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Great Indoors
by Cleveland writer Eric Broder
email erictbroder@yahoo.com
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© ILLUSTRATIONS BY ERIC BRODER

[10-1-97] June 2008
Advice to Young People

I work with many young people, and I like to give them advice whether they ask for it or not.

I’m considerably older than many of these people, and while it’s true that I haven’t gone anywhere or done much, I happen to have actual, real-life experience – experience in the realm of human relations. You don’t need to crew on a fishing boat, work in a hospital emergency room or spend a year overseas to learn this stuff. I learned most of it by just hanging around and sitting on my ass.

Therefore I believe it’s crucial that others benefit from my experience. As a matter of fact, I insist on it.

For example, a co-worker, Laura Putre, recently went to Illinois to get married. Now I’ve been through the whole wedding thing, both as observer and participant. I know a few things about the subject: the ins and outs, the pitfalls and pressures, the anxiety-producing elements of the nuptial ceremony.

So I took Laura aside before she left for Illinois and told her, “Just don’t make a fool of yourself.”

That’s all you need to know about getting married. You can pay your so-called “experts” thousands of dollars and never get better advice.

“In what way, ‘make a fool of yourself’?” you ask.

In every way. From falling and chipping your tooth on a pew during the walk down the aisle, to getting bombed off your wiener and vomiting as the vows are being exchanged, there are literally hundreds of ways to make a fool of yourself at your wedding. So my advice? Don’t do it.

The sales associate Chris Spencer, also about to get married, has indicated some trepidation about the affair. My advice to him took on a slightly different tack.

“Ha ha ha ha ha,” I told him.

Through my gift of laughter, I conveyed to Chris something very valuable, and very wise. Nyah, nyah, you gotta go through it and I don’t.

Martha Stewart can tell you what kind of tablecloth to use, but it takes real experience to tell you the critical truth about a wedding: Just pray you live through it. And after I have my good laugh at Chris’ expense, I add this comforting thought: “Don’t worry. You probably won’t remember a thing about it anyway.”

Of course there have been other workday situations where my older, wiser head has prevailed. At a recent lunch, the aforementioned Laura Putre was complaining that when she tells people her name, they always say, “Hey, that sounds like Laura Petrie” (of The Dick Van Dyke Show).

My co-workers clucked sympathetically and suggested methods that Laura could use to avoid this repetitive and tedious line. I leaned back in my chair and reflected a moment.

Finally, I said, “Laura, when people say that, just say ‘F--- you.”

Simplicity is the key in human relations. Certainly you could go through a lot of self-defeating rigmarole when confronted with annoying behavior, but I’ve learned that just leads to more frustration. You could be cordial; you could have a witty, canned response; you could emit a hollow laugh; or you could simply ignore it. However, sometimes it’s best just to say “F--- you.” Like “please” and “thank you,” these truly are the Magic Words.

Of course there will be exceptions to this, when “F--- you” isn’t appropriate. In these instances you might wish to say, “Bite me.” Or “Eat me.” “Go to hell.” The somewhat more elegant variation “Go f--- yourself,” or its classic, heartfelt cousin, “Why don’t you go f--- yourself?”

As you get older, you’ll learn which of these to use, and when. That’s the nice thing about maturity.

[8-11-88] May 2008
Into The Woods

I'm outta here. I'm going to spend some time in the woods and commune with nature. I've had it. I've had it with the heat and work and the Cleveland Indians. I've had it with the lousy TV and all the latest Hollywood blockbuster hoopla. I'm sick of looking out over crummy old Euclid Avenue from my office window, and I'm sick of crummy lunches. I'm sick of riding on the rapid with lunatics who bark like dogs. I'm sick of smelling the kitty litter box in our dining room, and I'm sick of looking at my bathroom ceiling with the paint peeling from water leakage from the apartment upstairs. I'm sick of sweating on the sofa. It's time to say Yes to Michigan.

