blue garbage bins bouncing down the boulevard like stampeding cattle escaping a spring branding.
Earlier this year my son's backyard batting cage sprouted wings in a high wind and was threatening to topple our neighbor's new patio set. Janet, Will and I braved the weather and managed to corral the would-be aircraft, which, at one point, had lifted me three feet off of the ground! You might not be able to tell by glancing at my grinning headshot that accompanies this column, but I am not a small man. In fact, the last shirt I purchased came with a set of tent stakes and a free Coleman lantern. Therefore, when unseen forces lift me skyward, you are looking at a bona-fide Typhoon.
This is not my first battle with the elements of nature. Years ago, I worked in a dress factory (with my Dad and sister Emily), located on West Fifteenth Street and Tenth Avenue in Manhattan. The southwest corner of that location was known to be the windiest corner in all of New York. Those who dared to turn that evil corner would be treated to an Arctic blast of biblical proportions. Legend has it that one powerful blow cleared every street in Manhattan of it's garbage, carrying the refuse Southeast and thus creating the great state of New Jersey.
Connie Sorrentonio, a life-long co-worker of my father, and I woman to be reckoned with, once traveled to work from her apartment in Brooklyn, spied a patch of ice on Fifteenth Street, watched quietly as a group of unsuspecting commuters were knocked flat by an unfriendly current, spun around and returned home to Brooklyn unscathed. Connie was no more than forty feet from the factory door when she surrendered to the elements.
Though it might not be as formidable has the Fifteenth Street Terror, my Roanoke location still packs quite a wallop. If you are ever bored enough to test the draft of which I speak, drive down to the little strip mall in the outer ring of Valley View Mall, where sits, Sprint, Catherine's, and the Casual Male Men's Shop. Begin your journey at the Sprint Store and point yourself due east towards Shaker's. When you reach the end of the men's store, turn left and grab your hat, you have just entered the Valley View Mall's "Squall Zone."
During optimum conditions there is a constant gust wafting over a large unobstructed field sitting behind the building that serves as a gathering vortex. Add a roof skimming in-bound flight landing at nearby Roanoke Regional Airport and the atmosphere reveals the burial ground of where umbrellas go to die.
Thankfully, the incoming airplane traffic is minimal in Roanoke, unlike in my previous homeland. ( I once dated a young lady would lived smack in the middle of the International flights landing path at JFK airport in New York. Every seven minutes her house would shake and rattle like a freight train was passing through their living room, earning their dwelling the nickname "Little House on the Runway.") Any more landings in Roanoke and our little store might be thrust over the rainbow, claiming a new retail home on a vacant street corner in East Munchkinland.
Since my impromptu flight with the batting cage I have remained earth-bound despite the ill winds that blow outside of my office door. My son commented that I should contact the nice folks at Macy's and offer my flight services for the upcoming annual Thanksgivings Day parade, perhaps replacing the M&M's balloon that crashed into a lamp post last year. While I appreciate Will's sincere recommendation, I believe I will remain grounded, just like my fresh-mouthed spawn, who's car keys now reside in my roomy pocket.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Patience, Patience
Normally, I am a very patient man. In fact, aside from still having most of my
hair, the ability to withstand a substantial amount of non-sense is among my only redeemable qualities. Recently, that sense of tolerance has been tested by a collection of customer service professionals who seemed determined to drive me into a stroke induced coma.
All of you have encountered these "helpful" folks. To reach an actual human being on the phone you must first dial the gauntlet of instructed key strokes on your telephone. Some menus allow you to speak the numbers into the phone rather than use your dial pad, warning, steer clear of this option at all cost. The site of a grown person screaming "FOUR" head-faced into a handset is not a pretty sight, especially when they have to repeat themselves until they become light-headed.
Worse are the phone systems that employ a virtual switchboard person who can only understand the specific language they are programmed to comprehend. I battled such an entity last week, who here and after will be referred to as "Virtual Betty." Regardless of what I said Betty responded, "I'm sorry, I am having trouble understanding what you are saying". "Really?" I responded (forgetting for a moment that I was talking to a machine), "You mean nothing that I have said falls within your 250 word hard drive vocabulary?" To which she replied "I'm sorry, I am having trouble, blah,blah,blah"….you know the rest. A vein in my forehead began to take the shape of surfacing submarine, as I lashed out at my mechanical antagonist, spewing a stream of profanity that would shame Tony Soprano's crew. Perhaps shocked into submission, my inflexible robot friend had apparently heard enough and immediately transferred me to a living breathing person in a matter of seconds. Had I unlocked the passage around Virtual Betty? Was her distaste for colorful language the chink in her amour?
Reaching the next level of customer service evolution (a human), I began my quest to have my issue resolved. I was funneled to a woman, who clearly specializes in foul mouthed customers who began our conversation by chastising me for even reaching her extension. Either Betty had rated me out or perhaps all of the particularly vulgar calls were sent to my new friend automatically. When she was finished scolding me, the woman put me on hold and transferred me to another department. A young man answered and quickly put me on hold again. Gentle hold music played (it sounded like a softened instrumental version of "Highway to Hell," but perhaps I was mistaken) as my Blackberry started to feel hot on my ear. I continued to wait for another twelve minutes.
When "Noel" arrived back on the phone he volleyed a series of questions my way, trying to understand who I was and why I was calling. I explained that my last name was Kaufman and spelled my name for him. An astonishing exchange followed.
Noel- Sir, was the second letter of your last name an "a" or an "eight" ?
Me (laughing)- An eight? What am I a part number? No, it's an "a".
Noel- Thank you Mr. Coffman
Me- Actually it's pronounced "Cowf-man".
Noel- (indignently)- No its not, its pronounced "Coffman"
Me- Noel, are you telling me that I am mispronouncing my own name?
Noel- I guess.
Me- (becoming a tad heated) You guess? Maybe I should scare-up a séance, contact my Dad and let him know that NOEL has discovered that we have been saying our name incorrectly for all of these years?
Noel- Sir, can you hold for a moment?
Before, I could answer I was whisked away to phone purgatory once again. Nine minutes passed and a familiar voice returned to the phone, it was my earlier nemesis, Virtual Betty. Betty's smiling voice prompted tears to well-up in my eyes, I had gone full circle. I tossed my phone down and placed a bag of ice on my throbbing head.
A wise man once said that patience and fortitude conquer all things, however, I doubt if that fellow had ever been summarily defeated by a combination of technology, apathy and stupidity. Patience has fallen off that short list of Jon's virtues. On the bright side, I still have my hair.
Normally, I am a very patient man. In fact, aside from still having most of my
hair, the ability to withstand a substantial amount of non-sense is among my only redeemable qualities. Recently, that sense of tolerance has been tested by a collection of customer service professionals who seemed determined to drive me into a stroke induced coma.
All of you have encountered these "helpful" folks. To reach an actual human being on the phone you must first dial the gauntlet of instructed key strokes on your telephone. Some menus allow you to speak the numbers into the phone rather than use your dial pad, warning, steer clear of this option at all cost. The site of a grown person screaming "FOUR" head-faced into a handset is not a pretty sight, especially when they have to repeat themselves until they become light-headed.
Worse are the phone systems that employ a virtual switchboard person who can only understand the specific language they are programmed to comprehend. I battled such an entity last week, who here and after will be referred to as "Virtual Betty." Regardless of what I said Betty responded, "I'm sorry, I am having trouble understanding what you are saying". "Really?" I responded (forgetting for a moment that I was talking to a machine), "You mean nothing that I have said falls within your 250 word hard drive vocabulary?" To which she replied "I'm sorry, I am having trouble, blah,blah,blah"….you know the rest. A vein in my forehead began to take the shape of surfacing submarine, as I lashed out at my mechanical antagonist, spewing a stream of profanity that would shame Tony Soprano's crew. Perhaps shocked into submission, my inflexible robot friend had apparently heard enough and immediately transferred me to a living breathing person in a matter of seconds. Had I unlocked the passage around Virtual Betty? Was her distaste for colorful language the chink in her amour?
Reaching the next level of customer service evolution (a human), I began my quest to have my issue resolved. I was funneled to a woman, who clearly specializes in foul mouthed customers who began our conversation by chastising me for even reaching her extension. Either Betty had rated me out or perhaps all of the particularly vulgar calls were sent to my new friend automatically. When she was finished scolding me, the woman put me on hold and transferred me to another department. A young man answered and quickly put me on hold again. Gentle hold music played (it sounded like a softened instrumental version of "Highway to Hell," but perhaps I was mistaken) as my Blackberry started to feel hot on my ear. I continued to wait for another twelve minutes.
When "Noel" arrived back on the phone he volleyed a series of questions my way, trying to understand who I was and why I was calling. I explained that my last name was Kaufman and spelled my name for him. An astonishing exchange followed.
Noel- Sir, was the second letter of your last name an "a" or an "eight" ?
Me (laughing)- An eight? What am I a part number? No, it's an "a".
Noel- Thank you Mr. Coffman
Me- Actually it's pronounced "Cowf-man".
Noel- (indignently)- No its not, its pronounced "Coffman"
Me- Noel, are you telling me that I am mispronouncing my own name?
Noel- I guess.
Me- (becoming a tad heated) You guess? Maybe I should scare-up a séance, contact my Dad and let him know that NOEL has discovered that we have been saying our name incorrectly for all of these years?
Noel- Sir, can you hold for a moment?
Before, I could answer I was whisked away to phone purgatory once again. Nine minutes passed and a familiar voice returned to the phone, it was my earlier nemesis, Virtual Betty. Betty's smiling voice prompted tears to well-up in my eyes, I had gone full circle. I tossed my phone down and placed a bag of ice on my throbbing head.
A wise man once said that patience and fortitude conquer all things, however, I doubt if that fellow had ever been summarily defeated by a combination of technology, apathy and stupidity. Patience has fallen off that short list of Jon's virtues. On the bright side, I still have my hair.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
As seen on TV
My wife Janet is an ardent fan of horror movies. During the month of October, the ever-present howl of our hound dogs is often overwhelmed by screams and the pitter-patter of humming chainsaws emanating from our television.
Janet is generally not a big fan of television. Normally, she is a whirling dervish of activity, a perpetual motion machine who would shame and tire a twelve man chain gang crew. However, once a year Janet allows herself somewhat of a break and launches herself into a world of lycanthropes, vampires and giggling cannibalistic hillbillies.
With an occasional detour to view the World Series and our favorite show (The Office), my son and I will often join Janet, gambling our sleep plans to take part in this festival of gore. Janet is unfazed by the most grizzly of scenes, undaunted by the mayhem created by the sickest minds in show business. Following a few of these productions I laid wide-eyed in my bed, imagining that the bed-side lamp was glaring at me and, somehow, meant me harm.
(Note: As a child, after watching Alfred Hitchcock's "Psycho" alone one night, I hurled a lamp at my bedroom door sensing that I was not alone in the room. As it turned out, I had merely seen myself in the mirror affixed to my door and had attacked my own reflection. This incident also explains the poor run of luck which I have experienced since and why I get a weird chill every time I look in the mirror or wear women's clothes (just kidding, I rarely look in the mirror).
During Janet's demented film jubilee, we were treated to screenings of Saw 1, 2, and 3 back-to-back-to-back. For those of you who have not been exposed to this trilogy, the plot revolves around a madman who kidnaps tortures and executes his victims by the use of "Rube Goldberg" type of devices. If you remember the old board game "Mousetrap" imagine the sequence of traps that needed to be sprung to snare the plastic mouse, then gently replace the mouse with a person who, instead of being trapped by a plastic cage, is disemboweled by a mechanized collection of rusty auto parts.
During the breaks in the film, we would be assaulted by the same collection of "As seen on TV" commercial spots that we had seen during the previous break. Talk about torture, where are those rusty auto parts when you need them? As I contemplated the features, functions and benefits of "Mighty Putty" for the fifth time in the last thirty minutes, I was seized by thought. Why not incorporate these "As seen on TV" products into the film? Some of these things already look like torture devices, why not go the next step in product placement?
Billy Mays, the long-standing leather-lunged spokesperson for most of these products, could play the smiling villain and that cock-eyed, headset wearing carnie appearing on the "Shamwow" spots would do nicely as his fiendish pitchman/henchman. Is it me or does that dude look like Wilhem DeFoe and Annie Lennox's love child? I digress.
This plan would eliminate both the need for commercials and would demonstrate the products in ways that most people might not have ever considered. "Grab-it Screw Extractor" sales would go through the roof! Image how fresh those cannibal hillbillies could keep their guests if they had a set of Chef Tony's "Smart Lids" vacuum lids. And, as they say on the commercial "AND THAT"S NOT ALL!". Hannibal Lechter himself could offer a free recipe book with every "Pancake Puff" and "Slider Station" cooking system if interested consumers acted within the next fifteen minutes. The opportunities are endless!
Like many of my great ideas, I am sure this project is already in development somewhere on Madison Avenue. Just think, if Freddy Kruger had been fortunate enough to have a "Pedipaws Pet Nail Trimmer" to tidy up those claws back in the day, his nightmare might have been a whole other dream entirely. Sadly, we might never know.
If you are interested in hearing more about this revolutionary marketing concept, please send a self-addressed stamped envelope to Box 2991 Radio City Station, New York, New York 10101, or simply return the unread portion of this article for a full refund. Operators are standing by.
My wife Janet is an ardent fan of horror movies. During the month of October, the ever-present howl of our hound dogs is often overwhelmed by screams and the pitter-patter of humming chainsaws emanating from our television.
Janet is generally not a big fan of television. Normally, she is a whirling dervish of activity, a perpetual motion machine who would shame and tire a twelve man chain gang crew. However, once a year Janet allows herself somewhat of a break and launches herself into a world of lycanthropes, vampires and giggling cannibalistic hillbillies.
With an occasional detour to view the World Series and our favorite show (The Office), my son and I will often join Janet, gambling our sleep plans to take part in this festival of gore. Janet is unfazed by the most grizzly of scenes, undaunted by the mayhem created by the sickest minds in show business. Following a few of these productions I laid wide-eyed in my bed, imagining that the bed-side lamp was glaring at me and, somehow, meant me harm.
(Note: As a child, after watching Alfred Hitchcock's "Psycho" alone one night, I hurled a lamp at my bedroom door sensing that I was not alone in the room. As it turned out, I had merely seen myself in the mirror affixed to my door and had attacked my own reflection. This incident also explains the poor run of luck which I have experienced since and why I get a weird chill every time I look in the mirror or wear women's clothes (just kidding, I rarely look in the mirror).
During Janet's demented film jubilee, we were treated to screenings of Saw 1, 2, and 3 back-to-back-to-back. For those of you who have not been exposed to this trilogy, the plot revolves around a madman who kidnaps tortures and executes his victims by the use of "Rube Goldberg" type of devices. If you remember the old board game "Mousetrap" imagine the sequence of traps that needed to be sprung to snare the plastic mouse, then gently replace the mouse with a person who, instead of being trapped by a plastic cage, is disemboweled by a mechanized collection of rusty auto parts.
During the breaks in the film, we would be assaulted by the same collection of "As seen on TV" commercial spots that we had seen during the previous break. Talk about torture, where are those rusty auto parts when you need them? As I contemplated the features, functions and benefits of "Mighty Putty" for the fifth time in the last thirty minutes, I was seized by thought. Why not incorporate these "As seen on TV" products into the film? Some of these things already look like torture devices, why not go the next step in product placement?
Billy Mays, the long-standing leather-lunged spokesperson for most of these products, could play the smiling villain and that cock-eyed, headset wearing carnie appearing on the "Shamwow" spots would do nicely as his fiendish pitchman/henchman. Is it me or does that dude look like Wilhem DeFoe and Annie Lennox's love child? I digress.
