Love at First Byte

The relationship between human and machine is a delicate one. Regardless of the contraption, people tend to bond with inanimate objects, often assigning names and mortal characteristics to the widgets which spur their devotion.

Until recently I had never developed an affinity for a daily tool which aided lifestyle. Never have I grown an attachment for an automotive vehicle, in fact, my wife Janet refers to me as "Jon the Car Killer." Over the years I have managed to obliterate every car I have ever owned, destroying engines, transmissions, electrical systems and anything else that might turn bad under the hood. To me my car is a machine that transports me from point A to point B, a soulless, nameless future victim of my neglect. Add the well known fact that I can't take a spin around the block with losing my way and you can understand my hesitance to personalize anything with four wheels.

All that changed when Carmen entered into my life.

Carmen was my very first GPS system, a benevolent chaperon who gently guided me to places I would have never dreamed of reaching on my own. My feelings for Carmen were both passionate and genuine and, over time, blossomed into an emotion even more beautiful, even more rare, dare I say it, could it be love?

During our salad days, Carmen and I would glide the through the countryside, bereft of worry, reaching each destination without incident. Then, as suddenly as our affair began, things began to sour. Carmen became aloof, often failing to remind me of critical turns in the road, propelling my being into the unknown with only my wits to guide me (i.e. unarmed). One afternoon, during a routine drive, Carmen experienced a kind of latitudinal breakdown, hysterically repeating "RECALCULATING, RECALCULATING, RECALCULATING, RECALCULATING," until I nearly propelled us both off of Windy Gap Mountain! Something was amiss, had gotten too close too fast? Could there be someone else?

Returning home, I engaged Carmen in the driveway and suggested that it might be best if we saw other devices. Following the usual screaming and tears that follow any break-up (my eyes are still a tad puffy), I decided to pass Carmen along to my son Will, who, much to his dismay, had inherited the "Where the heck am I, and how did I get here?" gene which has plagued countless generations of Kaufman males. Clearly, it was time for the two of us to move on.

Like many lonely hearts, I sought refuge on the Internet, scouring sites for a new travel mate. Still reeling from my ill fated romance, I carefully browsed through the electronics sites searching for "Ms. Right-turn." Disheartened and ready to accept a life of solitary travel, I nearly called it quits, deciding to check one more site before turning in for the evening. That is when I first saw her. Sleek, bright, dressed in 3-D color, and on sale, the Garmin Nuvi 205 was a smoldering sliver of satellite technology that set my bruised heart aflutter. Immediately I placed the order and when my new device arrived, I could barely recall Carmen's name. I felt ashamed, yet strangely excited. Once the batteries were fully charged, I began to explore my new companion's menus and features.

In addition to the usual voices available on all GPS systems, I discovered that my Nuvi could also accept downloads featuring celebrity and other voices. Launching my browser (not a euphemism), I rushed into a site and purchased the voices of Arnold Schwarzenegger, Yoda, Stewie from "The Family Guy" and a female voice named Jill.

Funny at first, the sitting Governor of California, became tiresome, rudely calling me a "punk" each time I failed to turn at the proper time. Yoda was difficult to understand due to his inverted sentence style, scolding me with the phrase "Turn you did not, lost we are!" Similar to his character on the show Stewie is just a mean little cuss who had no patience for my on-road bungling as well, demanding "DO AS I SAY, YOU IDIOT!" with every wrong turn. If I wanted to hear that kind of debasement I would have brought Will along for the ride.

This brings me to Jill. Jill was one of two female voices available and, candidly, I am more used to a woman yelling at me in the car than an action movie star, a wrinkly old puppet or an ill-tempered talking baby. The other female option was named Sadera, advertised as Jill's hot-blooded sister. Sadera's profile carried a red stamp touting "illicit material," along with provocative photo. Given my struggles with navigation, I decided to pass on Sadera and forgo any possible distractions she might inspire. Jill was my girl.

Immediately, Jill and I were a perfect match. Her soft voice eased me through every inter-section and, when I began to wander aimlessly, Jill would quietly purr "Baby, did you lose you way again? Let's get you moving in the right direction."

Finally a machine that understands me! Recovered from my brief assignation with Carmen, I have undeniably found my wayfaring soul mate. It was love at first byte.

Alternatives in Retirement

Getting old is a frightening proposition my friends, and with each passing day comes another reminder of what lies ahead. Every morning I look into the mirror and wonder "who is this relic before me with grey hair growing out of his ears?" Sadly, my fading reflection does not answer, staring back at me with the same anguished expression that I project.

A few weeks ago I traveled back to my native Long Island to visit with my sisters (Eve, Laura, Emily and Sally), nephews and nieces for a few days. During a Saturday luncheon (arranged by my younger sister Sally and held in her home) the table conversation got around to the subject of age and retirement, a topic which had not previously been discussed within this particular group.

Laura mentioned that she had recently received an email about a woman who had conceived a novel retirement choice, offering an alternative to the standard assisted living option. The woman suggested that one could simply live on a cruise ship for the rest of one's days, enjoying the benefits that these sea-faring hotels have to offer. She would have a nice view of the ocean from her sea-side room, feast on the endless number of buffets aboard, meet new people every fourteen to sixteen days, and visit the ship's doctor for any pressing medical needs.