We have a place in the woods. We're lucky. I feel sorry for people who don't. Our family started going to this place sixty years ago. It's a little town in Northern Michigan called Charlevoix. Hemingway country. He fished and hunted up there in his youth. I hunt up there too, but only for bugs in the house. I don't fish, because I don't eat fish. I like the idea of fishing, though. When I was a boy I used to fish off a dock with my older brother. He showed me how to bait the hook, but I soon switched from worms to plastic lures. Then I switched from fishing to not fishing. I enjoyed the sitting around aspect of fishing, but the slime factor had no appeal for me. I won't touch fish and I won't eat them. Except for Chicken of the Sea or Bumble Bee or Star Kist. Tuna is more like chicken or ham than fish anyway. Put a little Worchestershire sauce and lemon and mayo in tuna and you can forget it had been squirming around in the hold of some boat. Don't ask me about salmon, though. I don't know a thing about it. You can eat it if you want. I don't want any.

Maybe I'll play a little golf up there. I'll play on the 9-hole municipal course. No, I won't. I haven't played in 15 years and I probably won't this summer either. I learned how to play golf from the pro at the course when I was 13. I was under pressure from my folks to keep busy and I had to pretend that this thrice-weekly, hour-long golf lesson was a dominating summer activity, a substitute for the camp I had complained bitterly about going to. My parents were desperate to find something that I would be interested in that would get me out of the house. I probably didn't spend more than six hours a week on the golf course, but I tried to make my parents believe I was thinking about playing golf all the time, thus taking some of the heat off. I was satisfied to lay on my butt the whole summer, in other words, but I had to make them think I wasn't. It was hard work.

I wasn't a shut-in, however, I had solitary pleasures. I liked cutting weeds around the house with a scythe, which was easy and another excellent way to keep my parents off my back. Don't think I didn't stretch that out, either. I'd wander around with that scythe for hours, cutting and shuffling, shuffling and cutting. Everyone else in Charlevoix was sailing and water-skiing, but I was slashing at weeds. That's the life I chose for myself. It gave me time to reflect on things. Most of the time I reflected on why the hell I was messing with tall weeds when everybody else seemed to be having fun. I was afraid of looking like a fool while trying to have fun, so I did things by myself. I wasn't angry enough to be truly alienated. I knew it was my own fault. You might say I was passively alienated. So I cut weeds.

After all this cutting, though, I did learn to love the woods. The woods in Northern Michigan are filled with cedar, spruce and pine, and they look and smell great. They're filled with rabbits and raccoons, and these animals jump around on our driveway. The rabbits do, anyway. The raccoons chew on our garbage. There are snakes and deer and porcupines and foxes, plenty of chipmunks, and don't forget the birds. At night the stars fill the sky. The lake laps gently on the rocky shore. That soft rustling from the woods might be a deer moving shyly and gracefully, looking for plants to nibble on, or it might be one of those raccoons gnawing on an empty frozen dinner box he dragged from our garbage. It doesn't matter to me. I like it all. See you later!

[2-21-85] April 2008
If Julio Iglesias Came To the Gristmill
Toasting the marvelous persons of Cleveland

Illustration by Kirk Anderson, 1985.

It was a pedestrian Saturday evening at the Gristmill, a bar near Shaker Square, until Julio Iglesias, popular international recording star, walked in.

I was sitting at the bar, nursing a Lite Beer, when I saw this geek with a boss tan and a white tuxedo come streaming in with a bevy of attendants. He stepped up to the bar and said in a loud voice, “Eight Schmidts beer, por favor, and do not mention that I, Julio Iglesias am here, for I do not wish to be embarrassed in Cleveland, U.S.A., with undue attention for this modest singer of songs.”

This was immediately accompanied by a chorus from his cohorts, who said things like “quiet, quiet” and “no embarrass” and “mention nothing of Julio, nothing, please.”

Iglesias was served his beer and held it up in a toast. The others quickly followed suit.