This plan would eliminate both the need for commercials and would demonstrate the products in ways that most people might not have ever considered. "Grab-it Screw Extractor" sales would go through the roof! Image how fresh those cannibal hillbillies could keep their guests if they had a set of Chef Tony's "Smart Lids" vacuum lids. And, as they say on the commercial "AND THAT"S NOT ALL!". Hannibal Lechter himself could offer a free recipe book with every "Pancake Puff" and "Slider Station" cooking system if interested consumers acted within the next fifteen minutes. The opportunities are endless!
Like many of my great ideas, I am sure this project is already in development somewhere on Madison Avenue. Just think, if Freddy Kruger had been fortunate enough to have a "Pedipaws Pet Nail Trimmer" to tidy up those claws back in the day, his nightmare might have been a whole other dream entirely. Sadly, we might never know.
If you are interested in hearing more about this revolutionary marketing concept, please send a self-addressed stamped envelope to Box 2991 Radio City Station, New York, New York 10101, or simply return the unread portion of this article for a full refund. Operators are standing by.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Moving Gas
Like most of you, I am relieved to see gasoline prices return (somewhat) to earth. It is truly disheartening to stand at the pump and witness the pay amount meter whiz by as the gallon gauge strains to reach the one dollar mark. With each spin of the wheel, I feel the contents of my pocket evacuating like a third quarter crowd at a New York Knicks game.
Last night I was watching a rather grisly horror film produced in 1991 in which the lead fiend performs an involuntary surgical procedure on a terrified filling station attendant. As bloodied anatomical parts randomly landed on the dormant petrol pump signange, I gasped, "Unleaded, .118 per gallon?" When was this movie made, 1928?" Unfazed by the condition of the sectionalized grease monkey, I remained shocked and horrified by the bloodstained pricing.
Gas mileage ratings have become a pivotal selling point for most automobiles, a vast departure from the mid-seventies when I started driving. However, there were those visionaries who saw gasoline conservation as an important issue even during that era.
In the summer of 1978, my friend Jeff bought a nearly new Volkswagen Bug for the tidy sum of $2650.00 and proceeded to drive everyone crazy with his daily tales of superior gas mileage. At the time I was driving a 1968 Mercury Cougar which hemorrhaged gas and oil like a crippled Exxon tanker when standing idle in my driveway and Jeff was working on my last nerve. Enlisting the aid of my friend Neil (also planning to strangle Jeff), we devised a way of putting this boast-fest to a quick end.
Our plan was simple. Each night for a week we would sneak over to Jeff's garage and carefully fill his gas tank to the brim by means of a five gallon can and a funnel. Any spilled evidence might give us a way. The next day we would go to Jeff's house and sit wide-eyed as he regaled us reports of 60-80 miles per gallon. Roundtrips to visit his parents in far-off New Jersey required nary a quart of propellant! Jeff had purchased the perfect vehicle.
The next week Neil and I launched Phase Two of our plan removing five gallons from Jeff's tank each night and relocating the fuel in one of our cars the next morning. Suddenly Jeff was quiet, even complaining about his ride. Jeff brought his Bug to several mechanics he knew all of whom saw no discernable problems. Now the "crazy" was on the other foot.
Finally, Phase Three found us completely emptying Jeff's tank and filling it up the next day (we had to make two round trips on that one). We even left our five gallon bucket next to his car with a present from the "Gas Fairy" one night. After almost three weeks, we suspended operations. Both of us had swallowed enough gas to fill-up a Greyhound Bus (while siphoning) and our breath smelled like 87 octane. Attending a cook-out was out of the question. It was time to stop.
We confessed our sins to Jeff and, like any good friend, he cussed us out thoroughly and damned us for coveting thy neighbors fuel. Eventually he forgave us and, as ushers at his wedding, we drained the get-away limo for old time sake (his wife Debbie banned us from their house (and garage) soon after).
For those of you who have a friend or neighbor who is driving a fuel efficient car and enjoys crowing about the economic virtues of his or her vehicle, please refrain from re-enacting our three phase plan. Other than torturing our dear friend for a few weeks (which is always fun), little was gained. However, I can report that I am still able to re-light my own birthday candles every year with a big, strong, gust from the lungs. I wonder if Neil can claim the same?
Like most of you, I am relieved to see gasoline prices return (somewhat) to earth. It is truly disheartening to stand at the pump and witness the pay amount meter whiz by as the gallon gauge strains to reach the one dollar mark. With each spin of the wheel, I feel the contents of my pocket evacuating like a third quarter crowd at a New York Knicks game.
Last night I was watching a rather grisly horror film produced in 1991 in which the lead fiend performs an involuntary surgical procedure on a terrified filling station attendant. As bloodied anatomical parts randomly landed on the dormant petrol pump signange, I gasped, "Unleaded, .118 per gallon?" When was this movie made, 1928?" Unfazed by the condition of the sectionalized grease monkey, I remained shocked and horrified by the bloodstained pricing.
Gas mileage ratings have become a pivotal selling point for most automobiles, a vast departure from the mid-seventies when I started driving. However, there were those visionaries who saw gasoline conservation as an important issue even during that era.
In the summer of 1978, my friend Jeff bought a nearly new Volkswagen Bug for the tidy sum of $2650.00 and proceeded to drive everyone crazy with his daily tales of superior gas mileage. At the time I was driving a 1968 Mercury Cougar which hemorrhaged gas and oil like a crippled Exxon tanker when standing idle in my driveway and Jeff was working on my last nerve. Enlisting the aid of my friend Neil (also planning to strangle Jeff), we devised a way of putting this boast-fest to a quick end.
Our plan was simple. Each night for a week we would sneak over to Jeff's garage and carefully fill his gas tank to the brim by means of a five gallon can and a funnel. Any spilled evidence might give us a way. The next day we would go to Jeff's house and sit wide-eyed as he regaled us reports of 60-80 miles per gallon. Roundtrips to visit his parents in far-off New Jersey required nary a quart of propellant! Jeff had purchased the perfect vehicle.
The next week Neil and I launched Phase Two of our plan removing five gallons from Jeff's tank each night and relocating the fuel in one of our cars the next morning. Suddenly Jeff was quiet, even complaining about his ride. Jeff brought his Bug to several mechanics he knew all of whom saw no discernable problems. Now the "crazy" was on the other foot.
Finally, Phase Three found us completely emptying Jeff's tank and filling it up the next day (we had to make two round trips on that one). We even left our five gallon bucket next to his car with a present from the "Gas Fairy" one night. After almost three weeks, we suspended operations. Both of us had swallowed enough gas to fill-up a Greyhound Bus (while siphoning) and our breath smelled like 87 octane. Attending a cook-out was out of the question. It was time to stop.
We confessed our sins to Jeff and, like any good friend, he cussed us out thoroughly and damned us for coveting thy neighbors fuel. Eventually he forgave us and, as ushers at his wedding, we drained the get-away limo for old time sake (his wife Debbie banned us from their house (and garage) soon after).
For those of you who have a friend or neighbor who is driving a fuel efficient car and enjoys crowing about the economic virtues of his or her vehicle, please refrain from re-enacting our three phase plan. Other than torturing our dear friend for a few weeks (which is always fun), little was gained. However, I can report that I am still able to re-light my own birthday candles every year with a big, strong, gust from the lungs. I wonder if Neil can claim the same?
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
The Swami Speaks
On Friday, October 31st, an otherwise quiet Southwest City neighborhood will be transformed into a gauntlet of horror, a boulevard of blood eagerly awaiting troves of pint-sized treat seekers.
Over the past few years, Halloween has become quite an event in my neck of the woods. A competitive, yet friendly atmosphere prevails among a smattering of homes, neighbors bent on adding a peculiar chill to the already nippy October air.
To the North of me, on Maiden Lane, the pioneering Hughes family is the standard by which all Halloweeners in this burg are measured (Halloweneers? That just doesn't sound right, does it?). The Hughes dwelling connotes a gigantic stationary All-Hallows Eve parade float, dotted with orange lights and comical gravestones. The benevolent innkeepers of this horror hotel treat every caller as a welcomed guest and the edifice serves as a meeting point, "Spook Central", if you will, for the entire neighborhood.Just down the street a group of young upstarts are raising the stakes, converting the front of their rental into a full blown pirate ship complete with canons! Suited in full costume, these swashbuckling lads continually fire volleys at unsuspecting revelers eliciting screams and temporary deafness to all within ear shot. Following three such consecutive salvos my fearless Coonhound Mya buried herself under our bed ready to abandon ship!Not to be outdone by these Depp impersonating delinquents, I began to hatch my own Halloween strategy designed to attract hordes of street roaming kiddies and thus ridding myself and my family of the bagged sweets which financed our dentist's Lexus.As darkness descended on the final day of October I began to launch my plan. This year I would pose as "Swami Jon" the all-knowing, crystal ball gazing mystic and sultan of sweet treats. My crystal ball was an inverted fish bowl, my turban fashioned out of aluminum foil and a wool cap. I thought my head-gear looked great until a young visitor remarked that it looked like I was making Jiffy-Pop on my head. Nevertheless, I was ready. Soon the roving youths would arrive.Prior to forking over the candy, I would stop each trick-or-treater and proclaim "The bubble-gum is yours Sahib, but first I must read your fortune." Gazing wide-eyed into the ball, I would try to make a prediction related to their costume. To a tiny girl dressed as Snow White I offered the prophetic words "you will meet six... no SEVEN dwarfs in the forest." She stared blankly as if to say "Grow-up mister," grabbed a Hershey's Crunch Bar and left. I did get a laugh from a kid dressed as Darth Vader when I correctly predicted that he would be killed by his son in the third movie. The right kind of audience is critical for these kinds of things.One future attorney (skeptical of my powers) asked for my credentials, postulating that I was not a true seer. I assured him that I was quite genuine and that the famous dish "Veal Swami Jon" had been named after me by a thankful client. Not a moan, laugh or giggle from this tike, prompting me to tap on my magic crystal and inquire "Is this thing on?"
Overall, I was pretty much a flop as a swami. My Jiffy-Pop crown just didn't cut it. Towards the end of the night a child dressed as the Grim Reaper darkened by door. Upon greeting this vision, I slowly rose, abdicated my post and sighed "I knew I would be seeing you sooner or later Sir, I am ready to go right now."Thanksgiving is coming up. What do you think about a twenty-foot remote controlled turkey that flies around the vicinity dropping stuffing bombs in it's wake? All I need is some foil and four D batteries to get me started.
On Friday, October 31st, an otherwise quiet Southwest City neighborhood will be transformed into a gauntlet of horror, a boulevard of blood eagerly awaiting troves of pint-sized treat seekers.
Over the past few years, Halloween has become quite an event in my neck of the woods. A competitive, yet friendly atmosphere prevails among a smattering of homes, neighbors bent on adding a peculiar chill to the already nippy October air.
To the North of me, on Maiden Lane, the pioneering Hughes family is the standard by which all Halloweeners in this burg are measured (Halloweneers? That just doesn't sound right, does it?). The Hughes dwelling connotes a gigantic stationary All-Hallows Eve parade float, dotted with orange lights and comical gravestones. The benevolent innkeepers of this horror hotel treat every caller as a welcomed guest and the edifice serves as a meeting point, "Spook Central", if you will, for the entire neighborhood.Just down the street a group of young upstarts are raising the stakes, converting the front of their rental into a full blown pirate ship complete with canons! Suited in full costume, these swashbuckling lads continually fire volleys at unsuspecting revelers eliciting screams and temporary deafness to all within ear shot. Following three such consecutive salvos my fearless Coonhound Mya buried herself under our bed ready to abandon ship!Not to be outdone by these Depp impersonating delinquents, I began to hatch my own Halloween strategy designed to attract hordes of street roaming kiddies and thus ridding myself and my family of the bagged sweets which financed our dentist's Lexus.As darkness descended on the final day of October I began to launch my plan. This year I would pose as "Swami Jon" the all-knowing, crystal ball gazing mystic and sultan of sweet treats. My crystal ball was an inverted fish bowl, my turban fashioned out of aluminum foil and a wool cap. I thought my head-gear looked great until a young visitor remarked that it looked like I was making Jiffy-Pop on my head. Nevertheless, I was ready. Soon the roving youths would arrive.Prior to forking over the candy, I would stop each trick-or-treater and proclaim "The bubble-gum is yours Sahib, but first I must read your fortune." Gazing wide-eyed into the ball, I would try to make a prediction related to their costume. To a tiny girl dressed as Snow White I offered the prophetic words "you will meet six... no SEVEN dwarfs in the forest." She stared blankly as if to say "Grow-up mister," grabbed a Hershey's Crunch Bar and left. I did get a laugh from a kid dressed as Darth Vader when I correctly predicted that he would be killed by his son in the third movie. The right kind of audience is critical for these kinds of things.One future attorney (skeptical of my powers) asked for my credentials, postulating that I was not a true seer. I assured him that I was quite genuine and that the famous dish "Veal Swami Jon" had been named after me by a thankful client. Not a moan, laugh or giggle from this tike, prompting me to tap on my magic crystal and inquire "Is this thing on?"
Overall, I was pretty much a flop as a swami. My Jiffy-Pop crown just didn't cut it. Towards the end of the night a child dressed as the Grim Reaper darkened by door. Upon greeting this vision, I slowly rose, abdicated my post and sighed "I knew I would be seeing you sooner or later Sir, I am ready to go right now."Thanksgiving is coming up. What do you think about a twenty-foot remote controlled turkey that flies around the vicinity dropping stuffing bombs in it's wake? All I need is some foil and four D batteries to get me started.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Tales from the Temple
At month's end Jewish people all over the world will celebrate the beginning of a new year, the year 5769. A friend recently asked me, "Why is the Jewish calendar so different from the regular calendar?" At first I thought about offering a "home-made" explanation equating the Jewish calendar to that of the Chinese, heralding 5769 as the "Year of the Gefilte Fish", but it seemed like too much work.
Surely a Hebrew School lifer (such as me) could provide a simple explanation regarding the origins of the time measurement as concocted by my ancestors?
Frankly, I have very little to show for my six grueling years of religious study. Mentally absent during class, I could speak and read the chosen language with the proficiency of your average Eskimo. After six years you would think that something would soak in, yet, I remain hebreacally illiterate to this day.
Attending temple as a child was a yawn-inducing siege with no outlet to vent. Hours passed, fathers dozed, and children, stricken down by boredom, would lay prostrate on the carpet, overcome by the monotony. To re-create this scene with your own kids, simply drag your child to the wallpaper store for a few hours, then, whisk them off to an opera and observe the desired effect some time between the first act and intermission.
When the High Holidays neared, our temple would mail out what amounted to a sales piece offering tickets for the big events. Funds were raised for building improvements and other synagogue matters through the sale of these tickets. Dutifully, my parents supported the cause and purchased tickets for the entire family. During a particularly lean financial year for the Kaufman family, my Dad had to scale back on the ticket order, cutting our ticket inventory in half. Somewhat embarrassed by the situation, Pop enlisted my help in a scheme he had devised so every family member could attend.
When we arrived at the temple, Pop sent me into the building first, pushing a ticket into my left hand. Once inside I would race immediately to the coat room and rendezvous with him as he waited outside of the back window. Entering the building I double-timed it to the coat room window where Pop awaited. Checking over my shoulder for witnesses, I passed my ticket back to Pop, then ran back to the entrance, greeted one of my sisters, grabbed her ticket and headed back to the window where Pop would, again, re-circulate the entry pass to another family member. Although I felt like I was short-changing God in some way, I understood that it was the only way we could attend as a family.