"This plan was brilliant", I thought picturing Janet and I on an endless voyage. Never again would I need to worry about cleaning my room (actually I rarely worry about that anyway), running to the Getty Mart for milk and beer, or have to pay personal property tax on a car which has been sitting idle in my driveway for three years. When it came time to shuffle off this mortal coil and join the choir invisible, a few stewards could guzzle a cheap bottle of wine in my honor, mutter a brief prayer or a bawdy maritime-themed limerick and hoist my lifeless mass overboard, avoiding that whole funeral and graveyard scene.

As the afternoon became evening, the Kaufman siblings began to explore other retirement options, perhaps more suited to our lifestyles. Rather than spending the rest of our lives chewing Dramamine and smelling like halibut, several of us thought we might try a similar approach to the cruise tactic, but on land. Perhaps a senior friendly, warm climate location like Las Vegas would suit?

Imagine a tribe of sibling retirees establishing squatting rights at the Bellagio! Many of principles created in the cruise model would still apply; Huge buffets, nightly entertainment, lavish surroundings and bus loads of white-haired nickel-slot playing friends arriving daily. We just trade sand for waves, that's all! The five of us could pool our Social Security money every month, select a family member to drop a bundle at the casino and, BOOM, we all receive free lodging and a complimentary bottle of champagne courtesy of the management who generally takes a shine to incompetent gamblers. With a little bad luck we could outlast Wayne Newton's run on the strip.




Naturally there are some holes in this "Vegas invasion." After a while, we would no doubt be summarily tossed from hotel grounds forcing us to seek shelter elsewhere. Considering the amount of hotels in Sin City, our wandering tribe might be able to stretch our adventure out for a few years, but what then? Reno and Atlantic City would certainly have caught wind of our flock of geriatric nomads and ban us from properties as well.

No matter how we sliced it, it seemed as though the specter of old age still yawned before us. I see my sisters as I have always seen them, not as aging women, but as the same beautiful, funny and intelligent people I grew up with. Although we spoke of our twilight years, I could not help but feel a burst of youth that afternoon, for as long as we all age together we will remain as we always were; a family.

The next morning, the man in the mirror was smiling back at me. Thank you Eve, Laura, Emily and Sally!

Bad Trip, Dude
I am not a big fan of summer. Width challenged people (like me) normally don't fare well in toasty climates, often producing enough perspiration to drown a small child. Aside from my prodigious glad secretion, I am apparently considered quite a delicacy in the insect world, providing a veritable buffet for anything that hovers. There is no way for me to escape the horrors of the season, not even when on vacation.

In the past, Janet, Will and I have experienced a mix bag of family summer excursions. Like most families, all of us have specific stipulations when negotiating family getaways. While Janet considers any location north of the Mason-Dixon Line a frozen, inhabitable wasteland, Will is game for any destination as long as he can bring a friend along to buffer the strain of being with his parents twenty-four seven. Boarding an airplane is not an option for me (fear of being identified by my dental records), limiting our options substantially.

Frankly our luck has been quite thin when attempting family travel. One year we drove half-way to Myrtle Beach and were turned back in Laurinburg, NC due to adverse weather conditions. The following summer we made another run at Myrtle, but our vehicle gave up the ghost in Burlington, NC. The next year we voyaged to Disney World (successfully avoiding most of the deadly state of North Carolina), only to snap a timing belt twenty miles outside of Orlando. This short list of failed treks pale in comparison to the time Janet and I endeavored to leave the country and canter off to Mexico.

Employed by a since failed communications outfit, I (along with my peers) was presented with a free, all expenses paid five day holiday to Playa Del Carmen, Mexico, a lovely resort area on the Yucatan peninsula. All meals, drinks and activities were covered in the package and Janet and I preparing excitedly for the charter flight that would carry us to paradise. Note: Although I often sprout chicken feathers when air travel is mentioned, the miser in me found this "free everything" concept too difficult to overcome. Dramamine was purchased and my dentist was notified (just in case).

On the day of the flight, we would drive down to Raleigh, NC and depart from the airport with the rest of our charter group. I thought "North Carolina AGAIN, what kind of fiendish trap have they fashioned for us this time?" Nervously, I put the car in gear and set off in search of Raleigh.

The first leg of the trip went smoothly as I traversed 220 South and cruised by Greensboro. Swearing that Raleigh was west of Greensboro, I turned on to Interstate 40 and proceeded to ignore every road sign I passed and Janet's assertion that we were going the wrong way. Finally, when I saw a sign reading "Knoxville 78 miles", I exited the road and began to swim in my own aforementioned exudation. The flight was scheduled for departure at 12:30pm, my dashboard clock read 11:05, and we were at least two hours from Raleigh. Those wicked Carolinians had managed to impede my progress once again, this time by cleverly moving Raleigh to the eastern side of the state!

Janet remained completely calm as slammed my head into the dashboard. Janet, I might add, is the best person in the world to be with during a crisis. In battle, you would want Janet sitting next to you in a foxhole, conversely, in case of war I am designated as a hostage.

Barreling down the road at break-neck speed I weaved my way through traffic as my business cohorts tried to delay the flight. Russ, a quick-minded, jittery fellow with the disposition of a Poodle, raced to the check in counter and began to stall. Russ told them that I was elderly and was on my way to the terminal in my wheelchair. Failing do be moved by Russ's story, the crew began boarding the passengers. Not to be deterred, Russ spun another tale, this time I was of Mexican national and I was traveling my homeland to see my dying Jose brother for, perhaps, the last time. Boarding continued without delay and Russ was getting desperate.