“I would like to make a toast, si? He glanced at his buddies, who nodded vigorously, “a toast to wonderful Cleveland, the North Coast of the U.S.A., who has been so kind to I, Julio Iglesias, and listened so marvelously to his songs of love. I feel so deep in my heart your love of my beautiful songs and your own beautiful – how do I say – vibracions. Now we drink, Julio Iglesias and his friends, to you persons of Cleveland and your enormous–” he looked around for confirmation of correctness of the word, receiving only a few shrugs, “– city. Thank you, thank you!” And he and his friends drank.

“Ah!” cried Iglesias, wiping his mouth with his handkerchief. “Delightful!” He smiled dazzlingly at the customers.

The customers stared back at him. Iglesias smiled some more, putting tremendous effort into it.

“Ah!” he said again.

“Do you guys need some more beers?” asked the bartender after a moment.

Iglesias gestured dramatically.

“Si, more beers,” he said waving his arms, “and perhaps these marvelous persons would like to hear a song from Julio.” He snapped his fingers and one of his friends quickly pulled out a guitar and began strumming. “It is a little song about amor, do you know it? It is of love, of romance, here in Cleveland, the city of amor. Would you like to hear it, dear people?”

The customers looked at each other.

“This lovely song was written many years ago,” continued Iglesias, “and has been muy popular ever since. It is especial for las personas de Cleveland,” he simpered winningly, “and I sing it now for you.”

And he sang Amor slowly, with guitar accompaniment. When he finished, a few people clapped. Iglesias’ tan glowed and he bowed deeply.

“That is right,” he said enigmatically. He looked at one of the women patrons, a nurse at Huron Road Hospital. “Did you enjoy my song, my firebird?” he asked. The nurse grinned but didn’t say anything. “Ah!” cried Iglesias, and laughed suavely. “I know how that is!”

Suddenly Iglesias grabbed one of his friends’ wrist and examined his watch. His head snapped up.

“We must go now,” he said tersely. He led his procession quickly out the door, onto Larchmere, and into waiting limousines. They drove away.

The bartender stared at all this in wonder. He shook his head.

“One thing you gotta give that Julio Iglesias,” he said finally. “He isn’t afraid to go out and mix with the people.”

The people in the Gristmill agreed.

March 2008
Heaven Better Be Nice

I was watching the news the other evening when suddenly I began to think about what it would be like to be dead. I shut my eyes real tight and tried to make my mind a blank, but I soon realized this would hardly be a realistic simulation of death. I’m not about to hear the newscaster talk about global warming, or notice cars going by on the street outside, when I’m dead. But then again, who knows?

I frankly don’t think I’m going to be dead for a while anyway, because I practice preventative medicine. I eat those pre-peeled and pre-chunked carrot nuggets every day, and maybe an apple or an orange. To make up for the bad stuff, I also drink a glass of Grit Free Sunrise Smooth Metamucil laxative, which flushes out any remnants of the burger and Peppermint Patties I’d eaten earlier. (I am a little worried that without the grit in the Metamucil, I’m not getting the scrubbing-bubbles-like action that really scours the colon, but I’m sure Metamucil knows what it’s doing. Otherwise, I might as well be drinking Tang.) Plus I take walks and lift my dumbbells every morning, so I’m surely going to be around a long time.

But when I do die, am I going to see that famous white light? That’s what it says in Reader’s Digest: you float down a long tunnel towards a white light when you die. Of course, that’s from people who almost, but not quite, die. No offense, but what do they know? They say that someone, or thing, in the light grabs them and shoves them back into the regular world. If they didn’t make it past the doorman, I’m not sure what they can tell us about the club.

Besides, if you die like that – boom – what does that do to the light theory? Maybe if you just go “ppt” you’re instantly in the afterworld and you skip the tunnel business. Are you then standing in some cheerful place and looking around, like in the movies, and if so, what are you wearing? That’s one of the main things I think about. If you’re destined to look for eternity like you did when you died that’s going to bum out a lot of people, me included. I’m hoping that you look like you did during your best period, when you were young and your hair looked good and you were scoring in the fashion department. I also hope you’re the one who gets to decide when that period was because, obviously, everyone has different tastes.