Little by little we inched into the synagogue, my sisters and Mom unaware of the covert manner in which we entered. It wasn't until we all sat down that I realized that I hadn't taken the last ticket to the coat room and that my Dad was still waiting outside. The service was about to begin as I slipped through the congregation and headed for the coat room. Remembering that the coat room door was locked during the observance period, I quickly returned to the sanctuary only to find the doors closed, barring me from entrance.
Sweating and gasping for air, I made my way to the main entrance where I found my dad trying to negotiate his way passage into the edifice, even promising the unflappable doorman that he wouldn't pray if he gained entrance. Unable to reach a settlement with the unyielding door-keep, Pop sat down on the temple stairs and waited. Closed out as well, I joined my partner-in-crime on the stoop missing most of the holiday ceremonies.
The following year we were able to purchase tickets for everyone and my dad made sure to include some extra funds in the envelope, an offering meant to square himself with God, I suspect. During my two hour wait with Pops on the stairs of the synagogue I learned that skirting the system never seems to turn out like you planned and that temple can be quite exciting, (rarely, alright almost never, but sometimes). To all I wish you a happy and prosperous 5769 and serve this reminder that now id the perfect time to start planning your big 5770 "Year of the Matzo Ball" extravaganza!
At month's end Jewish people all over the world will celebrate the beginning of a new year, the year 5769. A friend recently asked me, "Why is the Jewish calendar so different from the regular calendar?" At first I thought about offering a "home-made" explanation equating the Jewish calendar to that of the Chinese, heralding 5769 as the "Year of the Gefilte Fish", but it seemed like too much work.
Surely a Hebrew School lifer (such as me) could provide a simple explanation regarding the origins of the time measurement as concocted by my ancestors?
Frankly, I have very little to show for my six grueling years of religious study. Mentally absent during class, I could speak and read the chosen language with the proficiency of your average Eskimo. After six years you would think that something would soak in, yet, I remain hebreacally illiterate to this day.
Attending temple as a child was a yawn-inducing siege with no outlet to vent. Hours passed, fathers dozed, and children, stricken down by boredom, would lay prostrate on the carpet, overcome by the monotony. To re-create this scene with your own kids, simply drag your child to the wallpaper store for a few hours, then, whisk them off to an opera and observe the desired effect some time between the first act and intermission.
When the High Holidays neared, our temple would mail out what amounted to a sales piece offering tickets for the big events. Funds were raised for building improvements and other synagogue matters through the sale of these tickets. Dutifully, my parents supported the cause and purchased tickets for the entire family. During a particularly lean financial year for the Kaufman family, my Dad had to scale back on the ticket order, cutting our ticket inventory in half. Somewhat embarrassed by the situation, Pop enlisted my help in a scheme he had devised so every family member could attend.
When we arrived at the temple, Pop sent me into the building first, pushing a ticket into my left hand. Once inside I would race immediately to the coat room and rendezvous with him as he waited outside of the back window. Entering the building I double-timed it to the coat room window where Pop awaited. Checking over my shoulder for witnesses, I passed my ticket back to Pop, then ran back to the entrance, greeted one of my sisters, grabbed her ticket and headed back to the window where Pop would, again, re-circulate the entry pass to another family member. Although I felt like I was short-changing God in some way, I understood that it was the only way we could attend as a family.
Little by little we inched into the synagogue, my sisters and Mom unaware of the covert manner in which we entered. It wasn't until we all sat down that I realized that I hadn't taken the last ticket to the coat room and that my Dad was still waiting outside. The service was about to begin as I slipped through the congregation and headed for the coat room. Remembering that the coat room door was locked during the observance period, I quickly returned to the sanctuary only to find the doors closed, barring me from entrance.
Sweating and gasping for air, I made my way to the main entrance where I found my dad trying to negotiate his way passage into the edifice, even promising the unflappable doorman that he wouldn't pray if he gained entrance. Unable to reach a settlement with the unyielding door-keep, Pop sat down on the temple stairs and waited. Closed out as well, I joined my partner-in-crime on the stoop missing most of the holiday ceremonies.
The following year we were able to purchase tickets for everyone and my dad made sure to include some extra funds in the envelope, an offering meant to square himself with God, I suspect. During my two hour wait with Pops on the stairs of the synagogue I learned that skirting the system never seems to turn out like you planned and that temple can be quite exciting, (rarely, alright almost never, but sometimes). To all I wish you a happy and prosperous 5769 and serve this reminder that now id the perfect time to start planning your big 5770 "Year of the Matzo Ball" extravaganza!
Monday, September 08, 2008
Born Looking Old
The Summer Olympics are over. Michael Phelps is back on dry land and several "sixteen year-old" child gymnasts are proudly displaying their medals in a Beijing fifth grade show-and-tell session.
The Chinese women's gymnastics team was truly spectacular whatever age they claimed during the games. Why should gymnastics have an age limit anyway? The controversy sparked a rare competitive instance where participants were suspected to be too young. Normally such disputes involve a bearded Little Leaguer mowing down frightened batters who, unlike their opponent, did not drive themselves to the ballpark.
I was born looking old. Nearly fifty, I can honestly say that I was asked for age verifying identification only once in my life.
Annually the neighborhood known as "Little Italy" situated in the lower east side of Manhattan stages the San Genarro Festival, a fund raising street carnival which attracts of thousands of people daily. In 1980 I attended the gala with Roni, a young lady who I had just started dating. We strolled along the carnival booths, snacking on Neapolitan delicacies until we reached an odd looking man standing on the corner of Mulberry and Grand Streets. The gentleman was guessing people's weights, ages and birthdays with remarkable accuracy. Surrounded by an enormous crowd, the man amazed the group with his skills, never presenting a single customer with any of the trinkets meant for someone who could stump him. Not one teddy bear or slide-whistle left that booth, at least until I came along.
Chided by my charming companion, I stepped before this would be psychic, paid my dollar and dared him to guess my age. Placing his hand on his chin, the man looked me up and down for a little over a minute, scribbling something on his pad only to cross it out again. The crowd was getting restless. Finally, the man was ready. His clasped hands tossed high into the air, the would-be prophet boldly announced "this gentleman is 29 years old and was born in late April"! The crowd stood silent awaiting my authentification.
Everyone was starring at me including Roni, shocked that she might me dating an "old man." I approached the man and assured him that I was but twenty-one years old and was born in mid-December. Roni looked relieved and a somewhat angry horde vehemently demanded my birth-date credentials. Producing my wallet for the mob to clearly see, I handed my driver's license to the fallen prophet who sought to substantiate my claim. Upon studying my permit briefly, the stunned seer drew close to me and whispered something under his breath. "You need to lay off whatever you've been smoking pal, you look awful," murmured the distraught diviner before begrudgingly handing me my well earned prize. The mob dispersed with a sigh of defeat as we began to walk away with a small teddy bear which I had presented to Roni.
Unwilling to relinquish his title as "Mystic of Mulberry Street" just yet, my former opponent stopped Roni and I offered us a double-or-nothing proposition. He would guess Roni's age within two months of her birth date against a four foot high stuffed replica of "Scooby-Doo" which had probably been sitting in his booth since the early seventies. Bereft of any vanity, the intrepid Roni accepted the challenge and the crowd quickly reassembled.
It took seconds for the leaky clairvoyant to pronounce her twenty-years old and three months. The crowd grew silent as I broad smile lit Roni's face. "Mister, you are way off she announced proudly, I'm only sixteen!" Honestly, I had no idea! Instantly, sweat covered my body like a tropical storm passing over Cuba, as two hundred judging eyes burned through my skull. Roni lifted her Holy Trinity High School student ID from her pocketbook as proof of her tender years, while I quickly pondered my exit strategy. I had managed to go from world weary youth to pervert in 6.4 seconds.
Showered with a hail of catcalls, I wrestled Scooby onto my shoulders and (ironically) made haste for the safety of Chinatown. Roni explained that she didn't think her age would be a problem and that she always liked "older" men. In response I explained that there are specific laws that clearly illuminate the prison sentence range for offenders such as myself, (innocent or not) and that I couldn't get off work from that long a time period.
Roni, Scooby and I ended the evening with a platonic meal of Chinese cuisine. When the check arrived, my complimentary fortune cookie read "Confucius says: The greatest danger could be your stupidity." Great, now he tells me.
The Summer Olympics are over. Michael Phelps is back on dry land and several "sixteen year-old" child gymnasts are proudly displaying their medals in a Beijing fifth grade show-and-tell session.
The Chinese women's gymnastics team was truly spectacular whatever age they claimed during the games. Why should gymnastics have an age limit anyway? The controversy sparked a rare competitive instance where participants were suspected to be too young. Normally such disputes involve a bearded Little Leaguer mowing down frightened batters who, unlike their opponent, did not drive themselves to the ballpark.
I was born looking old. Nearly fifty, I can honestly say that I was asked for age verifying identification only once in my life.
Annually the neighborhood known as "Little Italy" situated in the lower east side of Manhattan stages the San Genarro Festival, a fund raising street carnival which attracts of thousands of people daily. In 1980 I attended the gala with Roni, a young lady who I had just started dating. We strolled along the carnival booths, snacking on Neapolitan delicacies until we reached an odd looking man standing on the corner of Mulberry and Grand Streets. The gentleman was guessing people's weights, ages and birthdays with remarkable accuracy. Surrounded by an enormous crowd, the man amazed the group with his skills, never presenting a single customer with any of the trinkets meant for someone who could stump him. Not one teddy bear or slide-whistle left that booth, at least until I came along.
Chided by my charming companion, I stepped before this would be psychic, paid my dollar and dared him to guess my age. Placing his hand on his chin, the man looked me up and down for a little over a minute, scribbling something on his pad only to cross it out again. The crowd was getting restless. Finally, the man was ready. His clasped hands tossed high into the air, the would-be prophet boldly announced "this gentleman is 29 years old and was born in late April"! The crowd stood silent awaiting my authentification.
Everyone was starring at me including Roni, shocked that she might me dating an "old man." I approached the man and assured him that I was but twenty-one years old and was born in mid-December. Roni looked relieved and a somewhat angry horde vehemently demanded my birth-date credentials. Producing my wallet for the mob to clearly see, I handed my driver's license to the fallen prophet who sought to substantiate my claim. Upon studying my permit briefly, the stunned seer drew close to me and whispered something under his breath. "You need to lay off whatever you've been smoking pal, you look awful," murmured the distraught diviner before begrudgingly handing me my well earned prize. The mob dispersed with a sigh of defeat as we began to walk away with a small teddy bear which I had presented to Roni.
Unwilling to relinquish his title as "Mystic of Mulberry Street" just yet, my former opponent stopped Roni and I offered us a double-or-nothing proposition. He would guess Roni's age within two months of her birth date against a four foot high stuffed replica of "Scooby-Doo" which had probably been sitting in his booth since the early seventies. Bereft of any vanity, the intrepid Roni accepted the challenge and the crowd quickly reassembled.
It took seconds for the leaky clairvoyant to pronounce her twenty-years old and three months. The crowd grew silent as I broad smile lit Roni's face. "Mister, you are way off she announced proudly, I'm only sixteen!" Honestly, I had no idea! Instantly, sweat covered my body like a tropical storm passing over Cuba, as two hundred judging eyes burned through my skull. Roni lifted her Holy Trinity High School student ID from her pocketbook as proof of her tender years, while I quickly pondered my exit strategy. I had managed to go from world weary youth to pervert in 6.4 seconds.
Showered with a hail of catcalls, I wrestled Scooby onto my shoulders and (ironically) made haste for the safety of Chinatown. Roni explained that she didn't think her age would be a problem and that she always liked "older" men. In response I explained that there are specific laws that clearly illuminate the prison sentence range for offenders such as myself, (innocent or not) and that I couldn't get off work from that long a time period.
Roni, Scooby and I ended the evening with a platonic meal of Chinese cuisine. When the check arrived, my complimentary fortune cookie read "Confucius says: The greatest danger could be your stupidity." Great, now he tells me.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Salem Baseball Folkfore
I arrived in Roanoke in 1983 under unusual circumstances. Entwined in a clandestine relationship with my recently divorced employer (a harrowing story best left untold), I found myself searching for an opportunity to escape the New York metro area with some urgency. Presented with an offer to become the Assistant General Manager of the beleaguered Salem Redbirds baseball team at an annual salary rate of $6250.00 (plus commission), I packed up my duds and fled South forthwith.
Upon arriving in Salem the culture shock was considerable. Following my first day at work I excitedly called my Mom and informed her that I had seen a real cow on the way back to my apartment. Remember, cattle are scarce on the south shore of Long Island. My first sales meeting was in downtown Roanoke. Armed with my fence sign and program advertisement pricing and information, my best friend and boss, General Manager Bob Kitchen provided me with directions to Campbell Avenue, assuring me that I would know I had arrived in downtown when I saw the "big buildings." I was in Vinton before I realized that I had passed right through that section completely.
For four years I toiled at the old Municipal Field an accomplice to some of the worst ball clubs in Carolina League history. My favorite year was not the 1987 championship run of the Salem Buccaneers, but the final season of the Redbirds in 1986. The team finished a dismal 45-93, fourth in a four team division, however, it was behind the scenes where the 86' Birds were much more interesting.
Mike Bucci, a former Philadelphia Phillies farmhand managed the team, yet never established a residential address in the area. A genial yet frugal man, "Bootch" saved on living expenses by setting up house in a pup-tent inside of the ballpark. Our skipper would rise in the morning, mount the riding mower and trim the field as if he was tending to his own lawn. Occasionally, in the case of stormy weather, Bootch would abandon his stadium teepee and sack out in his tiny office or beg for lodging on someone's couch.
1986 was also the year Kelvin Bowles bought the team, brought in Sam Lazzaro, an experienced baseball man from upstate New York to be Vice President of the team and promoted me to General Manager. Bob and I ran the club kind of like a summer camp and Sam's steadying hand would soon carry the franchise into the realm of real professional baseball. However, in 1986 there lingered a good deal of "Redbird-ness," yet to be expunged.
Prior to a home game verses the Hagerstown Suns, Eric Clark, our groundskeeper and I noticed one of our relief pitchers playing with what looked like a cat on the outfield warning track. Upon further inspection we discovered that the animal was, in fact, a jumbo sized rat who was gnawing on the end of a stray baseball bat. Clearly, we had to find some way to capture the rodent, chase him from the premises or sell him a ticket previous to game time.
First, I have to tell you that I am deathly afraid of rats, yet Eric was a former Marine, so I figured that he canceled out my substantial yellow streak. Joined by Eric's brother Sam, the longtime clubhouse manager, our public address announcer, some bat boys and a few others, we ventured towards the outfield and began the hunt. Our first strategy was to chase the offending pest out of the gate with a show of stampeding man-power. We gave chase driving one three-wheeler, a riding mower (me), and on foot. Stunned, at first, our furry friend scampered towards the right-field exit only to quickly spin around and drive our convoy back towards center-field.
Next, we pursued our quarry with a garden hose forcing the vermin to seek refuge in a drainage grate. We continued to flood the grate in hopes of drowning our prey, yet he managed to float to field level unharmed, shook himself off and headed for left field. Out of ideas and somewhat tired, we considered finding the rat a uniform and adding him to the game line-up.
Finally, our extremely un-athletic PA announcer Jeff offered a wild solution. Producing a golf ball from his left pocket, Jeff explained that he could throw small objects with extreme accuracy and he could end this stalemate with one good toss. None of us thought that Jeff could even hit the scoreboard with a golf ball, much less a speeding rodent, but we agreed to let him try.