Janet and I were closing in on the airport when the crew closed the doors of the aircraft and prepared for take off. Russ, my hero, determined to "leave no sales manager behind" sprang from his seat, dashed past a group of flight attendants, spotted an open cockpit door and parked himself in the pilot's seat! Presently, a stunt like that would have earned brave Russ in a first class suite at the Guantanamo Hilton, yet he remained behind the controls until security was summoned to the plane. Back on the road, Janet and I had reached the airport grounds and began jumping speed bumps "Dukes of Hazzard" style, I dropped poor Janet off at the gate off with eight pieces of luggage and sped off to the parking garage.

We boarded the plane to the catcalls of everyone aboard and Captain Russ was released by his captors, shaken, but uninjured.

In a few weeks Will, Janet and I are planning another trip. Steering clear of the dreaded state of North Carolina, we are heading to our nation's capital for a few days of sightseeing and relaxation. If the Department Homeland Security decides to raise their terror alert rating a notch or two during that time period, you will know why.

Lost at Home

Every family has a member who is the essential cog in the household machine. My mom was that person when I was growing up. Through any crisis situation my mom remained steadfast, without even a hint of panic. Though she often would strike a Machiavellian pose, professing that she "rather be feared than loved," Mom was in fact a soft-hearted matriarch who loved her brood unconditionally.

On several occasions, my mother was briefly hospitalized with chronic lower back problems, leaving my father, sisters and I to fend for ourselves in her absence. Although a palpable void was apparent to all, everything ran rather smoothly until Mom's return.

Like my mom, my wife Janet is the captain of our family vessel and similar to my mom, she runs a tidy ship. A former gymnast who spent years hurling her body hither and yon, Janet also has issues with her lower back which will require surgery within the next few weeks. Unlike my mom, who had four brilliant and capable daughters and a loving husband with an abundance of household skills to keep the boat afloat, Janet has only me, my son and three goofy hound dogs to bridge the gap until she regains full mobility.

Adrift in uncharted waters and void of any domestic skills, Will and I struggled to decide which one of us was proficient enough to step up and fill Janet's shoes. (Note: Had our dogs been blessed with opposable thumbs we would have invited them into the conversation, however, we felt that we had to draw the line somewhere.). We proceeded to compile a list of "Pros and Cons" describing our strengths and challenges, opting to explore this matter scientifically.

My list of "pros" included age and experience and we agreed that Will's "pros" were youth and strength. So much for the short list of positives. The discussion regarding our weaknesses became a lengthy volley with each candidate recalling tales of the others inadequacy.

Being male, the first topic we debated was food. Clearly (I thought) I would have an advantage in this category. Aside from a few dishes he can actually create, Will's culinary experiences normally begin with our hungry boy shouting his order at an electronic menu, and ends by driving to the second window for pick-up. Pulling from his historical data bank, Will then reminded me that I was the guy who once set himself on fire while making spaghetti. This was a difficult point to dispute as I had nearly incinerated myself when the bottom of my t-shirt touched the stove eye as I reached for pasta in the cabinet above. As flames rose towards my chin, I discovered the true function of our sinks sprayer attachment (I always wondered what that thing was for) and doused the inferno inches from my beard. Will 1 Dad 0.

Cleaning was next on our list, a chore foreign to most men and Will and I are no exception. If not for Janet, our home would be considered a bio-hazard and would condemned by the City of Roanoke if the Sherriff's deputies could fight their way past a twenty foot ball of dog hair to serve the subpoena. Recalling that Will had once tried to help his Mom clean the house by firing up a gas-powered leaf blower in our living room (and setting off all of our smoke alarms in the process), it became clear that I would be manning the mop and vacuum. Will conceded his case without rebuttal. Will 1 Dad 1

The next topic considered was dog care and maintenance. To our pack Janet is the sun, the moon and the stars. The dogs see Will and me more as temporary boarders, occupants in the postal vernacular. Responding only to their mother's voice, Shiloh, Roscoe and Mya will often turn a deaf-ear to anyone who tries to summon their presence, opting to await official word from the top. Hounds are rarely in a hurry which is precisely the reason I love them. In comparison my dogs make me look "dynamic!"

Will argued that he would be a better choice for this detail due to his standing in the household chain of command which is as follows..
1. Janet
2. The dogs
3. Will*
4. The fish
5. Me (I used to occupy the sixth slot until the lizards passed away).

*Will was in the number two spot until age five, when he jumped on the back of Tara (our since departed Coonhound) and rode her around the house like Roy Rogers.

We quibbled on through the night about who would handle Janet's work during her convalescence yet, in the end, agreed on only one thing. We concurred that neither one of us could handle half of the stuff Janet does on a daily basis, and that the scope of her work stretches from the obvious chores to the little unseen tasks that both of us have either never considered or have always taken for granted.

Relax and recover Janet, with a little luck and a metaphorical can of WD-40, the family machine just might survive the calamitous care of your two favorite men, however, I bumped up the homeowners policy just in case. Rest well.