Maybe you’ll end up as a child again in a fantasy land, like Narnia and Oz, filled with meadows and ponds and blue skies and magic. Talking animals, the whole bit. That would be all right. It seems to me, though, there ought to be problems and dangers in an afterlife or it will get pretty dull. I mean, you can dance around a Maypole alongside a trickling brook for so long until you think, “Geez, I wish something would happen.” Chatting with moles and gophers is fine, but there’s got to be some challenges.

It wouldn’t be bad living – eternally – like Homer Price or the Little Rascals, for example. I could forego the talking animals and the other mumbo-jumbo if I could ride in a wagon pulled by a mule or drive a boat powered by ducks’ feet, like the Rascals, or be buried in thousands of doughnuts, like Homer Price. Or I could hang out in some idyllic European setting, like Hans Brinker or Heidi, clunking around in wooden shoes. Certainly if heaven is all they say it is, you’ll have a choice, and maybe the option to flip-flop between worlds.

What may happen, of course, is that when your soul gets separated from your body it just flutters around forever. That’s not for me. What, you just hover over Main Street and watch traffic patterns? You hang invisibly in ceiling corners at school board meetings and observe? What kind of afterlife is that? If I’m going to drift around in space with nothing to do – if I’m not even allowed to talk – I’ll just skip the whole thing. I’ll go for the void. However, I may not have much say in it.

Well, we’ll see. As I said, with my Metamucil and carrots, I won’t have to worry about it for some time.

[2-9-89] February 2008
Ten Commandments of Love

What are the secrets of a successful romantic life? Although this subject has been addressed in thousands of articles in hundreds of magazines, couples still want to know how to keep romance alive in their relationships. Each week I receive dozens of letters from dissatisfied couples, pleading for my help. On this Valentine’s Day, I would like to set forth my Ten Commandments of Love that, if followed faithfully, will enhance and enrich your romantic life. (Clip this article and carry it with you for handy reference.)

1. The Less Said, the Better.
Communication is vastly overrated in relationships. If you’re having trouble with your mate, don’t express your displeasure right away. Let it simmer on the “stove” of your emotions. Like food, if you let a grievance “cook a while,” it’ll be much tastier when it’s done!

2. Laugh at Your Mate’s Insecurities. They say laughter is the best medicine, and nothing will make your mate feel better than when you laugh at his or her fears, problems, insecurities and anxieties. If you use this strategy, your mate will see that these insecurities are little better than a joke and should not be taken seriously. Problem solved!

3. The Best Things in Life are Free. So there’s no reason to throw away a lot of money on gifts for your mate. Most times a pleasant nod in his or her direction is a perfectly adequate display of affection. A “little thing” like a nod – or even a wave – can go a long way!

4. Ignorance is Bliss. Or should I say “Ignoring your mate can be bliss”? Sometimes there’s nothing better than withdrawing into yourself and completely ignoring your lover’s wants and needs. This can be a “quiet time” you can share when you pass each other like “ships in the night,” in silent communion as you remain happily unaware of each other’s existence. Nothing solidifies a relationship more!

5. Flirt Openly with Others. When out and about with your special someone, flirt openly, and broadly, with others. A lewd stare, a waggling tongue, even a goose of an attractive stranger can say so much to your mate: “Though I find this other person appealing, it’s you I care about; after all, it’s you I have to go home with.” This sentiment will be appreciated, I kid you not!

6. Good-natured Teasing Will Add Spice to the Proceedings. Along with flirting, good-natured teasing of your mate in a social situation will liven up any relationship. Want to make fun of your lover’s appearance, salary, intelligence or sexual skill? Now’s the time!

7. Let Yourself Go. Once you are in a stable relationship, there’s no reason to continue any fitness programs you may be on. Your personal grooming, dress and hygiene may also be safely neglected once you have “snared” your special someone. Nothing says “I can relax with you” to a lover more than gaining 60 pounds and wearing super casual attire around the house. So let your hair down a little – what can it hurt?