Jeff crept towards the rat (that had stopped to catch a breather), silently stalking his prey. Like a bear swatting at a salmon, Jeff wound-up and fired his Titleist at its target. As expected the ball missed the rat, however, as if by divine intervention, the ball then rebounded off of the outfield wall, struck the rodent on the head and knocked him unconscious. It was a one in a trillion shot that left us all dumbfounded. Eric scooped the dazed creature up with a shovel, and placed him outside of the park where it quickly regained its faculites and ran up Florida Street.
Few know this, but the greatest pitch thrown in Salem that year came, not from a big league prospect, but from the hand of a portly PA man with the heart of an exterminator. It was just that kind of year.
I arrived in Roanoke in 1983 under unusual circumstances. Entwined in a clandestine relationship with my recently divorced employer (a harrowing story best left untold), I found myself searching for an opportunity to escape the New York metro area with some urgency. Presented with an offer to become the Assistant General Manager of the beleaguered Salem Redbirds baseball team at an annual salary rate of $6250.00 (plus commission), I packed up my duds and fled South forthwith.
Upon arriving in Salem the culture shock was considerable. Following my first day at work I excitedly called my Mom and informed her that I had seen a real cow on the way back to my apartment. Remember, cattle are scarce on the south shore of Long Island. My first sales meeting was in downtown Roanoke. Armed with my fence sign and program advertisement pricing and information, my best friend and boss, General Manager Bob Kitchen provided me with directions to Campbell Avenue, assuring me that I would know I had arrived in downtown when I saw the "big buildings." I was in Vinton before I realized that I had passed right through that section completely.
For four years I toiled at the old Municipal Field an accomplice to some of the worst ball clubs in Carolina League history. My favorite year was not the 1987 championship run of the Salem Buccaneers, but the final season of the Redbirds in 1986. The team finished a dismal 45-93, fourth in a four team division, however, it was behind the scenes where the 86' Birds were much more interesting.
Mike Bucci, a former Philadelphia Phillies farmhand managed the team, yet never established a residential address in the area. A genial yet frugal man, "Bootch" saved on living expenses by setting up house in a pup-tent inside of the ballpark. Our skipper would rise in the morning, mount the riding mower and trim the field as if he was tending to his own lawn. Occasionally, in the case of stormy weather, Bootch would abandon his stadium teepee and sack out in his tiny office or beg for lodging on someone's couch.
1986 was also the year Kelvin Bowles bought the team, brought in Sam Lazzaro, an experienced baseball man from upstate New York to be Vice President of the team and promoted me to General Manager. Bob and I ran the club kind of like a summer camp and Sam's steadying hand would soon carry the franchise into the realm of real professional baseball. However, in 1986 there lingered a good deal of "Redbird-ness," yet to be expunged.
Prior to a home game verses the Hagerstown Suns, Eric Clark, our groundskeeper and I noticed one of our relief pitchers playing with what looked like a cat on the outfield warning track. Upon further inspection we discovered that the animal was, in fact, a jumbo sized rat who was gnawing on the end of a stray baseball bat. Clearly, we had to find some way to capture the rodent, chase him from the premises or sell him a ticket previous to game time.
First, I have to tell you that I am deathly afraid of rats, yet Eric was a former Marine, so I figured that he canceled out my substantial yellow streak. Joined by Eric's brother Sam, the longtime clubhouse manager, our public address announcer, some bat boys and a few others, we ventured towards the outfield and began the hunt. Our first strategy was to chase the offending pest out of the gate with a show of stampeding man-power. We gave chase driving one three-wheeler, a riding mower (me), and on foot. Stunned, at first, our furry friend scampered towards the right-field exit only to quickly spin around and drive our convoy back towards center-field.
Next, we pursued our quarry with a garden hose forcing the vermin to seek refuge in a drainage grate. We continued to flood the grate in hopes of drowning our prey, yet he managed to float to field level unharmed, shook himself off and headed for left field. Out of ideas and somewhat tired, we considered finding the rat a uniform and adding him to the game line-up.
Finally, our extremely un-athletic PA announcer Jeff offered a wild solution. Producing a golf ball from his left pocket, Jeff explained that he could throw small objects with extreme accuracy and he could end this stalemate with one good toss. None of us thought that Jeff could even hit the scoreboard with a golf ball, much less a speeding rodent, but we agreed to let him try.
Jeff crept towards the rat (that had stopped to catch a breather), silently stalking his prey. Like a bear swatting at a salmon, Jeff wound-up and fired his Titleist at its target. As expected the ball missed the rat, however, as if by divine intervention, the ball then rebounded off of the outfield wall, struck the rodent on the head and knocked him unconscious. It was a one in a trillion shot that left us all dumbfounded. Eric scooped the dazed creature up with a shovel, and placed him outside of the park where it quickly regained its faculites and ran up Florida Street.
Few know this, but the greatest pitch thrown in Salem that year came, not from a big league prospect, but from the hand of a portly PA man with the heart of an exterminator. It was just that kind of year.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
To Sleep, Per Chance......
I can sleep anywhere at any time. Hook my collar on a sturdy nail and I will nod off without a moments notice. In a matter of seconds I am drifting into a dream world seemingly free of stress, heartburn and grief. However, sleep does not necessarily denote rest and there is where my trouble begins.
Beneath Jon's shut eyelids lurks an aggregation of sleep disorders that would stir the average bear out of hibernation. I walk, talk, roll, flip, and even shave (half of my beard one night) in the throws of slumber. Amazingly, my long suffering wife has managed to retain her sanity through seventeen years of these bizarre nocturnal antics, though I fear she might gently smother me with a pillow one darkened night.
Scheduled by my doctor to participate in a sleep study several weeks ago, I grew feathers the night before and surrendered my chicken-hearted self to Colonel Sanders rather than attend. Aside from having to wear one of those sleep apnea contraptions that makes the subject look like a test pilot getting ready to leave the atmosphere, I feared my monitoring tape might appear on YouTube the following morning under the heading "Disturbed Old Fat Man in his PJ's."
This affliction has haunted me since childhood. One night my father discovered me kneeling next to my bed, shoving a stack of books under one of the legs. When asked what I was doing I reportedly answered "fixing a tire." Not one to allow an opportunity to pass, my Dad pointed under the bed and informed me that a few of my lug nuts had scattered towards the passenger side. I faintly remember him giggling as I scrambled under bed for the missing parts.
Several years ago I roused Janet out of a sound sleep claiming that our ceiling fan was bouncing up and down like a yo-yo. Lightly agitated, she walked to the doorway, flipped on the light switch which controlled the fan and proclaimed "Now it's going 'round and 'round, now go back to sleep you lunatic!"
These acts of quiescence don't always occur in the wee hours, sometimes the sand man visits me during the light of day. While employed as an advertising salesperson I was often asked to wait for a short while when my clients were helping one of their customers. Normally, the delay was short, however, the customer I was visiting on this day was notorious for keeping her sales reps waiting. Following a restless night, I eased myself onto a small bench in her showroom and fell asleep almost immediately. I awoke two and a half hours later, decorated like a Christmas tree. Upon my chest was a sign stating "Hi, I'm Jon the Sales-guy! Please excuse my snoring and remember that everything in the store is 20% off. I had been transformed into a human advertisement.
Flustered, my wiped the drool from my chin and sat up-right. Removing the tinsel from my hair and sleeves, I noticed a stack of photos on the counter next to me. I learned that for the past couple of hours people had not only been trimming me like a tree, but were also posing for pictures with me as well. The store owner assured me that I was the "hit of the day" and that if I didn't like the Polaroid shots on the counter, her partner would be back from the one-hour photo developers in a few minutes with some clearer images. More than a little embarrassed, I apologized for my behavior, yet politely refused to allow her to use my likeness for her Christmas cards the following year.
Perhaps I will reconsider my visit to the sleep clinic. It would be nice to wake up and feel something other than complete exhaustion and maybe someone in my house can get a night's rest as well. If you see a man on YouTube on night dressed like a trimmed-up Norwegian Spruce, you will know that I made it to the clinic safely. Sleep well.
I can sleep anywhere at any time. Hook my collar on a sturdy nail and I will nod off without a moments notice. In a matter of seconds I am drifting into a dream world seemingly free of stress, heartburn and grief. However, sleep does not necessarily denote rest and there is where my trouble begins.
Beneath Jon's shut eyelids lurks an aggregation of sleep disorders that would stir the average bear out of hibernation. I walk, talk, roll, flip, and even shave (half of my beard one night) in the throws of slumber. Amazingly, my long suffering wife has managed to retain her sanity through seventeen years of these bizarre nocturnal antics, though I fear she might gently smother me with a pillow one darkened night.
Scheduled by my doctor to participate in a sleep study several weeks ago, I grew feathers the night before and surrendered my chicken-hearted self to Colonel Sanders rather than attend. Aside from having to wear one of those sleep apnea contraptions that makes the subject look like a test pilot getting ready to leave the atmosphere, I feared my monitoring tape might appear on YouTube the following morning under the heading "Disturbed Old Fat Man in his PJ's."
This affliction has haunted me since childhood. One night my father discovered me kneeling next to my bed, shoving a stack of books under one of the legs. When asked what I was doing I reportedly answered "fixing a tire." Not one to allow an opportunity to pass, my Dad pointed under the bed and informed me that a few of my lug nuts had scattered towards the passenger side. I faintly remember him giggling as I scrambled under bed for the missing parts.
Several years ago I roused Janet out of a sound sleep claiming that our ceiling fan was bouncing up and down like a yo-yo. Lightly agitated, she walked to the doorway, flipped on the light switch which controlled the fan and proclaimed "Now it's going 'round and 'round, now go back to sleep you lunatic!"
These acts of quiescence don't always occur in the wee hours, sometimes the sand man visits me during the light of day. While employed as an advertising salesperson I was often asked to wait for a short while when my clients were helping one of their customers. Normally, the delay was short, however, the customer I was visiting on this day was notorious for keeping her sales reps waiting. Following a restless night, I eased myself onto a small bench in her showroom and fell asleep almost immediately. I awoke two and a half hours later, decorated like a Christmas tree. Upon my chest was a sign stating "Hi, I'm Jon the Sales-guy! Please excuse my snoring and remember that everything in the store is 20% off. I had been transformed into a human advertisement.
Flustered, my wiped the drool from my chin and sat up-right. Removing the tinsel from my hair and sleeves, I noticed a stack of photos on the counter next to me. I learned that for the past couple of hours people had not only been trimming me like a tree, but were also posing for pictures with me as well. The store owner assured me that I was the "hit of the day" and that if I didn't like the Polaroid shots on the counter, her partner would be back from the one-hour photo developers in a few minutes with some clearer images. More than a little embarrassed, I apologized for my behavior, yet politely refused to allow her to use my likeness for her Christmas cards the following year.
Perhaps I will reconsider my visit to the sleep clinic. It would be nice to wake up and feel something other than complete exhaustion and maybe someone in my house can get a night's rest as well. If you see a man on YouTube on night dressed like a trimmed-up Norwegian Spruce, you will know that I made it to the clinic safely. Sleep well.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
Summer Jobs
Is there a teenager laying about your home wasting the summer months away without any thoughts of employment? Once upon a time I was that child.
Unlike like my son (currently employed as a bat recovery specialist for the Salem Avalanche), much of my youth was spent skirting work of any kind. My typical day began at the crack of two in the afternoon, followed by lunch, followed by a nap. In the vernacular of the time I was a "bum."
At the age of sixteen, my father took me to his place of employment, a dress factory in lower Manhattan, with the promise of a days pay. How hard could working in a dress factory be anyway, especially for a strong young man like me? Following nine grueling hours of lifting and stacking forty-pound rolls of fabric I had my answer. I had never worked so hard before in my life! On the way home, dad, always one to lighten the situation, explained that not only would I be paid in full for my work, but I was to be offered a position for the rest of the summer as well. It was at that very moment when my childhood gasped its last breath and died.
For two summers I toiled in that city sweatshop. No air-conditioning, no open windows, and a ninety minute one-way commute beginning at 5am. If Satan's underworld featured Hispanic radio blasting nine hours a day, I might have compared my workplace to hell. There were, however, two positives derived from this experience: 1) the respect I felt for my father and mother grew ten-fold. Witnessing and realizing what lengths my folks went to support our family was quite illuminating. 2) I got a "B" in Spanish the following semester.
Jobless again the following summer, my friend Neil and I were parentally pressured into finding gainful employment. Following a few weeks of lackluster search, the State of New York presented us with two opportunities to join the work-force in tandem. The first position was a high paying job filling pot holes on the Robert Moses Causeway; the second was a lower paying gig working as ushers at the Jones Beach Amphitheatre. Hmmm, shoveling hot tar on a road crew in the unforgiving heat or a helping elderly people to their seats at a breezy sea-side theatre? Neil and I consulted for a full three seconds before we decided to go into show business.
Jones Beach Amphitheatre is an eight thousand seat outdoor venue which sits right on the ocean. In the late seventies, the theatre featured revivals of Broadway hits from yesteryear. In 1979 I would experience a unique type of torture upon viewing seventy-two straight performances of "The Sound of Music." Even the indomitable Maria Von Trapp herself might have "climbed every mountain" and leaped off the highest peak after first forty or so shows. The cast was comprised of several long in the tooth actors and actresses who had not been on stage since dinosaurs roamed the earth. One night Captain Von Trapp's uppers slipped from his mouth right in the middle of "Edelweiss." I'm talking old.
The next year's production was "Damn Yankees," a musical starring former gridiron star Joe Namath. The best thing I can say about Joe's singing is that it was only slightly better than his running ability. The poor guy could barely walk. As ushers we were required to wear Yankee baseball uniforms, complete with cap. For a lifelong Mets fan (like myself), this was a truly repugnant. If the Yankees played ball against the Taliban I would gladly grow my beard long, wear a turban, and heckle Derek Jeter in Persian.
In 1981 the final season of stage plays were performed at Jones Beach Theatre. Barry Williams, known to most of world as Greg, the oldest son on the television show "The Brady Bunch," played the lead role of "Tony" in "West Side Story," and yes, it was as bad as it sounds. His best years behind him, Barry showed as much charm and stage presence as a broom handle with a smile painted on it.
Presently, the theatre hosts a concert series featuring Boston, The Allman Brothers Band and Journey on consecutive nights in August. From old time musical revivals to rescuing acts from the "where are they now" file, one can see a kind of symmetry forming their scheduling format.
In retrospect, I am glad that my father pried me from the couch long ago. Pops often told me "Work builds character, and it is better to have character than be a character." Still, I walk a tight-rope between stability and eccentricity daily, balancing my life as a hard working goofball, with perhaps a dash of character mixed in.
Is there a teenager laying about your home wasting the summer months away without any thoughts of employment? Once upon a time I was that child.
Unlike like my son (currently employed as a bat recovery specialist for the Salem Avalanche), much of my youth was spent skirting work of any kind. My typical day began at the crack of two in the afternoon, followed by lunch, followed by a nap. In the vernacular of the time I was a "bum."
At the age of sixteen, my father took me to his place of employment, a dress factory in lower Manhattan, with the promise of a days pay. How hard could working in a dress factory be anyway, especially for a strong young man like me? Following nine grueling hours of lifting and stacking forty-pound rolls of fabric I had my answer. I had never worked so hard before in my life! On the way home, dad, always one to lighten the situation, explained that not only would I be paid in full for my work, but I was to be offered a position for the rest of the summer as well. It was at that very moment when my childhood gasped its last breath and died.