Mr. Celophane
For the most part, I have lived most of my life "under the radar." As a child I was so painfully shy that I managed to miss twelve straight Junior High School Spanish classes without being marked absent. To borrow a title from the musical "Chicago" I was "Mr. Cellophane." Last week, all of that changed.

While visiting my wonderful father-in-law Hank in the hospital, I noticed a nurse looking at me in a rather strange way. She wore a searching expression, her brow furled as if she was trying to solve a difficult puzzle.

"Where do I know you from?" she asked, tightening a blood pressure band around Hank's upper-arm.

"Well, I am in the hospital quite often," I responded, having slept on at least half of the gurneys in Roanoke over the years.

"No, she answered," wagging her finger in my direction, "I know, you're the guy who wrote about his dog Roscoe in the newspaper!"

Folks, I was floored. My face was awash in a deep blush. This was the first time that I had been correctly identified in public by someone I had not previously met. The sensation was both exciting and confusing. Throughout the years I have often been mistaken for other people but rarely recognized as myself.

Many years ago, while traveling to Florida to visit my Mom, a lovely young woman approached me in the Fort Lauderdale airport terminal, threw her arms around my neck and exclaimed "Kenny, it is so nice to see you, where's Lucille?" We momentarily enjoyed a lingering embrace, (or at least I did) then separated. Begrudgingly, I explained that I possessed no information as to Lucille's whereabouts, and although my name was Jon, she was more than welcome to address me as Kenny, Larry or any pseudonym that struck her fancy. Embarrassed and apparently disappointed, my mystery greeter withdrew and deserted me at the baggage claim.

Wherever I go I am either mistaken for someone's Uncle Hobart, or seem to be completely invisible. When traveling for business in Parkersburg, West Virginia with my friends Tom and Angelique, we stopped in a local eatery for a bite prior to a sales meeting. When the three of us entered the establishment (together) the perky hostess directed herself towards Tom and Angelique inquiring "Table for two." My two befuddled business partners turned their heads to the left as if to make sure that I was, in fact, still standing next to them, as I glanced into a nearby mirror to verify that I was present as well. Later, when the meals arrived, my plate was the only one missing, as was the waiter's tip when it came time to settle up.

How can someone be so eminently forgettable?

I take some pride in my ability to recognize people and remembering their names. It's important, although I nearly lost my summer job one year for failing to visually verify a musical celebrity. As an employee of Jones Beach Theatre in Long Island, New York, my job was to serve as an usher for the musical concerts staged at the venue. Boasting an impressive line-up of acts from a variety of musical genres, the theatre hosted everyone from Blue Oyster Cult to Mel Torme that summer.

My best friend Neil, a tall, well muscled fellow who worked as a security guard at the front gate of the theatre fell ill one evening after consuming fourteen pre-performance cocktails. As any good friend would, I volunteered to man Neil's post while he revisited his last five meals. Security was light that evening as the headlining act, The Benny Goodman Orchestra, appealed to an older crowd. Neil told me that all I needed to do was look menacing (me?) and everything would be alright.

Everything was going very smoothly, until, just prior to showtime, an older gentleman raced up to the gate and blew right past me. Not known for my speed, I was able to capture the gate crasher just before he reached the backstage entrance. Blocking the door, I asked for the man's ticket. The man explained that he did not have a ticket and that he was with the band. Determined to represent my fallen friend Neil, I argued with this fellow for several minutes, until the backstage manager brushed me aside and escorted the man inside. Later, I glanced inside the theatre and recognized that same old man playing his clarinet on stage, it was Benny Goodman, and I felt like a dope.

To the friendly nurse who correctly diagnosed my identity, it was nice to meet you and I appreciate the kind comments about my writing. Thanks to this angel of mercy, I no longer feel translucent, and that blip on the radar screen is the same boy who refused to let Benny toot his flute without a ticket.

Baseball Magnet

Gary Wayne Fitzgerald, a senior second baseman for the Patrick Henry High School baseball team is in the midst of a record setting season. While fellow infielder Yates Sayers flirts with batting .500 for the Patriots, his teammate Fitzgerald attacks his job one bruise at a time, gaining his fame the hard way.

In thirty-six plate appearances this season Gary Wayne Fitzgerald has been hit by a pitch an amazing twelve times. Struck with the second pitch he saw this year in a scrimmage verses William Byrd High School, Fitzgerald has managed to survive only two games this season without getting plunked, carding two multiple contusion contests during his unpleasant streak.

The modern day Major League record for H.B.P. (hit by pitch) belongs to former Red Sox outfielder Don Baylor, who was drilled thirty-five times during the 1986 season. Baylor set his mark while appearing in 154 games. Keeping that in mind, if Fitzgerald were to play 154 games at is current pace he would obliterate Baylor's record with an agonizing 168 body indentations! Fitzgerald would more than triple the all-time record registered by Hughie Jennings of the Baltimore Orioles in 1896, and that's back when they played the game with what amounted to a ball of yarn, an object far gentler than the current hardened projectile used today.

A frequent witness to this bludgeoning, I began to ask myself, "What makes Gary such a desirable target for every pitcher in the Valley?"

Does he stand too close to home plate? Not really. Does he lean towards the ball when he swings? He does, but no more than anyone else. Was Gary the first guy out in elementary school gym class when dodge ball was contested? Unlikely, Gary sports a quick arm and the soft hands of an experienced second -sacker. Do opposing pitchers have some kind of personal vendetta against Gary? Most of them don't even know Fitzgerald and, if they did, they would no doubt find him to be the very genial, intelligent fellow whose teammates and coaches hold in high regard. Then what is it that makes Gary a home for errant pitches?