8. A Whine Will Get You Further than a Kind Word. When you must communicate with your mate, there are few ways of expressing yourself more effectively than with a good, steady whine. And don’t underestimate its cousins whimpering, sniveling and bitter complaint – these can be your best friends in any conversation with your mate!

9. Don’t Touch - Private Property. While in a relationship, guard your body like a fortress. You won’t get any respect from your mate by letting him or her touch you whenever the mood strikes. Have a “sexual schedule”: arrange specific times for intimate moments, say once every six weeks. Your playing “hard to get” says a big N-O to “easy pickins” and a big Y-E-S to self-esteem. You see if it doesn’t!

10. Be Frank About Sex. When you do have to have sex, be open about it. Don’t preface sex with a lot of murky foreplay (like hugging and kissing) that will obscure the issue – be plain and to the point by saying “Let’s just do it, okay?” You’ll find that in sexual matters honesty is the best policy!

[11-21-91] January 2008
Club Man

Excuse me, I got no time to talk now, I have to go to my club. No – the club. Excuse me, I’ve got no time to speak with you right now, I’m on my way out the door to the club . . . Goddamit, I’ve had it! If you want me, I’ll be at the club! ... No, he’s not here right now, he’s at the club, but you can leave a message for him there and they’ll give it to him after his sauna ... Put it on my tab, Ronnie ... Yes, sir, thank you, sir; it’s good to see you again, sir! You’re too generous, sir! ... Let me give you the number at my club too – we all squared away? Okay, Dick, fine. I’ll talk to you soon ... bye bye.

Just practicing my club chatter. I just got a free year’s membership in a downtown health center through a trade agreement. Normally I wouldn’t have signed up, but I need to get out of myself a little, meet more people. I don’t meet many people on my vigorous, post-dinner walks – just that dog who runs down his driveway every night toward me, then stops short and trots back up. At my club, I’ll meet all kinds of people, people who can help me onto the fast track. I can make deals with guys and playfully snap my towel at them afterward. I’m ready to join the old boy network at my club!

Except I was never very good at that towel-snapping business. I myself would get popped, but my own towel just sort of flopped out there. I never much liked locker rooms, either. I haven’t used one in 20 years. I hate the smell of Desenex and off-brand deodorants, and I’m not much one for taking showers with guys. When I hear the clang of lockers slamming shut and see guys taking showers together, I automatically think: prison. And then I think of some big mother with his knees on my chest and a homemade knife at my throat. Plus I still have bad dreams about forgetting my locker combination. Yes, I’ll be nervous when I first use the locker room.

But hey, once I get over that, I’ll be whipping my bod over at the Stair Master, or the rowing machine, or the treadmill, or the Universal. When I went to my club for the first time to pick up my card and sign in, I saw what all they had. Not that I was offered the Grand Tour when I got there. Far from it. When they saw me come in with my brown pants and custodian shoes they probably thought, Here comes Mr. Free Membership. Here comes Mr. Low Rent. I was wearing my tan jacket that during the past few years has degenerated from studwear to something slightly off, and this combined with my pants and shoes made me look like an odd guy from Serbia or someone just released from an institution. I was worried I was going to be blackballed before my first workout even.

While I was there I also peeked into the aerobics room. There were mirrors on every wall, like in a ballet studio. This is one feature of my new club I’m not about to utilize. I’m not about to hop around like Richard Simmons with those hateful legs of his. I’m a lone wolf and I’m not going to jump with a bunch of strangers! So what I’ll end up doing, I guess, is buy a Master lock, memorize the combination somehow, get some workout clothes, go to my assigned locker and nervously undress, tiptoe out to the workout room, hop on a machine, pedal and pull, try not to get too smelly, go back in the locker room and hope no one else is in the shower room, take the shower as quick as I can, stand at the sink and mirrors and hope nobody notices I’m still using zit cream, walk uneasily back to my locker, slather my pits with Speed Stick, get dressed quick, then rush out of there. And that’ll be it.

I’m sorry, he’s not here right now, I think you can reach him at the club. Yes, that’s right, he’s at the club ... You can reach him at the club.