For two summers I toiled in that city sweatshop. No air-conditioning, no open windows, and a ninety minute one-way commute beginning at 5am. If Satan's underworld featured Hispanic radio blasting nine hours a day, I might have compared my workplace to hell. There were, however, two positives derived from this experience: 1) the respect I felt for my father and mother grew ten-fold. Witnessing and realizing what lengths my folks went to support our family was quite illuminating. 2) I got a "B" in Spanish the following semester.
Jobless again the following summer, my friend Neil and I were parentally pressured into finding gainful employment. Following a few weeks of lackluster search, the State of New York presented us with two opportunities to join the work-force in tandem. The first position was a high paying job filling pot holes on the Robert Moses Causeway; the second was a lower paying gig working as ushers at the Jones Beach Amphitheatre. Hmmm, shoveling hot tar on a road crew in the unforgiving heat or a helping elderly people to their seats at a breezy sea-side theatre? Neil and I consulted for a full three seconds before we decided to go into show business.
Jones Beach Amphitheatre is an eight thousand seat outdoor venue which sits right on the ocean. In the late seventies, the theatre featured revivals of Broadway hits from yesteryear. In 1979 I would experience a unique type of torture upon viewing seventy-two straight performances of "The Sound of Music." Even the indomitable Maria Von Trapp herself might have "climbed every mountain" and leaped off the highest peak after first forty or so shows. The cast was comprised of several long in the tooth actors and actresses who had not been on stage since dinosaurs roamed the earth. One night Captain Von Trapp's uppers slipped from his mouth right in the middle of "Edelweiss." I'm talking old.
The next year's production was "Damn Yankees," a musical starring former gridiron star Joe Namath. The best thing I can say about Joe's singing is that it was only slightly better than his running ability. The poor guy could barely walk. As ushers we were required to wear Yankee baseball uniforms, complete with cap. For a lifelong Mets fan (like myself), this was a truly repugnant. If the Yankees played ball against the Taliban I would gladly grow my beard long, wear a turban, and heckle Derek Jeter in Persian.
In 1981 the final season of stage plays were performed at Jones Beach Theatre. Barry Williams, known to most of world as Greg, the oldest son on the television show "The Brady Bunch," played the lead role of "Tony" in "West Side Story," and yes, it was as bad as it sounds. His best years behind him, Barry showed as much charm and stage presence as a broom handle with a smile painted on it.
Presently, the theatre hosts a concert series featuring Boston, The Allman Brothers Band and Journey on consecutive nights in August. From old time musical revivals to rescuing acts from the "where are they now" file, one can see a kind of symmetry forming their scheduling format.
In retrospect, I am glad that my father pried me from the couch long ago. Pops often told me "Work builds character, and it is better to have character than be a character." Still, I walk a tight-rope between stability and eccentricity daily, balancing my life as a hard working goofball, with perhaps a dash of character mixed in.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Urology 101
It is often said that the worst pain a human can feel is the physical anguish experienced during childbirth. Ask you're Mom and she will gladly describe (in graphic detail) the day you arrived into this world. If you have not heard this tale as of yet, prepare yourself to be horrified, remorseful and guilt-ridden.
Men ("thankfully", he sighed) will never no such torture, however, many citizens of the Roanoke area have been battling a confounding menace which hits a gentleman right where he lives. Friends, I am talking about those tiny, yet terrible boulders of the bladder, kidney stones.
Unlike childbirth, one does not acquire a small living being when birthing a kidney stone. There is no bonding, no third grade photographs and no Little League with kidney stones, just a collection of sand-like particles awash in your commode. You can name your pebbles (in fact my first five were named Mick, Keith, Charlie, Bill and Ron in honor of a more famous group of stones which preceded them), yet they will never answer to that name. Too frail for proper jewelry, these joyless rocks cause nothing but pain and discomfort.
My first bout with this cursed affliction came in the mid-nineties at four in the morning. Awoken by enormous pain, I first feared that I was having a heart-attack. It was only after my cool under pressure spouse pointed out that my heart was not located in my middle-back, that I realized it was something else. Ignoring my pleas to call 9-1-1, my rabbi and the Marines, Janet calmly loaded me into the car and drove me to the ER, where my first creation "Mick" was passed with the help of intravenous fluids and a soon to be trusty friend named morphine.
Since my initial trip, I have visited the ER over twenty-five times, leaving a trail of assorted sized stones in my wake. Greeted like an old friend and valued customer, I am cheerfully welcomed by the ER staff, waved onto a gurney in record time, sedated and left to sleep.
Frequently my buzz-saw like snoring becomes excruciating for the mystery patients who lay moaning on the other side of the stall curtain. In fact, I often awaken in a completely other room, moved by a well meaning orderly seeking some peace. Once I woke up in a janitor's closet amidst the mops and floor cleaners, feeling way too good to care. My wife and son can always find me at pick-up time by following the sound.
In 2006 I encountered a strikingly lovely nurse when suffering another kidney blockage. This petite woman was young enough to be my daughter and was fresh out of nursing school. At first my male ego took precedence over the pain. Toughing it out for the first fifteen minutes I hoped that this vision of loveliness would fail to glimpse the pathetic wimp inside of me, however, in the twenty-first minute without drugs I transformed into a whining, moaning tot ready to sacrifice my nurse friend to the pharmaceutical gods in return for a fix.
While under the influence of powerful narcotics, a typical kidney stone sufferer is asked to urinate in a small funnel-like container with a screen to filter the stones. It's kind of like panning for gold, but with pee. Once the "unwanted guest" is snared in the screen, the specimen is shipped to a lab for further evaluation. Many urologists will require a kidney stone patient to collect a forty-eight hour urine sampling after passing a stone. If you are instructed to perform this task, make no travel plans for the weekend, as few people are known to welcome visitors toting a two-gallon jar of bodily fluids with them. Movie theatres and restaurants seem particularly opposed to such luggage, although carrying the container does afford one with a certain amount of privacy.
Like the old woman who lived in a shoe, I keep producing and reproducing stones on a yearly basis. I drive myself to the hospital now, allowing my family to sleep when I begin that 4am kidney run to the ER. One day soon I will start running out of names for my offspring. Names from the Flintstones, Rocky (1-5), Fraggle Rock, and the Steve McQueen classic “The Sand Peebles” are taken, as well as Sidney the Kidney and Sly and the Family Stones. Please send any suggestions for names of future stones to the email address at the bottom of this column. I will consider any and all monikers once I awaken from my morphine induced stupor.
It is often said that the worst pain a human can feel is the physical anguish experienced during childbirth. Ask you're Mom and she will gladly describe (in graphic detail) the day you arrived into this world. If you have not heard this tale as of yet, prepare yourself to be horrified, remorseful and guilt-ridden.
Men ("thankfully", he sighed) will never no such torture, however, many citizens of the Roanoke area have been battling a confounding menace which hits a gentleman right where he lives. Friends, I am talking about those tiny, yet terrible boulders of the bladder, kidney stones.
Unlike childbirth, one does not acquire a small living being when birthing a kidney stone. There is no bonding, no third grade photographs and no Little League with kidney stones, just a collection of sand-like particles awash in your commode. You can name your pebbles (in fact my first five were named Mick, Keith, Charlie, Bill and Ron in honor of a more famous group of stones which preceded them), yet they will never answer to that name. Too frail for proper jewelry, these joyless rocks cause nothing but pain and discomfort.
My first bout with this cursed affliction came in the mid-nineties at four in the morning. Awoken by enormous pain, I first feared that I was having a heart-attack. It was only after my cool under pressure spouse pointed out that my heart was not located in my middle-back, that I realized it was something else. Ignoring my pleas to call 9-1-1, my rabbi and the Marines, Janet calmly loaded me into the car and drove me to the ER, where my first creation "Mick" was passed with the help of intravenous fluids and a soon to be trusty friend named morphine.
Since my initial trip, I have visited the ER over twenty-five times, leaving a trail of assorted sized stones in my wake. Greeted like an old friend and valued customer, I am cheerfully welcomed by the ER staff, waved onto a gurney in record time, sedated and left to sleep.
Frequently my buzz-saw like snoring becomes excruciating for the mystery patients who lay moaning on the other side of the stall curtain. In fact, I often awaken in a completely other room, moved by a well meaning orderly seeking some peace. Once I woke up in a janitor's closet amidst the mops and floor cleaners, feeling way too good to care. My wife and son can always find me at pick-up time by following the sound.
In 2006 I encountered a strikingly lovely nurse when suffering another kidney blockage. This petite woman was young enough to be my daughter and was fresh out of nursing school. At first my male ego took precedence over the pain. Toughing it out for the first fifteen minutes I hoped that this vision of loveliness would fail to glimpse the pathetic wimp inside of me, however, in the twenty-first minute without drugs I transformed into a whining, moaning tot ready to sacrifice my nurse friend to the pharmaceutical gods in return for a fix.
While under the influence of powerful narcotics, a typical kidney stone sufferer is asked to urinate in a small funnel-like container with a screen to filter the stones. It's kind of like panning for gold, but with pee. Once the "unwanted guest" is snared in the screen, the specimen is shipped to a lab for further evaluation. Many urologists will require a kidney stone patient to collect a forty-eight hour urine sampling after passing a stone. If you are instructed to perform this task, make no travel plans for the weekend, as few people are known to welcome visitors toting a two-gallon jar of bodily fluids with them. Movie theatres and restaurants seem particularly opposed to such luggage, although carrying the container does afford one with a certain amount of privacy.
Like the old woman who lived in a shoe, I keep producing and reproducing stones on a yearly basis. I drive myself to the hospital now, allowing my family to sleep when I begin that 4am kidney run to the ER. One day soon I will start running out of names for my offspring. Names from the Flintstones, Rocky (1-5), Fraggle Rock, and the Steve McQueen classic “The Sand Peebles” are taken, as well as Sidney the Kidney and Sly and the Family Stones. Please send any suggestions for names of future stones to the email address at the bottom of this column. I will consider any and all monikers once I awaken from my morphine induced stupor.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Seeing Double
Twins run in my family. My father was a twin, I have twin cousins back in New York who own a bagel shop, and, most recently, I have been accused of having a twin brother.
Allow me to explain. Recently I attended a Captain's Choice charity golf tournament at a local course. Joining a foursome of co-workers for a morning of networking, golf and selected beverages, my normally anxious demeanor was soothed by the sight of lush green fairways and pine trees swayed by a light summer breeze. No work, no phone, and no sign of rain in sight, what could be better?
Our team stumbled through the first few holes (my ball made more right turns than Rush Limbaugh cruising the Daytona Speedway in reverse), yet we managed to remain slightly under par. As is the custom for events of this kind, participating business sponsors were positioned at each hole, greeting each group of linksters with an assortment of marketing paraphernalia and trinkets. Play is usually slow during these affairs, therefore allowing the players the time to chat with their tee-box host. Our team took full advantage of our new friend's hospitality and ravaged each booth for tsotchkies like a horde of crazed gypsies. By the time we completed the final hole, our golf bags were full of junk and our score fell somewhere between first and last place.
Tired, yet relaxed I headed for my car smiling at the prospect of driving a vehicle with air conditioning. On my way to the parking lot I was stopped by my friend Ron who asked me if I would like to play with his group in the afternoon flight. Ron wasn't looking for a ringer to tip the tourney scales in his favor and hadn't found one in me. My golf game is less stable than a South American government. I once shot seventy-seven and ninety-nine on the same course during the same week. Ron was looking for a warm body.
Quickly, I returned to my trunk, grabbed a spare shirt, changed, and off I went for another eighteen holes.
Waiting at the first tee-box were the same eager business-types that I had visited and chatted with during the morning round. I was pocketing another souvenir from my booth visit when I was approached by the tent attendant who asked if I had played earlier that morning. Before I could answer Ron stepped in and said "That must have been his twin brother Dave, their identical you know."
Temporarily stunned, the woman smiled and told me how much I looked like my brother. Sensing an opportunity to have some fun, I asked her if Dave had been friendly to her and if she had smelled alcohol on his breath. She assured me that Dave was quite pleasant and did not appear to have been drinking, although he did cuss a little when his tee shot vanished into the woods.
The rest of the afternoon I posed as Dave's twin brother. One person noted that I was thinner than Dave (must have been the heat); another thought Dave was slightly taller. Nearly everyone agreed that I was the better golfer of the two (I played eighteen holes as a warm up) and had less of a temper (too tired to care).
During a particularly long wait between holes Ron loudly announced that my family history was particularly fascinating and that Dave and I had been separated at birth, the result of a hospital mix-up. Staring holes through my grinning partner, I launched into a dizzying off-the-cuff tale of mistaken identity which landed Dave in an Amish farming community for most of his youth. My twin had taught himself to play golf with a shorted corn stalk and a ball of yarn back in his family barn in Pennsylvania. Dave would later shun the ways of his adoptive parents and travel to New York, where we would miraculously meet face-to-face when paired as two single golfers by a nearsighted starter at Bethpage Golf Course, home of the 2009 U.S. Open. I could have killed Ron.
By the end of the round I was getting sick of Dave, a twin who did not even exist. As I walked to my car for the second time, a person from one of the business booths waved and wished me a good night. "Thank you!" I said, lowering my clubs into the trunk. "Your welcome" she replied "I'm sorry, which one are you, Jon or Dave?" I wanted to answer "I'm the other brother Larry", but frankly, I didn't have the strength.
Twins run in my family. My father was a twin, I have twin cousins back in New York who own a bagel shop, and, most recently, I have been accused of having a twin brother.
Allow me to explain. Recently I attended a Captain's Choice charity golf tournament at a local course. Joining a foursome of co-workers for a morning of networking, golf and selected beverages, my normally anxious demeanor was soothed by the sight of lush green fairways and pine trees swayed by a light summer breeze. No work, no phone, and no sign of rain in sight, what could be better?
Our team stumbled through the first few holes (my ball made more right turns than Rush Limbaugh cruising the Daytona Speedway in reverse), yet we managed to remain slightly under par. As is the custom for events of this kind, participating business sponsors were positioned at each hole, greeting each group of linksters with an assortment of marketing paraphernalia and trinkets. Play is usually slow during these affairs, therefore allowing the players the time to chat with their tee-box host. Our team took full advantage of our new friend's hospitality and ravaged each booth for tsotchkies like a horde of crazed gypsies. By the time we completed the final hole, our golf bags were full of junk and our score fell somewhere between first and last place.
Tired, yet relaxed I headed for my car smiling at the prospect of driving a vehicle with air conditioning. On my way to the parking lot I was stopped by my friend Ron who asked me if I would like to play with his group in the afternoon flight. Ron wasn't looking for a ringer to tip the tourney scales in his favor and hadn't found one in me. My golf game is less stable than a South American government. I once shot seventy-seven and ninety-nine on the same course during the same week. Ron was looking for a warm body.
Quickly, I returned to my trunk, grabbed a spare shirt, changed, and off I went for another eighteen holes.
Waiting at the first tee-box were the same eager business-types that I had visited and chatted with during the morning round. I was pocketing another souvenir from my booth visit when I was approached by the tent attendant who asked if I had played earlier that morning. Before I could answer Ron stepped in and said "That must have been his twin brother Dave, their identical you know."
Temporarily stunned, the woman smiled and told me how much I looked like my brother. Sensing an opportunity to have some fun, I asked her if Dave had been friendly to her and if she had smelled alcohol on his breath. She assured me that Dave was quite pleasant and did not appear to have been drinking, although he did cuss a little when his tee shot vanished into the woods.
The rest of the afternoon I posed as Dave's twin brother. One person noted that I was thinner than Dave (must have been the heat); another thought Dave was slightly taller. Nearly everyone agreed that I was the better golfer of the two (I played eighteen holes as a warm up) and had less of a temper (too tired to care).