To find my answer, I sought those closest to this phenomenon.

Coach Aaron Haigler cannot understand why stray pitches continue their assault on his second baseman. "It's really crazy, chuckles Haigler "My uncle holds the career HBP at Franklin County High School with about eight or ten and that's over four years. Gary is on a whole other level."

Pitching Coach Ryan Loose describes Fitzgerald as "a ball magnet." Parents of PH players slump in their folding chairs and cringe every time the ball collides with the indomitable Gary, yet the one least concerned about these frequent pulverizations is the man his teammates call "G-Dub," Gary Wayne himself.

When asked what thoughts go through his head when a pitch is headed directly for him, Gary's answer might shock many of us.
"I think don't move" said Fitzgerald, "I think, get on base and help the team."

When most people (including myself) would run, dive or close their eyes and wince, Gary makes a conscious decision as if it were a reflex. When given the choice between himself and the team, Fitzpatrick chooses the team, every time.

Please understand that I am not suggesting that Little Leaguers should serve themselves up as human sacrifices for the love of the game or the benefit of their team. What Gary brings to his teammates is his own courageous sense of community, an inspiring, black and blue reminder that one selfless act breeds another and that twelve such acts can bond a team.

Gary graduates this summer and the Patrick Henry coaches need not scout the Valley's emergency rooms for a possible successor to Fitzpatrick's battered crown. Austin "Goose" Dillard, the heir apparent and future first baseman for the Patriots, brings quite an impressive resume as a pitcher's piñata. During the improbable 2006 Roanoke City Dixie Boys All-Star team run to the state championships, Dillard was pelted by six pitches during a twelve game stretch, earning him the summer moniker "Bull's-eye." Impressive numbers certainly, but far from the type of consistent anguish on which
Fitzgerald hangs his crutches.

"Sure it would be cool to own a school record", offered Dillard when asked about chasing Fitzgerald's mark in 2010, "But I would much rather break a record that doesn't break me first, if you know what I mean."

Another player will man second base next year for the Patriots, but Gary Wayne Fitzgerald will not be forgotten. Each time ball meets batter at Patrick Henry's Edwards Field and the cry of "WE'VE GOT ICE" can be heard from the home team's bench, thoughts of G-Dub the Ball Magnet will resonate throughout the dugout, and somewhere Gary will be rubbing his shoulder and smiling.

King of the Wild Frontier
According to the "Adventure Travel Report", one third of American adults have gone camping in the past five years. I am not one of those Americans; in fact, I am part of the six percent of American adults who, according to the same source, has "no interest in camping whatsoever."

Blessed with a comfortable home and the joys of indoor plumbing, I am hard-pressed to grasp the benefits of sleeping outdoors under a nylon covering. Perhaps it is my up bringing? In Brooklyn, New York "camping" consists of tossing an old mattress on the fire escape and counting the gunshots until you fall asleep. In the borough of Manhattan camping is not an elective activity and is often know by another name; homelessness.

Born south of the Mason-Dixon Line, my son and wife enjoy the outdoor living and relish the rugged challenge of the pioneer days. Each year they seek to convert me to the simpler life, free of ESPN and The History Channel, and filled with fresh air and woodland creatures. For a person who considers a Motel 6 without the availability of complimentary shampoo "roughing it", this foray into the forest is just too large of a leap.
Does that me any less of a man? Probably, but so does losing an arm in a bear attack, right?

Several years ago I proposed a compromise to my intrepid family members, offering to sleep under the stars in our very own spacious back yard in Roanoke City. We would indeed be camping although the venue would be a mere forty paces from my beloved recliner. Begrudgingly they agreed to my plan hoping this baby-step might lead to a more remote camping location in the future. A tent was pitched, food was prepared on an open flame, and, following a cozy evening by our outdoor fireplace, we bedded down in the wilds of Windsor Avenue.

With four goofy hound dogs joining us in the tent, accommodations were a bit tight until everyone found a place to lay their head down for the night. Sleeping three abreast, a debate ensued between Janet, Will and I as to who was to sleep in the middle of our make-shift bed. Knowing that extreme discomfort and the close proximately of my forty-eight inch HD television would soon force me to abandon the tent once the other two were asleep; I gallantly volunteered to serve as the bologna in this tepee torpedo sandwich.

Amazingly, I was able to fall asleep quickly within the cramped confines, only to awaken (ironically) to answer the call of nature. Due to the snugness of the sleeping arrangement I had turned over on my stomach and had fallen asleep on both of my arms, which were completely numb and useless. I began to roll around the tent desperately trying to get myself in a sitting position, to no avail. As Janet, Will and the dogs slumbered; I inched towards the front of the tent on my stomach and attempted to open the zipper flap with my teeth. My thrashing had awakened Belle, our youngest Bassett Hound, who took the opportunity to slather me with kisses as I tried to free myself. Eventually, I was able to get on my knees and pull the zipper up with my teeth despite Belle's sloppy encouragement.