December 2007
The Orangutan Outrage

Like you, I was outraged by the recent newspaper story about the orangutan who confronted and stripped a French tourist in a Malaysian ape sanctuary. And like you, I have questions and concerns.

In case you missed it, a French couple was walking in the sanctuary when they were confronted by the orangutan. The orangutan walked up to the male tourist and then stripped him. The stunned tourist didn’t move a muscle as the orangutan removed his clothes, including his underwear, and then ran into the forest. An official later said, “This ... incident is a warning to all tourists to wear clothes which cannot be removed easily.”

Well, isn’t that fine. Isn’t that marvelous and delightful. According to this official, the orangutan did no wrong. It was the Frenchman’s fault for wearing clothes that could be “removed easily”! What does that mean anyway? Was he supposed to wear combination locks on his shirt buttons and on his zipper? Are we all expected to dress for the day prepared for the possibility that an orangutan might strip us naked as we walk peaceably through ape sanctuaries? Is this the way we’re meant to live? I don’t think so.

I think we should wear whatever’s most comfortable for us and let ape sanctuary officials worry about orangutans stopping us and stripping us of our clothing. Let ape sanctuary officials concern themselves with making sure their orangutans don’t confront people and start unbuttoning and unzipping their clothes and then taking them into the forest. That’s their job, isn’t it? To make sure that people come into their sanctuary with their clothes on and leave with their clothes on and not end up naked as jay birds? Some “sanctuary”!

Here is another comment the official made. He said, “We will track it [the orangutan] and see if the animal attempts to wear the Frenchman’s clothes.” Oh, ho! And then what will they do? Take photographs of the orangutan and then have a good laugh back at the maintenance center? I’d hate to see the condition of these photographs after having been passed back and forth by ape sanctuary officials and their relatives. Too bad for the zoologists and anthropologists, who may really need these photographs to study and maybe, just maybe, help stop this kind of behavior. But ape sanctuary officials have to have their joke. That’s priority one!

And will the Frenchman get his clothes back? Will he want his clothes back? That’s the question no one seems to want to address – the condition of the Frenchman’s clothing after a few days of hard wear by an orangutan. Would you want your pants back after an orangutan has worn them? Even for an afternoon. Because I’ve got news for you: Orangutans aren’t known for their delicacy, and they’re not known for their fastidiousness. They’ll run around in your pants, scratch at them with their fingers, rub up against trees in them. When I was at the zoo a few years ago, I saw a baboon ... well, I won’t tell you what he was doing but you wouldn’t have wanted him to be wearing your pants or your shirt, and that was an ordinary day at the monkey house. If I was that Frenchman, I’d consider those pants gone, a loss.

Having said all this, I do think we as people should be somewhat responsible for our own clothing. No one can honestly say for sure how they would react to the situation where an animal stops you in your tracks, unbuttons and pulls off your clothing and underwear, and then runs into the forest with them. We all have to look into our hearts to discover what we’d do. I like to think that I’d have the courage to take that orangutan by the wrist, look him in the eye, and tell him, “This isn’t right. Don’t do this.” I can’t say what kind of effect this would have on him. Maybe he’d look wildly around and then run away. Or maybe he’d crack me on the snout and then strip me as I lie crying on the ground. I really don’t know. But God! Just give me the chance to find out.

November 2007
The Saga of Disco Dick

I got an advance copy of this book Retro Hell, an encyclopedic collection of items relating to the pop culture of the ‘70s and ‘80s, written by the wisenheimer young editors of the ‘zine Ben is Dead. I immediately turned to the entries on disco, and was overcome with a flood of memories and emotions. Back in the late ‘70s disco was my life.

I was probably Ohio’s greatest disco dancer. People would scurry off the floor when I arrived at the discotheque and murmur, “That’s the Disco Dick.” (They called me “Dick” because it went better with “Disco” than “Eric” did.)