During a particularly long wait between holes Ron loudly announced that my family history was particularly fascinating and that Dave and I had been separated at birth, the result of a hospital mix-up. Staring holes through my grinning partner, I launched into a dizzying off-the-cuff tale of mistaken identity which landed Dave in an Amish farming community for most of his youth. My twin had taught himself to play golf with a shorted corn stalk and a ball of yarn back in his family barn in Pennsylvania. Dave would later shun the ways of his adoptive parents and travel to New York, where we would miraculously meet face-to-face when paired as two single golfers by a nearsighted starter at Bethpage Golf Course, home of the 2009 U.S. Open. I could have killed Ron.
By the end of the round I was getting sick of Dave, a twin who did not even exist. As I walked to my car for the second time, a person from one of the business booths waved and wished me a good night. "Thank you!" I said, lowering my clubs into the trunk. "Your welcome" she replied "I'm sorry, which one are you, Jon or Dave?" I wanted to answer "I'm the other brother Larry", but frankly, I didn't have the strength.
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Ineptitude Prevails
Somewhere, in a forest near you, the MonsterQuest team is searching the underbrush for something abnormal, something monstrous. Unfortunately, the likelihood of these folks finding anything interesting is slim to none.
In 2007 the History Channel launched Monsterquest, a favorite program of mine which broadcasts weekly safaris into the unknown. Whether it's Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster or the Louisiana Swamp Beast, MonsterQuest "scientists" span the globe searching for mysterious creatures. To date none of these elusive brutes have been captured or even seen by the camera wielding monster unit, yet, in my heart there is always hope for a shocking zoological discovery.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with the show, a typical episode consists of….
A grainy photograph and or video tape of the alleged beast, many of which resemble a filmed costumed high school mascot taking a leak at halftime.
Eyewitness accounts of human encounters detailed by the actual folks who ran afoul of the critter. As you watch the interview it becomes clear why the creature ran back into the woods rather than chat with Bubba from Alabama.
A team of researchers hiding cameras in the woods hoping to capture the animal on film. Often the cameras yield some nice shots of bunnies and deer, but little more.
An unwavering scientific conclusion stating that upon compiling the information gathered during the show, MonsterQuest is confident in saying that they have no earthly idea what that was skulking around that old lady's porch in Fresno last fall.
Frankly I was ready to give up on this program when I caught a promo during the History Channel's cavalcade of serial killers hour which briefly renewed my hope.
Billed as "Super Rats" the MonsterQuest crew would be venturing into the wilds of Manhattan in search of giant rats. Surely even these boneheads could handle this gig? Finding a giant rat in New York should be like finding degenerate gamblers in Las Vegas, right?
My son (born and raised in Roanoke, had never seen a rat the size of a toaster oven before) sat with me as the episode hit the air. The program began with a rat "expert" claiming that the biggest rat ever captured was a mere twelve inches long and that there was no such creature as a "Super Rat."Remembering my childhood I could not believe my ears! No huge rats in New York! My near-sighted grandmother once stopped to pet a jumbo street rat mistaking the behemoth for a cat. Horrified onlookers shrieked and startled the freakish rodent which retreated into a pot hole the size of a greenside golf bunker in great haste.
Perhaps a union delegate from the NYC Rats and Rodents local 415 visited this expert before the taping, standing just off camera during the interview while holding a gun on the rat connoisseurs' next of kin.
Next a crack band of rodent lovers outfitted a normal sized rat with a tiny harness and camera, hoping that their furry partner could provide them with candid shots of a Super Rat in his underground habitat. To the surprise of no one, the rat was able to wriggle off the camera in a matter of seconds and disappeared into the ground. The previous week the same geniuses mounted a camera on a wild boar that ran off with the camera and can now be seen hosting its own public access program airing on Cox 9 opposite MonsterQuest.
The next stop for the intrepid adventures was a basement in the Bronx where a building superintendent had perfected the art of rendering large rodents unconscious with the blade of a hockey stick. This stick-handling terror had racked confirmed kills in four of the five boroughs and was determined to bag a big one for the folks out there in TV land. Sadly, the goal remained empty, not even the Gretsky of exterminators would light the lamp that evening.
MonsterQuest then sojourned into the bowels of the city's subway system and met two hobos who claimed to have seen rats the size of dogs trotting around their underground lair. The ambitious team quickly organized an undercover stake out hoping to sneak-up on the Super Rats with their twelve person camera crew sporting two hundred pounds of
high-wattage lighting, however, curiously, the Super Rats failed to appear.
Much to my dismay, the MonsterQuesters found no giant rats in New York. This week they are in Venezuela hunting giant snakes. You have to admire their pluck. I might have gone for a lighter assignment, like finding a marked-down tray of begonias at Walmart, but that's just me.
Somewhere, in a forest near you, the MonsterQuest team is searching the underbrush for something abnormal, something monstrous. Unfortunately, the likelihood of these folks finding anything interesting is slim to none.
In 2007 the History Channel launched Monsterquest, a favorite program of mine which broadcasts weekly safaris into the unknown. Whether it's Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster or the Louisiana Swamp Beast, MonsterQuest "scientists" span the globe searching for mysterious creatures. To date none of these elusive brutes have been captured or even seen by the camera wielding monster unit, yet, in my heart there is always hope for a shocking zoological discovery.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with the show, a typical episode consists of….
A grainy photograph and or video tape of the alleged beast, many of which resemble a filmed costumed high school mascot taking a leak at halftime.
Eyewitness accounts of human encounters detailed by the actual folks who ran afoul of the critter. As you watch the interview it becomes clear why the creature ran back into the woods rather than chat with Bubba from Alabama.
A team of researchers hiding cameras in the woods hoping to capture the animal on film. Often the cameras yield some nice shots of bunnies and deer, but little more.
An unwavering scientific conclusion stating that upon compiling the information gathered during the show, MonsterQuest is confident in saying that they have no earthly idea what that was skulking around that old lady's porch in Fresno last fall.
Frankly I was ready to give up on this program when I caught a promo during the History Channel's cavalcade of serial killers hour which briefly renewed my hope.
Billed as "Super Rats" the MonsterQuest crew would be venturing into the wilds of Manhattan in search of giant rats. Surely even these boneheads could handle this gig? Finding a giant rat in New York should be like finding degenerate gamblers in Las Vegas, right?
My son (born and raised in Roanoke, had never seen a rat the size of a toaster oven before) sat with me as the episode hit the air. The program began with a rat "expert" claiming that the biggest rat ever captured was a mere twelve inches long and that there was no such creature as a "Super Rat."Remembering my childhood I could not believe my ears! No huge rats in New York! My near-sighted grandmother once stopped to pet a jumbo street rat mistaking the behemoth for a cat. Horrified onlookers shrieked and startled the freakish rodent which retreated into a pot hole the size of a greenside golf bunker in great haste.
Perhaps a union delegate from the NYC Rats and Rodents local 415 visited this expert before the taping, standing just off camera during the interview while holding a gun on the rat connoisseurs' next of kin.
Next a crack band of rodent lovers outfitted a normal sized rat with a tiny harness and camera, hoping that their furry partner could provide them with candid shots of a Super Rat in his underground habitat. To the surprise of no one, the rat was able to wriggle off the camera in a matter of seconds and disappeared into the ground. The previous week the same geniuses mounted a camera on a wild boar that ran off with the camera and can now be seen hosting its own public access program airing on Cox 9 opposite MonsterQuest.
The next stop for the intrepid adventures was a basement in the Bronx where a building superintendent had perfected the art of rendering large rodents unconscious with the blade of a hockey stick. This stick-handling terror had racked confirmed kills in four of the five boroughs and was determined to bag a big one for the folks out there in TV land. Sadly, the goal remained empty, not even the Gretsky of exterminators would light the lamp that evening.
MonsterQuest then sojourned into the bowels of the city's subway system and met two hobos who claimed to have seen rats the size of dogs trotting around their underground lair. The ambitious team quickly organized an undercover stake out hoping to sneak-up on the Super Rats with their twelve person camera crew sporting two hundred pounds of
high-wattage lighting, however, curiously, the Super Rats failed to appear.
Much to my dismay, the MonsterQuesters found no giant rats in New York. This week they are in Venezuela hunting giant snakes. You have to admire their pluck. I might have gone for a lighter assignment, like finding a marked-down tray of begonias at Walmart, but that's just me.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
The Sky is Ablaze
Each year (around this time) a friend of mine begins a week long metamorphosis. This pal, who I will call "Harry" for the purpose of self-protection, appears to be a rather quiet middle-class fellow. You might have a neighbor like Harry, someone who blends into society well under the radar, a drab, hardly noticeable chap with no discernable quirks or flaws. You know the type; if Harry were a paint color he would be light beige, Autumn Summer Mist for those who frequent aisle twelve at Lowe's.
What would possess a man like this to become a stark-raving maniac driven by an uncontrollable impulse to destroy, desecrate, and demolish? Turn your calendars to Friday and you will have your answer. Harry is a fireworks super-freak who lives for that one day per year when he can break out of his tedious routine while breaking a little law or two in the bargain.
Harry has loved the Fourth of July since childhood. From the first time he saw a five burst mortar shell nearly destroy his parents garage, Harry was a goner. A native of Long Island, New York, Harry (much to his dismay) lives miles from the nearest legal fireworks depot. In fact, every year "The Mad Bomber" travels through our cozy little town on his way to Tennessee, a safe haven for those with a hint of gun powder in their veins.
Last year, strictly out of curiosity, I accompanied my buddy on his quest for the perfect payload. With an empty truck and a three hundred dollar spending limit (Harry's wife reserves the right to check any and all receipts), we cruised towards the Great Smokie Mountains on I-81. Harry had made many trips to this area before and had mapped out his route precisely.
In all we covered a little over five hundred miles during our journey. My favorite stop was an old converted gas station just outside of Knoxville. The proprietor was a world-weary woman named "Granny" who was missing her right arm. Noticing her handicap I nearly bolted, concerned for my safety. What chance did I have if the owner couldn't stay out of harms way? Sensing my paranoia, Granny assured me that it was safe to enter the store, waving me up the stairs and into the building.
I could immediately see why Harry had scheduled this location for our tour. Granny had everything! She even had DVD footage of every air-born missile for sale, clearly displaying its unique explosion of colors in the night sky. As Harry scurried around the establishment with a shopping cart, Granny and I watched the best indoor, almost live fireworks show I had ever seen. I found out that she had not lost her arm in an explosion, as I previously surmised, but to a piece of farm machinery at the age of three. Her family had been selling fireworks for decades, helping the brood through leaner times.
Harry had filled his cart in less than fifteen minutes and it was time for us to check-out and head down the road. Just before we reached the door I was startled by a loud POP! My back tightened and I gasped for air. Standing with a party popper wedged under her arm was Granny, doubled over with laughter. "Sorry son, I couldn't resist," she chuckled slamming her hand on the store counter. Harry found this hysterical, I, on the other hand, was shaken but pleased that I had not soiled myself.
No doubt Harry's backyard must have sounded like downtown Baghdad later that week, his plunder assaulting the heavens and filling his neighbor's yards with smoke. I confess I too had a hunger for pyrotechnics after visiting Granny's place and squirreled away some projectiles of my own to take back to Roanoke.
If you are a law enforcement official and are reading this story, please be kind. A stranger named Harry and an old one-armed lady made me buy those mortar rounds, honest!
Each year (around this time) a friend of mine begins a week long metamorphosis. This pal, who I will call "Harry" for the purpose of self-protection, appears to be a rather quiet middle-class fellow. You might have a neighbor like Harry, someone who blends into society well under the radar, a drab, hardly noticeable chap with no discernable quirks or flaws. You know the type; if Harry were a paint color he would be light beige, Autumn Summer Mist for those who frequent aisle twelve at Lowe's.
What would possess a man like this to become a stark-raving maniac driven by an uncontrollable impulse to destroy, desecrate, and demolish? Turn your calendars to Friday and you will have your answer. Harry is a fireworks super-freak who lives for that one day per year when he can break out of his tedious routine while breaking a little law or two in the bargain.
Harry has loved the Fourth of July since childhood. From the first time he saw a five burst mortar shell nearly destroy his parents garage, Harry was a goner. A native of Long Island, New York, Harry (much to his dismay) lives miles from the nearest legal fireworks depot. In fact, every year "The Mad Bomber" travels through our cozy little town on his way to Tennessee, a safe haven for those with a hint of gun powder in their veins.
Last year, strictly out of curiosity, I accompanied my buddy on his quest for the perfect payload. With an empty truck and a three hundred dollar spending limit (Harry's wife reserves the right to check any and all receipts), we cruised towards the Great Smokie Mountains on I-81. Harry had made many trips to this area before and had mapped out his route precisely.
In all we covered a little over five hundred miles during our journey. My favorite stop was an old converted gas station just outside of Knoxville. The proprietor was a world-weary woman named "Granny" who was missing her right arm. Noticing her handicap I nearly bolted, concerned for my safety. What chance did I have if the owner couldn't stay out of harms way? Sensing my paranoia, Granny assured me that it was safe to enter the store, waving me up the stairs and into the building.
I could immediately see why Harry had scheduled this location for our tour. Granny had everything! She even had DVD footage of every air-born missile for sale, clearly displaying its unique explosion of colors in the night sky. As Harry scurried around the establishment with a shopping cart, Granny and I watched the best indoor, almost live fireworks show I had ever seen. I found out that she had not lost her arm in an explosion, as I previously surmised, but to a piece of farm machinery at the age of three. Her family had been selling fireworks for decades, helping the brood through leaner times.
Harry had filled his cart in less than fifteen minutes and it was time for us to check-out and head down the road. Just before we reached the door I was startled by a loud POP! My back tightened and I gasped for air. Standing with a party popper wedged under her arm was Granny, doubled over with laughter. "Sorry son, I couldn't resist," she chuckled slamming her hand on the store counter. Harry found this hysterical, I, on the other hand, was shaken but pleased that I had not soiled myself.
No doubt Harry's backyard must have sounded like downtown Baghdad later that week, his plunder assaulting the heavens and filling his neighbor's yards with smoke. I confess I too had a hunger for pyrotechnics after visiting Granny's place and squirreled away some projectiles of my own to take back to Roanoke.
If you are a law enforcement official and are reading this story, please be kind. A stranger named Harry and an old one-armed lady made me buy those mortar rounds, honest!
Friday, June 27, 2008
Accidental Coach
Are you a referee, line judge or umpire? Have you seen the man whose photo accompanies this byline? If so, I probably owe you an apology.
After thirty-five years of torturing officials I am considering retirement from coaching youth sports. Umpires and referees from here to the shores of Long Island will mark their calendars and dance in the streets when informed of this historic surrender. Who can blame them?
Terrorizing game officials since the age of sixteen, coaching was never on my radar screen early on, in fact, as a child I was a coach's nightmare. On every team there is a kid who thinks he or she knows more than the adult who is running the show, a pint-sized fledgling manager who believes that the formula for a winning season resides alone, under his or her 6 ¼ sized baseball cap. A young beardless Jon was that kid.
In my first four years of youth baseball I played for four different coaches. Labeled a "distraction" one coach cleverly announced that I was not to ask him any questions during the game, answering any attempted query with the phrase "Jon, that sounds like a question." Other coach's would either ignore my managerial tips or simply sprint in a different direction if I drew too near. My wonderfully patient Dad would tell me "When you get to be the coach, you can make the decisions", hoping to soften my image and detour my path as a journeyman Little Leaguer. By age fifteen I was out of the local youth baseball system and had moved on to irritating my high school coach.