Toppling into the yard I knew that I had to get to my feet in a hurry for nature's call was now becoming a frantic scream for urgency. Somehow, by the grace of the camping gods, I was able to rise to my feet, yet the progress of my impending pants disaster was becoming more and more difficult to impede. Stumbling towards a nearby tree my limp arms dangling by my side, I turned around and attempted to remove my pants by rubbing myself against the tree in much the same way as a bear scratches its back. If the "America's Funniest Home Videos" crew were on site they would have written me a check for $10,000 right there on the spot! Following some vigorous and determined scraping, my somewhat frayed trousers settled around my ankles, the dam burst and the flood waters arrived in torrents. I wondered if Daniel Boone had ever faced such biological adversities when blazing through the Cumberland Gap. Regaining the blood flow to my arms, I returned to the softness of our den couch and watched Sportscenter, shaken but dry.

As you might imagine, there is little to no chance of my return to the great outdoors in the foreseeable future. For now, I am happy to be in the minority, joining my fellow six percent anti-campers in the quiet comfort of our own homes.

Guide to Business Travel
The life of a road warrior is a lonely one. All over this great country of ours, sales people criss-cross the landscape daily, desperately scouring the market for receptive customers. In these trying economic times, journeys such as these are often fruitless, providing more pie in the face than change in the pocket for intrepid peddlers like me. Regardless of the futility that awaits, the optimist who resides deep within me (several floors below the pessimist who owns the building), sees these excursions as an opportunity to hone my skills as a seasoned traveler.

My office is a red Dodge Stratus with collision impressions on both sides of my rear fender. The driver side blemish is a souvenir from Salem, where a small yellow pole impeded my backwards progress while fiercely protecting a vulnerable fire hydrant, leaving me dry but dented. The second imprint came courtesy of my son Will who backed into a building when leaving a local restaurant. For the record, many people have bumped into the building in question as witnessed by the numerous scars on its outer façade. Will, however, was probably the first sober person to run afoul of this inviting obstacle in recent memory.

Rarely, clean outside or in, my insightful sister Eve once compared my vehicle to the inside of a women's pocketbook. The interior is generally packed with a hodge-podge of debris which my family and passengers wade through upon entering. It is in this rolling pile of refuse where sales are normally born and often go to die.

After twenty-some years of traversing the Mid-Atlantic countryside, one tends to develop a few helpful procedures to ease the discomfort of the daily sojourn, devising ways of feeling at home regardless of one's location. Allow me to pull back the curtain and provide a glimpse into what I like to call "Jon's Guide to Creative Business Travel."

For any traveler, the subject of clean and accessible rest rooms is a universal theme. To me, filing station facilities often resemble the set from the original "Saw" movie. To spot a dismembered corpse in one of the stalls would almost be anti-climatic in such places. This is why I recommend hotel lobby restrooms as a highway accessible alternative. The benefits to such rest stops are obvious. Lobby restrooms are; rarely used, always clean and, if you are feeling particularly daring, you can even grab a complimentary copy of USA Today on your way to "powdering your nose." The trick to this gambit is to breeze past the front desk with a purposeful look on your face, and then exit the premises through a side door once your mission is complete. It works every time, just act like you belong. Caution: Stopping to sample the continental breakfast is pushing the limits and is considered bad form.

During my travels I prefer to frequent less familiar eateries, shunning fast food whenever possible. Discovering a concealed jewel on the road seems to elevate my spirits when sales are scarce. One of my favorite haunts is Poogie's, an all you can eat country buffet in Danville. From the road Poogie's looks like a greasy spoon that might seat a half a dozen thin truckers at a time. Indoors is a pin-neat dining room and sumptuous food. Their southern fried chicken would force the Colonel into a hasty and unconditional surrender. Locating such restaurants adds interest to the outing and allows me the feel of a culinary Vasco De Gama, searching the wild for nourishment and adventure.

A delightful meal on the road can, however, create other issues for the traveling sales person. Following a loving jaunt, or two, or three, through Poogie's buffet line, the blood in my brain embarks on a trip of its own, hoping to get a whiff of that sweet potato soufflé as it settles like the Edmund Fitzgerald at the bottom of my belly. Nearly unconscious and unable to operate heavy machinery, I gently steer my vehicle to that shady spot I had came across during my pre-meal reconnaissance. Please remember that it is critical to case the surrounding area for a resting place before you chow down, you don't want to end up in a ditch with barbeque sauce on your chin.

Twenty minutes into my peaceful slumber I am stirred by the chiming of my trusty BlackBerry. I awaken feeling fat, refreshed and ready to take on another afternoon of sales indifference.

Although you probably don't notice us, there are a lot of sales people out there, knocking on doors and cold calling businesses. Often our sales targets are surprised, yet rarely delighted to see us. Be kind, we mean no harm, and if you should spy a lone sedan parked beneath a spreading oak in the middle of the afternoon, tread lightly, reclining inside might be a person like me, sleeping off lunch and dreaming of sales success and clean bathrooms.

Multiple Births
Why ask for trouble?

Lately I have noticed an increase in news stories regarding multiple births. These unsettling reports always seem grab my attention as if a smarmy carnival barker has spied my curiosity and has begun to slowly reel me into his sideshow. Although twins run in my family, my sisters and I have (so far) successfully dodged the double-barreled bullet, managing to produce, or in my case, help produce, but one offspring at a time. Please don't misunderstand, I love my sixteen year-old son Will with all of my heart, but if there were two of him I would surely be broke, exhausted and alternately signing my paychecks over to Food Lion and Progressive Auto Insurance.