I will tell you candidly that my dance moves made John Travolta’s look feeble. Ask anyone who used to frequent Traxx in those days. No one did The Hustle like me. I did such a fabulous Bump I sent several people to the hospital. In Saturday Night Fever Travolta slid across the dance floor and everyone gasped. Travolta stole that from me. I was sliding across dance floors long before John Travolta had even heard of disco.

Not that it matters. People gasped at all my moves. I bounced off walls, swung and swayed from the disco ball, and once even danced in my gold-glitter underpants. You can imagine the commotion that caused. Screaming women had to be physically removed from the premises. For some women, seeing a person like me in underpants is far too intense. They can’t handle it and have to vacate the area for their own protection.

When I strutted in wearing my five-inch heels, with my nine-inch collar framing my bare chest and my gold necklace with its “I ™ Disco” logo – I was the first to use the heart symbol to signify the word “love,” by the way – it was like a bolt of lightning had struck the dance floor. People got out of my way fast.

The moment I heard the music, I was consumed. My feet, hips and booty could not be controlled. “Boogie Wonderland” drove me absolutely insane. I’d shake it, pound it and swivel it ‘til everyone shouted for mercy. It was as if a machine – a dancing machine – had possessed me and taken over body and soul, like in The Exorcist.

I’d punctuate my moves with frequent hollers of “Dyno-mite!,” the catchphrase popularized by the superstar Jimmie Walker on the show Good Times. I’d also cause quite the stir by pointing mid-boogie to a group of women who’d be watching me and I’d yell, “Dyno-mite, ladies!” And they’d laugh hard, because that’s what women do when they’re turned on in such a major fashion.

And “Disco Inferno”? Oh my God, I loved it. When the DJ played “Disco Inferno” I brought out my flaming rod. Yes, I actually danced with a flaming rod. I’d throw it up in the air and catch it in the middle of my spins. You can bet I had the dance floor to myself when “Disco Inferno” played!

I did have one mishap dancing to “Disco Inferno.” Mid-spin my heel got caught on a wad of gum, and my flaming rod hit me on the head, destroying my trademark Disco Bow, the huge, bright purple ribbon I always tied to the top of my head before going to the discotheque. I also lost most of my hair, my eyelashes, and one sideburn. But a night in the Burn Unit wasn’t about to take the dance out of me.

And I danced to ‘em all: “Rock the Boat.” “Brick House.” “Disco Lady.” I’d chirp along with the Bee Gees to “Stayin’ Alive,” and every time I danced to Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” I’d scream, “This lady’s gonna survive! This lady’s a survivor!” And don’t even ask how I’d react when Miss Donna Summer was on the turntable.

Of course it was too good to last. One night in 1979, a mob who obviously hated disco as well as sexually attractive people with a gift for dancing took me outside the discotheque and beat me to within an inch of my life. My dance career was effectively finished. Yet even now, you can still catch me unconsciously swinging my butt around as I experience flashbacks to those disco days.

[11-17-88] October 2007
Secret Squirrels

Man, why do these people send me these funky catalogs? What mailing list am I on? It must be that video I ordered last year from Publisher’s Central Bureau, The Best of Caballero Films Vol. 8. One lousy skin flick and I’m in the Spicy Adventure computer files. One lapse of taste and I’m getting Gordon Liddy’s and Gordon Gekko’s junk mail.

The latest catalog I’ve received is from Life Force Technologies Ltd. out of Aspen, Colorado. On the cover is a leather-clad killer bimbo holding a “Night Penetrator” handheld night vision viewer – “the dark holds no secrets from the Night Penetrator” – that costs eight grand and wearing a lethal Tekna dive knife strapped to her upper arm. She’s no Laura Ashley or Ann Taylor, I’ll tell you that. After scanning the rest of the catalog to find naked pictures of her (there weren’t any), I settled into examining the fine products the Life Force folks were selling.

The first thing that caught my eye was the Stress Analyzer, a little device you hide under your desk to measure your adversary’s stress level. It analyzes the voice, which under pressure sends out micro-tremors that this thing converts into numerical digits you can see on the LED readout. The higher the number, the higher the level of stress. I’m not sure what you’re supposed to do when the numbers get way up there. Scream suddenly, then move in for the kill? I don’t know. I’m not sure of the advantage of knowing another person’s nervousness level. Maybe he’ll get so nervous when he discovers you’ve been secretly analyzing his stress, he’ll shoot your ass.