Following my sophomore year, I was approached by a neighbor who had been coerced into coaching his son's fifteen year old Babe Ruth League team for the summer. He needed a first base coach and someone to pitch batting practice and was unable to pressure any of the team parents into lending a hand. My neighbor even offered to pay me ten dollars per game for my services. Bored, broke and dateless, I agreed to come aboard for a negotiated rate of twelve-fifty per game if we lost and fifteen bucks if we won. The big leaguers were starting to pull in some nice cash during the seventies due to the advent of free-agency, why not me?
The first two weeks went swimmingly. The team was winning and I had a little jingle in my pocket. On the way to a Saturday practice I drove by the coach's house to pick up my weekly stipend and noticed that my boss was loading furniture into a truck. Following a short investigation I discovered that my benevolent neighbor had been promoted to a new position within his company and would be moving to New Jersey in a matter of days. It became clear to me as we spoke that I would now become the head coach of this team and my income would now come in the form of voluntary community service and good will.
Perhaps it was a plot devised by coach's I had wronged in the past sensing a shot at retribution or merely the apathy of parents unwilling to enlist their spare time for the sake of the team, but I was anointed head coach in an eye flash. No background check like today, oh no, just a scorebook and keys to the field hastily dropped on my porch one summer evening.
Admittedly, the prospect of bossing around kids just one year younger than me was an appealing possibility, however, I was reticent, an "accidental coach" if you will. The following day I headed to the ball field and have been there ever since.
Over the next thirty-four years I've coached thirty-one baseball teams, twenty-seven basketball teams, a girls softball team and a faculty basketball team comprised of Rabbi's at a private school. (Note: the Ramblin' Rabbi's finished the season 4-12-1 with one tied Friday afternoon game which ran long and was suspended due to the Sabbath).
I've been thrown out of games by umpires, referees, and even a scorekeeper here in Roanoke. Some of my players are doctors, some have been to prison, and others are in their final resting place.
Pablo Picasso once said "The accidental reveals man," if that is indeed the case I've been fortunate to stumble onto something I love.
Are you a referee, line judge or umpire? Have you seen the man whose photo accompanies this byline? If so, I probably owe you an apology.
After thirty-five years of torturing officials I am considering retirement from coaching youth sports. Umpires and referees from here to the shores of Long Island will mark their calendars and dance in the streets when informed of this historic surrender. Who can blame them?
Terrorizing game officials since the age of sixteen, coaching was never on my radar screen early on, in fact, as a child I was a coach's nightmare. On every team there is a kid who thinks he or she knows more than the adult who is running the show, a pint-sized fledgling manager who believes that the formula for a winning season resides alone, under his or her 6 ¼ sized baseball cap. A young beardless Jon was that kid.
In my first four years of youth baseball I played for four different coaches. Labeled a "distraction" one coach cleverly announced that I was not to ask him any questions during the game, answering any attempted query with the phrase "Jon, that sounds like a question." Other coach's would either ignore my managerial tips or simply sprint in a different direction if I drew too near. My wonderfully patient Dad would tell me "When you get to be the coach, you can make the decisions", hoping to soften my image and detour my path as a journeyman Little Leaguer. By age fifteen I was out of the local youth baseball system and had moved on to irritating my high school coach.
Following my sophomore year, I was approached by a neighbor who had been coerced into coaching his son's fifteen year old Babe Ruth League team for the summer. He needed a first base coach and someone to pitch batting practice and was unable to pressure any of the team parents into lending a hand. My neighbor even offered to pay me ten dollars per game for my services. Bored, broke and dateless, I agreed to come aboard for a negotiated rate of twelve-fifty per game if we lost and fifteen bucks if we won. The big leaguers were starting to pull in some nice cash during the seventies due to the advent of free-agency, why not me?
The first two weeks went swimmingly. The team was winning and I had a little jingle in my pocket. On the way to a Saturday practice I drove by the coach's house to pick up my weekly stipend and noticed that my boss was loading furniture into a truck. Following a short investigation I discovered that my benevolent neighbor had been promoted to a new position within his company and would be moving to New Jersey in a matter of days. It became clear to me as we spoke that I would now become the head coach of this team and my income would now come in the form of voluntary community service and good will.
Perhaps it was a plot devised by coach's I had wronged in the past sensing a shot at retribution or merely the apathy of parents unwilling to enlist their spare time for the sake of the team, but I was anointed head coach in an eye flash. No background check like today, oh no, just a scorebook and keys to the field hastily dropped on my porch one summer evening.
Admittedly, the prospect of bossing around kids just one year younger than me was an appealing possibility, however, I was reticent, an "accidental coach" if you will. The following day I headed to the ball field and have been there ever since.
Over the next thirty-four years I've coached thirty-one baseball teams, twenty-seven basketball teams, a girls softball team and a faculty basketball team comprised of Rabbi's at a private school. (Note: the Ramblin' Rabbi's finished the season 4-12-1 with one tied Friday afternoon game which ran long and was suspended due to the Sabbath).
I've been thrown out of games by umpires, referees, and even a scorekeeper here in Roanoke. Some of my players are doctors, some have been to prison, and others are in their final resting place.
Pablo Picasso once said "The accidental reveals man," if that is indeed the case I've been fortunate to stumble onto something I love.
Monday, June 09, 2008
This is a bitter-sweet time of the year for me. Spending Father's Day with my son Will and wife Janet is an annual treat which I cherish dearly. Sharing that same day with Hank, a father-in-law who treats me like a son and for whom I hold the utmost love and respect, propels that one Sunday in June to near perfect status. The missing ingredient is my Dad, who passed twenty-three years ago while napping.
(Note: Four generations of men in my family died in their sleep at age sixty-eight, including my father and grandfather, a harbinger that sort of stands-up and demands to be noticed. On December 12, 2026 when I turn sixty-eight, I have decided to forgo sleeping, napping and resting of any kind, determined to once and for all end this dynasty of death. You will find me in front of my TV at 2:30 am watching reruns of "Cheers" and guzzling a Red Bull or two, desperately trying to make it to dawn).
Charming, kind, and honest to a fault, my Pop was a simply lovely person. One of my favorite recollections of spending time with my Dad was the time the two of us decided to visit the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York. One of my Dad's boyhood friends owned a summer home in the small town of Walton, New York, just twenty or thirty miles from Cooperstown and had offered to board us for the weekend. It was an enormous old home that was rumored to have been a bordello of some note during the Civil War and would splendidly serve as headquarters for the adventure.
Every trip I accompanied my father on was an adventure, for, like me, Pops had no sense of direction. Dad could get lost in a one-way tunnel. Every time we went to Levittown, New York to visit Dad's friend Nat we ended up at the beach miles from out destination. I started packing a swim suit whenever Dad mentioned Nat's name. Come to think of it I am not sure if I ever really met Nat or visited his home.
Unlike his son who has managed to embrace his own ineptitude, Dad took great exception to those who referred to him as "directionally challenged." He would carefully plot his course with a collection of hand-made maps and written directions, shunning the help of his co-pilot. I had flown second seat enough times with my Dad to know that we would be hopelessly astray within minutes of leaving HQ.
Plowing aimlessly through the farmlands of rural New York, dad and I succeeded in turning an enchanting country ride into the Bataan Death March inside of ten minutes. We were so far off of the beaten path that our only hope would be to find a talking cow that was familiar with the area and was coincidently a baseball fan.
While Dad pulled over to check his maps I noticed a small house in the distance. We agreed to abandon our present strategy (pointless wandering) and headed for the farm house. When we arrived a thin old man appeared in the yard and made his way to our vehicle. Dad, rolled down his window and asked the gentleman "How do you get to Cooperstown?" Asked that same question in Brooklyn you might have gotten a wise guy retort like "Practice, Practice," however, this fellow had apparently not caught Henny Youngman's act over the past forty years. The farmer did provide us with detailed directions and punctuated his discourse by spraying my Dad's light green Ford Torino's door panel with tobacco juice.
Confident and well informed, we left our friend the farmer and within minutes we were lost again. Explaining driving directions to the Kaufman boys was like describing nuclear fission to a pair of flip-flops. Things had gotten ridiculous to the point of being funny. We were laughing and enjoying each other's company, barely concerned that the day was getting late.
We spoke about life and about dreams. Dad was a simple person of simply means. He always considered work as a "means to an end" and that he "started" living when he arrived home every night to his family. Often I have to remind myself how fortunate I am to have a family and how lucky I was to have Pop's around as long as I did.
We stumbled upon Cooperstown, purely by accident, sometime around 2pm. We toured the exhibits, walked the grounds and stayed until closing. It was a day that lives in my mind every time I watch the Hall of Fame inductions on television.
Pop and I ate dinner at a local café and loaded ourselves back into the tobacco stained Ford. Several minutes later we were back on the road without an inkling as to where we were or in which direction we were going. I wouldn't have wanted it any other way.
(Note: Four generations of men in my family died in their sleep at age sixty-eight, including my father and grandfather, a harbinger that sort of stands-up and demands to be noticed. On December 12, 2026 when I turn sixty-eight, I have decided to forgo sleeping, napping and resting of any kind, determined to once and for all end this dynasty of death. You will find me in front of my TV at 2:30 am watching reruns of "Cheers" and guzzling a Red Bull or two, desperately trying to make it to dawn).
Charming, kind, and honest to a fault, my Pop was a simply lovely person. One of my favorite recollections of spending time with my Dad was the time the two of us decided to visit the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York. One of my Dad's boyhood friends owned a summer home in the small town of Walton, New York, just twenty or thirty miles from Cooperstown and had offered to board us for the weekend. It was an enormous old home that was rumored to have been a bordello of some note during the Civil War and would splendidly serve as headquarters for the adventure.
Every trip I accompanied my father on was an adventure, for, like me, Pops had no sense of direction. Dad could get lost in a one-way tunnel. Every time we went to Levittown, New York to visit Dad's friend Nat we ended up at the beach miles from out destination. I started packing a swim suit whenever Dad mentioned Nat's name. Come to think of it I am not sure if I ever really met Nat or visited his home.
Unlike his son who has managed to embrace his own ineptitude, Dad took great exception to those who referred to him as "directionally challenged." He would carefully plot his course with a collection of hand-made maps and written directions, shunning the help of his co-pilot. I had flown second seat enough times with my Dad to know that we would be hopelessly astray within minutes of leaving HQ.
Plowing aimlessly through the farmlands of rural New York, dad and I succeeded in turning an enchanting country ride into the Bataan Death March inside of ten minutes. We were so far off of the beaten path that our only hope would be to find a talking cow that was familiar with the area and was coincidently a baseball fan.
While Dad pulled over to check his maps I noticed a small house in the distance. We agreed to abandon our present strategy (pointless wandering) and headed for the farm house. When we arrived a thin old man appeared in the yard and made his way to our vehicle. Dad, rolled down his window and asked the gentleman "How do you get to Cooperstown?" Asked that same question in Brooklyn you might have gotten a wise guy retort like "Practice, Practice," however, this fellow had apparently not caught Henny Youngman's act over the past forty years. The farmer did provide us with detailed directions and punctuated his discourse by spraying my Dad's light green Ford Torino's door panel with tobacco juice.
Confident and well informed, we left our friend the farmer and within minutes we were lost again. Explaining driving directions to the Kaufman boys was like describing nuclear fission to a pair of flip-flops. Things had gotten ridiculous to the point of being funny. We were laughing and enjoying each other's company, barely concerned that the day was getting late.
We spoke about life and about dreams. Dad was a simple person of simply means. He always considered work as a "means to an end" and that he "started" living when he arrived home every night to his family. Often I have to remind myself how fortunate I am to have a family and how lucky I was to have Pop's around as long as I did.
We stumbled upon Cooperstown, purely by accident, sometime around 2pm. We toured the exhibits, walked the grounds and stayed until closing. It was a day that lives in my mind every time I watch the Hall of Fame inductions on television.
Pop and I ate dinner at a local café and loaded ourselves back into the tobacco stained Ford. Several minutes later we were back on the road without an inkling as to where we were or in which direction we were going. I wouldn't have wanted it any other way.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Party Time
There are few tasks which strike terror in the hearts of most parents like planning your child's birthday party. In simpler times the chore was without pretense; a bunch of balloons, a mixture neighborhood kids, candles, a cake, and a happy, exhausted post-party youngster passed out on the living room floor surrounded by half-opened gifts. The world has changed dramatically since that time.
My parents were fairly conservative party throwers, although my Dad did vary
from the model one year when he selected a bowling alley as the venue for my tenth birthday celebration. The premise was sound. My dad and my Uncle Calvin would set everyone up with shoes and balls, then sit back and watch my friends and I attempt to knock down pins. Apparently these two had forgotten the devastation fourteen ten year-olds could create. By the end of the hour my buddies and I had abandoned the balls and were sliding our bodies feet first into the pins. Ice cream and cake were loaded into the ball return which catapulted treats in all directions. It was utter mayhem. According to my Mom, the bash managed to shut down the alley for the rest of the evening and left my Dad shocked and mumbling for over a week.
My son Will turns sixteen this month and is thankfully too old for such a childish spectacle, although he has had his share of noteworthy galas. One year Will decided that it would be fun to set up tents in our backyard for an outdoor sleepover. This idea seemed harmless enough, however, like my Dad and uncle had learned, things are sometimes not how they appear.
A friend lent us a huge tent which could easily sleep our invited guests. Snacks were prepared and the weather was fair. As the partygoers arrived we began to notice some extra faces that were not on the invitation list. Later a group of neighborhood girls showed up and joined the boys in the tent. The guests were just old enough for my wife and I to intercede and thin out the pack. The crashers and the ladies were politely sent packing and we were down to our original group.
With the exception of a few loud voices, the rest of the night went pretty smoothly. Nestled comfortably in our bed, my wife and I were awakened at 6am by the sounds of children hollering in the street. Bleary-eyed, I stumbled down our stairs and was greeted by one of our noisy visitants. When I asked him what all of the commotion was about he explained that one of our guests was missing and they were trying to find him. MISSING? SURELY THIS BOY WASN'T MISSING! The backyard gates were locked the house doors were locked from the inside and the dogs hadn't stirred at all. Some of the kids and I frantically began searching the house and surrounding area. My wife calmly interviewed the rest of the crew for possible clues. Note: If you are a person who is less than tranquil during a crisis (like me) marry someone who possesses that quality.
The young fellow was nowhere to be found. I would need to call the police and worse, I would need to call his mother. Grabbing the phone from the upstairs bedroom I was able to dial 9-1…. when I heard my wife call my name. While grilling my son in his room, Janet noticed a foot poking out from under Will's bed. As she leaned down to investigate a small blond child poked his head out from under the bed and ended the mystery. The manhunt was over, our escapee had slipped into the house slept under the bed for most of the night.
Somewhere in the afterlife my Dad was watching and laughing, his shirt covered with ice cream and cake. Grandchildren are truly karma's favorite vehicle.
There are few tasks which strike terror in the hearts of most parents like planning your child's birthday party. In simpler times the chore was without pretense; a bunch of balloons, a mixture neighborhood kids, candles, a cake, and a happy, exhausted post-party youngster passed out on the living room floor surrounded by half-opened gifts. The world has changed dramatically since that time.
My parents were fairly conservative party throwers, although my Dad did vary
from the model one year when he selected a bowling alley as the venue for my tenth birthday celebration. The premise was sound. My dad and my Uncle Calvin would set everyone up with shoes and balls, then sit back and watch my friends and I attempt to knock down pins. Apparently these two had forgotten the devastation fourteen ten year-olds could create. By the end of the hour my buddies and I had abandoned the balls and were sliding our bodies feet first into the pins. Ice cream and cake were loaded into the ball return which catapulted treats in all directions. It was utter mayhem. According to my Mom, the bash managed to shut down the alley for the rest of the evening and left my Dad shocked and mumbling for over a week.