By now, you may have heard the bizarre tale of the California woman who gave birth to octuplets, thus answering the prayers of every tabloid editor on the planet. Eight babies! I'm not an expert at this kind of thing, but isn't that considered a liter? Imagine the confusion in that home! My Mom had some difficulty getting all of my sibling's and my names straight, often calling role before reaching the right handle, and there were only six of us!

Thirty years ago I had the opportunity to coach identical twins and gained first hand knowledge of the havoc they can inspire. Their names were Brad and Chad. I will refrain from revealing their last name out of respect for their long-suffering parents. These boys were lunatics and their reputation as hooligans in my hometown was that of legend. At age ten, when I had the privilege to coach them, they were just beginning their reign of terror.

Brad and Chad were nearly exact replicas of each other. They walked, talked, ate, and spoke identically. The difference in the two could only be ascertained on the baseball field. Brad was a wonderful hitter, but could not catch a ball if it was covered with industrial glue. Chad was a gifted infielder but could not hit a piñata with a boat oar. Through some odd generic disaster authored by the scornful baseball Gods, together they equaled one very good ballplayer.

Previous to a night game in mid-May, Chad arrived at the field looking pale as a rosin bag. He explained that he was suffering from the flu and that Brad was at home unloading everything that he had eaten for the past two weeks on the kitchen floor. With only eight players in the dugout, I pushed Chad into quarantine on the far side of the dugout instructing him to stay away from the other players. Sick or not Chad had showed up and would have to play or the team would forfeit.

I batted Chad first in the lineup so he could return to the bench quickly after his usual weak at-bat; however, to everyone's surprise he lined a double into the left-centerfield alley and scored a run later in the inning. As he crossed home plate Chad grabbed his stomach, dashed past the dugout and bolted towards the restroom behind the grandstand. When the inning ended, Chad emerged from the men's room and staggered out to the field.

Following each inning Chad would dart directly to the bathroom after he hit or after he came in from the field, looking more death-like with each trip to the commode. Despite
his appearance Chad was having a career day at the plate, driving in three runs and scoring two. At the end of the fifth inning Chad was late coming back from the bathroom and the umpire allowed me some extra time to retrieve him and escort him back to the field.

When I reached the facilities, I could hear some scuffling as I opened the men's room door. Inside I found Chad feverishly switching uniform tops with his brother Brad, who had been hiding in the restroom since the game began. The twins had been planning this for months. Brad would arrive at the field in Chad's uniform (knowing we were the visiting team and would be batting first) and hit for Chad. Brad would then run to the bathroom, switch jerseys with Chad and Chad would play the field until it was time to hit again, when Brad would take over. The shear genius of the plot was stupefying.

Shocked and a little embarrassed, I alerted the umpiring staff to this clever charade, and threw myself on their mercy. Naturally, my heartfelt speech praising the boys for pooling their talents to help the team fell on deaf ears and we were forced to forfeit the game. I have never coached twins since.

Not all twins are as daffy as Chad and Brad, but many pairs that I have met do tend to carry an air of mischief about them. Do you suppose that Tiki Barber has ever considered sleeping in and slipping brother Rhonde past the Today Show producers one morning? Hey, perhaps that has already happened? Only Roanoke's most famous twins know for sure.

Dodgertown
For baseball fans, spring training is a time of hope, a fresh start for teams that perennially dwell in the cellar and for those who fell just short of the mark during the previous season. However, for the people of Vero Beach, Florida there will be no hope, for the former spring home of the Los Angeles Dodgers there will be no baseball this year.

Lured by a lucrative offer including a brand spanking new training facility, the Dodgers will report this spring to their new venue in the city of Tucson, Arizona, a short hop from their California home. Unable to entice another major league team to adopt the complex, Dodgertown will fall silent this spring, a vacant memorial of the games past glory.

The day after Christmas, my wife, son and I loaded up the car and made the long journey to Vero Beach for a baseball camp/tournament, sponsored by Under Armor and staged by The Baseball Factory, an organization which specializes in helping coach and train high school aged players who aspire to play college ball upon graduation. We were told that this four day event would be the last baseball contest held at Dodgertown. When we left, the doors of Dodgertown would be closed, perhaps forever.

Growing up as a fan of the New York Mets, I had never been to Dodgertown and, frankly, never really thought of going. The Dodgers moved to California from Brooklyn the year I was born and I never developed a love for the team that skipped town while I was developing my pitching delivery in my mother's womb. Yet my inner baseball historian was shaken and awakened by the prospect of walking the same grounds once graced by Jackie Robinson and Sandy Koufax.

What I found at Dodgertown was both beautiful and sad. The fields are beyond the wildest dreams of anyone who has ever raked an infield. The father of one of the players remarked that if his lawn in Staten Island looked like any of the fields at the facility, he would "protect it with a shotgun." If there is baseball in heaven then the fields must be modeled after Dodgertown. My wife and I spoke to two of the groundskeepers who were still primping the turf as if the World Series were to be played at Dodgertown the following day. The older of the two gentlemen was finishing his forty-second year on the complex grounds crew, the younger man had grown up helping his bad build pitching mounds since he was nine years old. They spoke of the days when the players used to stay in an old army barracks, sans air conditioning, and rest beneath the palms between drills. We were treated to an hour-long history lesson covering the fields, the Dodgers, and the lives of the grounds crew. Through this wonderful walk through the unwritten archives, I noticed an underlying sadness, it was hard to miss. Like so many of us lately, these great folks would be losing not only their jobs, but a cherished piece of their past as well.

Cooks, wait-staff, administrative workers and housekeeping employees would all meet similar fates. Everyone went about their work as if it was business as usual, player rooms were spotless (until the teenaged occupants returned from the fields covered with dirt), and meals of the highest caliber were served. Two hundred players from all over the country were treated like big leaguers by a staff that never failed to smile despite their impending unemployment



Amidst the suppressed sorrow of the Dodgertown staff, sixteen compiled baseball teams were battling each moment on the field. The instruction was second to none and the seminars and guest speakers carried the spirit of the camp through the night once the stadium lights were dimmed. Will's teammates were from New England, New York, Florida, Nebraska, Virginia, and California, all focused to perform. Competition and emotions were high.

I am not sure the players were aware of what was happening around them, and maybe that was a good thing. A piece of baseball history was coming to a close, a sixty-year love affair between a team and a town was now over, yet the joy of baseball continued on as the tournament wound to its conclusion.

Will's team had the honor of playing the final few outs of the event in a game that stretched into extra innings. Short of pitching, Will (a catcher by trade) volunteered to throw the final frame. The count was two balls and two strikes with two outs, when Will coaxed a soft pop-up to shortstop which was gloved by a lanky kid from Courtland, New York for the final out. It would be the last out recorded at Dodgertown.

The game ended in a 5-5 tie and players smiled as they shook hands. Teammates said their goodbyes, exchanged phone numbers and packed-up their gear.

The few days spent in Dodgertown were special in many ways. I met a group of hard working people whose pride never faltered for a second despite their situation. Each element of this historic site remained perfect right up to the last moment and I felt privileged to share that moment with them.

Leaving the grounds I thought of all of the great players who perfected their game on those very fields and the young players I had just seen working towards that same goal of perfection. This parallel seemed to be the perfect end for this small slice of baseball heaven. I even think the ghosts of Dodgertown might have approved.

Real Food No More
Folks, today I write to you from the infernal regions of weight reduction's deepest pit. According to my medical advisory staff, I am to be interned in this smoldering abyss for the remainder of my stay on earth or until I shed fifty or more pounds of junk-food induced fat, which ever comes first.

This all started with a phone message from my doctor's office informing me of some "abnormalities" in my latest blood test. Abnormalities, what does that mean? For a hypochondriac like me, saying that there are "abnormalities" on my blood test is like telling a normal person that they have but a few hours to live and that they must spend those last fleeting moments in traffic court.

All of you must know a person who reads a health article in a magazine and is thoroughly convinced that they suffer from the described affliction. That's me. In fact, when reading such material I often feel myself manifesting the common listed symptoms as I tremble through the text. By the end of the discourse I have become a flinching, drooling, feverish, bedridden invalid frozen by fear. Upon hearing the news of my imminent demise, I insisted (pleaded) for an immediate appointment.

Following a sleepless night, I drove to the doctor's office and walked "The Green Mile" into the waiting room. Avoiding any medical magazines, I reached for the safety of a recent copy of "People" only to find an article on Patrick Swayze and his courageous bout with cancer. Quickly, I retreated to my overstuffed chair (sans reading material), and began to perspire.

Once freed from the waiting room, I was deposited into a small examination room with colorful diagrams of internal organs adorning the walls. Moments later the doctor arrived and got right to the point. In her estimation, my cholesterol number would make a great bowling score, but needed to come down dramatically. My triglycerides measured off the scale, eclipsing my SAT score from 1976. The doctor looked more worried than I did and that had never happened before. Solemnly, she handed me a sheet of paper which described foods that I needed to start eating and ones that I would need to cut out of my daily diet. EVERYTHING I eat was on the "must go" list. My fear transitioned to depression in the time it takes me to wolf down a bag of mini donuts (my personal best: 1 minute and 47.3 seconds.*milk aided).

No ribs, no hot dogs, no spaghetti, no salami. NO SALAMI! From age five to age twenty-five all I ate was kosher salami. I would have named my son Salami, but who needs that kind of pressure? My sisters would send me salami care packages through the mail when I first moved to Virginia, thinking that I might perish without a frequent visit from Hebrew National. NO SALAMI! I wanted to lie down in the middle of Campbell Avenue and wait for Valley Metro to roll over me.

Since receiving the bad news, my dining life has been predictably miserable. Nightly, I nuke low calorie frozen dinners, which appear yummy when depicted on the box, but, in reality, taste only slightly better than the box itself. Janet and Will have been supportive, encouraging me to stay with the eating program and exercise more often. Honestly the only part of my body that is in top physical condition is my right forearm which is frequently summoned to raise and lower my recliner's leg rest.

As I embark on this life sentence, I recall the day a six year-old Jon asked his mother "Mom, is there salami in heaven?" Holding back a giggle, my Mom put down her dish rag, put her hand on my shoulder, glanced skyward and said "I'm not sure who handles the catering up there Jon, but I'm sure they have everything, even salami." So at least I got that going for me.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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!