My son Will turns sixteen this month and is thankfully too old for such a childish spectacle, although he has had his share of noteworthy galas. One year Will decided that it would be fun to set up tents in our backyard for an outdoor sleepover. This idea seemed harmless enough, however, like my Dad and uncle had learned, things are sometimes not how they appear.
A friend lent us a huge tent which could easily sleep our invited guests. Snacks were prepared and the weather was fair. As the partygoers arrived we began to notice some extra faces that were not on the invitation list. Later a group of neighborhood girls showed up and joined the boys in the tent. The guests were just old enough for my wife and I to intercede and thin out the pack. The crashers and the ladies were politely sent packing and we were down to our original group.
With the exception of a few loud voices, the rest of the night went pretty smoothly. Nestled comfortably in our bed, my wife and I were awakened at 6am by the sounds of children hollering in the street. Bleary-eyed, I stumbled down our stairs and was greeted by one of our noisy visitants. When I asked him what all of the commotion was about he explained that one of our guests was missing and they were trying to find him. MISSING? SURELY THIS BOY WASN'T MISSING! The backyard gates were locked the house doors were locked from the inside and the dogs hadn't stirred at all. Some of the kids and I frantically began searching the house and surrounding area. My wife calmly interviewed the rest of the crew for possible clues. Note: If you are a person who is less than tranquil during a crisis (like me) marry someone who possesses that quality.
The young fellow was nowhere to be found. I would need to call the police and worse, I would need to call his mother. Grabbing the phone from the upstairs bedroom I was able to dial 9-1…. when I heard my wife call my name. While grilling my son in his room, Janet noticed a foot poking out from under Will's bed. As she leaned down to investigate a small blond child poked his head out from under the bed and ended the mystery. The manhunt was over, our escapee had slipped into the house slept under the bed for most of the night.
Somewhere in the afterlife my Dad was watching and laughing, his shirt covered with ice cream and cake. Grandchildren are truly karma's favorite vehicle.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Local Justice
I am a horrible driver. Aside from wandering this earth with no sense of direction, I am also quite heavy footed, piling up more moving violations than Britney Spears and Lindsey Lohan battling it out at the Salem Fair's bumper cars venue.
Trained in New York City where one needs only a face to gain a license, I have had a rather difficult time adjusting to southern travel. Honestly, I had never received a speeding ticket until I reached Virginia. In the Big Apple, one can run nine traffic lights in a row, and, unless you clip a pedestrian or two, most police officers barely loosen their grip on the donut they're dunking, much less chase you down from behind.
On a recent trip to Ohio I encountered my most perplexing brush with the law. Heading home I crossed into West Virginia via a bridge which links the two states. Parked at the far end of the bridge I spotted a squad car laying in wait for some unsuspecting motorist.
Glancing at my speedometer, I noted that I was traveling around sixty-one miles and hour in a marked fifty-five zone. Surely I was safe at that speed I thought. As I cruised past the squad car I spied that all-too familiar red and blue bulb combination lighting up my rear window. Could this guy be coming for me?
Immediately, I pulled my car over to the shoulder, closed my eyes and began praying for the sirens to whiz on by. No such luck. Out of the police vehicle stepped a portly fellow with a scowl on his face. Over the years I have collected enough citations to wallpaper my downstairs bathroom, yet all of the troopers I encountered were pleasant enough people, concerned more about my safety than slamming me in the cooler.
A veteran of this situation, I began fumbling around my glove compartment, searching for my vehicle registration. Apparently, the oncoming crime-stopper, thought I might be reaching for a weapon. The trooper drew is sidearm and ordered my out of the car. Hating to be shot for going five miles an hour over the speed limit, I complied.
Cuffed and searched, I was released when my captor realized that I was not a threat to the general public. Jokingly, I asked the officer if roadside execution was the current penalty of barely speeding in the state West Virginia and he promptly rewarded my smart comment with a $210.00 fine. I nearly grabbed his gun and shot myself.
Stewing the rest of the trip, I vowed to fight this injustice at all cost. The summons carried a court date scheduled for the following week and I would be there to dispute the charge. For the remainder of the week I called the phone number on the ticket to find out the location of the court house, however, there was only a scratchy recording which sounded like it was taped directly off of a Wendy's drive-through speaker.
On the day of the court hearing, I left my home heading for Henderson, West Virginia, population 549. Somehow, I would find the seat of legal activity in Henderson and I would have my day in court.
When I rolled off the highway exit I began to notice that there weren't any stationary buildings in Henderson, just a bunch of mobile homes. The more I drove the more I began the realize that this whole town could pick right up and more somewhere else if they wanted to. Suddenly, in the distance, I beheld a small brick building with an American flag flying in front. As I drew nearer I could see that it was a post office. They will know where the court house was, I thought.
I entered the building and asked the clerk where the court house was. She smiled and said there was no court house in Henderson, but I could go to the judge's house.
"I can go to his house!" I bellowed in shock. Please understand, in most places going to the judge's house will buy you a stay in the Graybar Motel, but not in Henderson. The friendly postal worker gave me directions and I was off the see the judge.
When I arrived at the judge's home I knocked on the door several times with no answer. Slightly unnerved, I was about to return to my car when I woman appeared from the house next door and informed me that the judge was food shopping and would be back in around twenty minutes. Resolved to finish this matter, I waited patiently on the judge's steps.
Moments later the judge rolled up in his town vehicle, pops the trunk and begins bringing in his shopping bags. I introduced myself and offered to help him with his packages. How often to you get the chance to soften up a government official by carrying in his milk?
While stocking his cabinets his honor (who was also the mayor, no kidding) and I spoke about my "case". He confided that the officer who apprehended me was on loan from the county and was "a nut-case" who often wrote excessive fines. The Judge/Mayor then thanked me for my help, reduced my fine to ten dollars and changed my charge to illegal equipment.
Driving home I reflected on my experience and thought that one day I might return to Henderson and visit my friend Judge/Mayor. Hopefully he will still be there unless the town decides to pick up and move across the river to Ohio.
I am a horrible driver. Aside from wandering this earth with no sense of direction, I am also quite heavy footed, piling up more moving violations than Britney Spears and Lindsey Lohan battling it out at the Salem Fair's bumper cars venue.
Trained in New York City where one needs only a face to gain a license, I have had a rather difficult time adjusting to southern travel. Honestly, I had never received a speeding ticket until I reached Virginia. In the Big Apple, one can run nine traffic lights in a row, and, unless you clip a pedestrian or two, most police officers barely loosen their grip on the donut they're dunking, much less chase you down from behind.
On a recent trip to Ohio I encountered my most perplexing brush with the law. Heading home I crossed into West Virginia via a bridge which links the two states. Parked at the far end of the bridge I spotted a squad car laying in wait for some unsuspecting motorist.
Glancing at my speedometer, I noted that I was traveling around sixty-one miles and hour in a marked fifty-five zone. Surely I was safe at that speed I thought. As I cruised past the squad car I spied that all-too familiar red and blue bulb combination lighting up my rear window. Could this guy be coming for me?
Immediately, I pulled my car over to the shoulder, closed my eyes and began praying for the sirens to whiz on by. No such luck. Out of the police vehicle stepped a portly fellow with a scowl on his face. Over the years I have collected enough citations to wallpaper my downstairs bathroom, yet all of the troopers I encountered were pleasant enough people, concerned more about my safety than slamming me in the cooler.
A veteran of this situation, I began fumbling around my glove compartment, searching for my vehicle registration. Apparently, the oncoming crime-stopper, thought I might be reaching for a weapon. The trooper drew is sidearm and ordered my out of the car. Hating to be shot for going five miles an hour over the speed limit, I complied.
Cuffed and searched, I was released when my captor realized that I was not a threat to the general public. Jokingly, I asked the officer if roadside execution was the current penalty of barely speeding in the state West Virginia and he promptly rewarded my smart comment with a $210.00 fine. I nearly grabbed his gun and shot myself.
Stewing the rest of the trip, I vowed to fight this injustice at all cost. The summons carried a court date scheduled for the following week and I would be there to dispute the charge. For the remainder of the week I called the phone number on the ticket to find out the location of the court house, however, there was only a scratchy recording which sounded like it was taped directly off of a Wendy's drive-through speaker.
On the day of the court hearing, I left my home heading for Henderson, West Virginia, population 549. Somehow, I would find the seat of legal activity in Henderson and I would have my day in court.
When I rolled off the highway exit I began to notice that there weren't any stationary buildings in Henderson, just a bunch of mobile homes. The more I drove the more I began the realize that this whole town could pick right up and more somewhere else if they wanted to. Suddenly, in the distance, I beheld a small brick building with an American flag flying in front. As I drew nearer I could see that it was a post office. They will know where the court house was, I thought.
I entered the building and asked the clerk where the court house was. She smiled and said there was no court house in Henderson, but I could go to the judge's house.
"I can go to his house!" I bellowed in shock. Please understand, in most places going to the judge's house will buy you a stay in the Graybar Motel, but not in Henderson. The friendly postal worker gave me directions and I was off the see the judge.
When I arrived at the judge's home I knocked on the door several times with no answer. Slightly unnerved, I was about to return to my car when I woman appeared from the house next door and informed me that the judge was food shopping and would be back in around twenty minutes. Resolved to finish this matter, I waited patiently on the judge's steps.
Moments later the judge rolled up in his town vehicle, pops the trunk and begins bringing in his shopping bags. I introduced myself and offered to help him with his packages. How often to you get the chance to soften up a government official by carrying in his milk?
While stocking his cabinets his honor (who was also the mayor, no kidding) and I spoke about my "case". He confided that the officer who apprehended me was on loan from the county and was "a nut-case" who often wrote excessive fines. The Judge/Mayor then thanked me for my help, reduced my fine to ten dollars and changed my charge to illegal equipment.
Driving home I reflected on my experience and thought that one day I might return to Henderson and visit my friend Judge/Mayor. Hopefully he will still be there unless the town decides to pick up and move across the river to Ohio.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Will Brady be taking the Soul Train?
Tom Brady, quarterback for the undefeated New England Patriots is doomed. When I say "doomed" I don't mean that the Pats are ripe for a loss or that Brady will suffer some sort of a debilitating injury, no I mean doomed, like when one spends one's after-life in a fiery underworld, surrounded by pitch-fork bearing goblins. That kind of doomed.
A delusional friend of mine who I will call "Harry," is convinced that Brady is in league with the devil. Harry is a lifelong Ohio State football fan and counts himself as one of the school's most distinguished alumni, although he has never accomplished anything of note in his lifetime. Harry hates anyone who has ever attended the University of Michigan, an institute of learning of which Mr. Brady is truly a distinguished alumni.
As evidence of Brady's secret pact with el Diablo, Harry points back to a snowy Ann Arbor day when Gary Moeller was ousted as the head football coach at Michigan. It was on this day that a fiendish plot against humanity was hatched by none other than Lucifer himself.
Moeller had succumbed to the evils of liquor (oldest trick in the devil's book) and was booted following an altercation at a local bar. To hear Harry tell it, Moeller's dismissal swung the door wide open for an all out blitz by the Prince of Darkness.
In Moeller's place Michigan installed Lloyd Carr as head coach, a man described by Harry as "an unholy minion, and the devil's best recruiter." Sometime during the 1997 season, Coach Carr approached a fresh-faced innocent from sunny California and began bargaining for the lad's soul. The boy was the team's seventh string quarterback with little hope of cracking the starting line-up. Carr offered the boy fame and fortune beyond the boy's wildest dreams in return for the player's mortal soul. The boy would win Super Bowls, date super models and would even impregnate a beautiful movie star (out of wedlock) without feeling the wrath of the public and the press. Some poor schlep named "Pacman" would create a series of clever diversions, covering all of the boy's misdeeds.
Negotiations went on for months. The boy wanted it all and he wanted it now, yet Carr preached patience.
"Mr. Mephistopheles assures me that everything will change for the better in due time," said the Coach pushing an ancient legal parchment before the boy, "just sign here, I promise that this deal is even better than the one that Jeter kid signed with us a few years back." Grabbing a blood soaked pen, the boy scribbled his endorsement.
Years passed and the boy toiled in obscurity, until one November day when his opportunity arrived. The New York Jets, a team only the devil could love, knocked the Patriot's starting quarterback out of the game and forced the boy named Tom into the game. Only the Jets could ruin there own future by making a bone crushing tackle. The Evil One has a strong sense of irony I guess. The Jets have not won a division title since that fateful day.
The rest of the story is still being played-out, you all know the details. Harry despises every moment of Tom Brady's success, yet takes comfort in knowing that someday, sometime in the future, Satan will come to collect his due and that fresh-faced boy named Tom will end up riding the Hades Express on his way to infernal regions.
I know I speak for Harry when I say, go Giants!
Tom Brady, quarterback for the undefeated New England Patriots is doomed. When I say "doomed" I don't mean that the Pats are ripe for a loss or that Brady will suffer some sort of a debilitating injury, no I mean doomed, like when one spends one's after-life in a fiery underworld, surrounded by pitch-fork bearing goblins. That kind of doomed.
A delusional friend of mine who I will call "Harry," is convinced that Brady is in league with the devil. Harry is a lifelong Ohio State football fan and counts himself as one of the school's most distinguished alumni, although he has never accomplished anything of note in his lifetime. Harry hates anyone who has ever attended the University of Michigan, an institute of learning of which Mr. Brady is truly a distinguished alumni.
As evidence of Brady's secret pact with el Diablo, Harry points back to a snowy Ann Arbor day when Gary Moeller was ousted as the head football coach at Michigan. It was on this day that a fiendish plot against humanity was hatched by none other than Lucifer himself.
Moeller had succumbed to the evils of liquor (oldest trick in the devil's book) and was booted following an altercation at a local bar. To hear Harry tell it, Moeller's dismissal swung the door wide open for an all out blitz by the Prince of Darkness.
In Moeller's place Michigan installed Lloyd Carr as head coach, a man described by Harry as "an unholy minion, and the devil's best recruiter." Sometime during the 1997 season, Coach Carr approached a fresh-faced innocent from sunny California and began bargaining for the lad's soul. The boy was the team's seventh string quarterback with little hope of cracking the starting line-up. Carr offered the boy fame and fortune beyond the boy's wildest dreams in return for the player's mortal soul. The boy would win Super Bowls, date super models and would even impregnate a beautiful movie star (out of wedlock) without feeling the wrath of the public and the press. Some poor schlep named "Pacman" would create a series of clever diversions, covering all of the boy's misdeeds.
Negotiations went on for months. The boy wanted it all and he wanted it now, yet Carr preached patience.
"Mr. Mephistopheles assures me that everything will change for the better in due time," said the Coach pushing an ancient legal parchment before the boy, "just sign here, I promise that this deal is even better than the one that Jeter kid signed with us a few years back." Grabbing a blood soaked pen, the boy scribbled his endorsement.
Years passed and the boy toiled in obscurity, until one November day when his opportunity arrived. The New York Jets, a team only the devil could love, knocked the Patriot's starting quarterback out of the game and forced the boy named Tom into the game. Only the Jets could ruin there own future by making a bone crushing tackle. The Evil One has a strong sense of irony I guess. The Jets have not won a division title since that fateful day.
The rest of the story is still being played-out, you all know the details. Harry despises every moment of Tom Brady's success, yet takes comfort in knowing that someday, sometime in the future, Satan will come to collect his due and that fresh-faced boy named Tom will end up riding the Hades Express on his way to infernal regions.
I know I speak for Harry when I say, go Giants!
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