I’d rather try something a little safer, like the Voice Camouflage, which will “Change Your Voice Into an Intimidating Threat” by turning it into a deep growl. Except I’d use it to call my paper boy to frighten him into delivering my Plain Dealer on time. Nothing else has worked. Children may use it, too, says the catalog, for a feeling of security while home alone. Ten-year-olds growling “Mommy and Daddy aren’t here.” Plus you can touch a button and add the sound of a terrier’s yip or the “deep-throated” bark of a Great Dane. Hell, why not a lion’s roar? I’d rig it up so if anyone called, the theme to Jaws would play as they waited for me to come to the phone. Mess with this guy and he’ll eat you alive. That’s the idea I’d try to get across.

If this stuff doesn’t do anything for you, Life Force Technologies offers other nasty little gadgets and dirty tricks. “Think of the many ways you could use the Super Ear Mini-Stethoscope system,” says the catalog, next to a photo of a guy pressing the device against a wall and listening to the conversation in the next room through an earphone. The ad copy says you can use it to “detect clocks” in luggage. Uh-huh. How about Expose, the X-Ray Spray? You spray this junk on a piece of mail and you don’t have to open it – it turns paper translucent for 30–60 seconds. Just long enough for a peek. Even their non-sneaky stuff is for tough guys. A lambskin attache: perfect for the kind of wolves who’d order spy cameras and secret tape recorders.

Well, maybe I should order some of these items. Then perhaps I could be like the Vice President of Product Develop-ment for Life Force, Doug Casey. I mean, the man has even discovered the secret to eternal youth. He did this by adding the personal Radical Shield to his daily regimen. The personal Radical Shield is an “ultra-high potency, natural antioxidant which bonds with, and eliminates, free radicals in the body. These molecules speed the aging process and inhibit DNA production. It’s simply common sense that eliminating free radicals from the body will slow down aging,” says Doug in his introductory letter on page two of the catalog. He doesn’t look so good in his picture, but at least he won’t look good for a very long time with his Personal Radical Shield, which is available, by the way, for only 37 bucks for a 28-day supply.

Yeah, I should order some. Then I can get out of this minnow pond and start swimming with the sharks.

September 2007
Aging anxieties

I don’t care for this getting old business. When I was young, I didn’t think about getting old. Now that it’s happening ... well, I don’t like it, that’s all. Make it stop.

I don’t like it that I can’t remember things anymore. I don’t like that I could lose my balance and fall over at any moment. I don’t like that I put blubber on so easily and can’t get it off. I don’t like that not only am I not getting any wiser with age, but quite noticeably more stupid.

I know what you’re thinking. “Quit whining. Everyone gets old.”

This is my column and I’ll whine if I want to! Go to hell!

That’s another thing. I also don’t like it that I’m becoming more irritable.

You say, “This is all perfectly natural. You’re aging, so of course you’re going to get fat, crabby and stupid, forget stuff and fall over. What you’re really afraid of is facing your own mortality.”

I’m not afraid of facing my mortality. I’m afraid of facing the end of my mortality.

I’m certainly not afraid of dying or, more precisely, the actual state of being dead. I don’t think I’ll mind it. Either I’ll be flapping my wings somewhere nice, or I won’t be doing anything. As for reincarnation: skip it. With my luck I’d come back as a stinking olive or a motorboat or something.

Here’s what I’m afraid of: If things go as I expect them to, my final years will be filled with humiliation, degradation, and utter misery. That’s if I have some money saved up. If I don’t ... well, that’s off the charts.

Some might see this as somewhat of a pessimistic take. But I’ve always been kind of a “expect the worst and you’ll never be disappointed” guy.

“Just what do you expect is going to happen?” you ask.

I don’t know what’s going to happen. I know what I imagine.

I imagine arthritis so bad that I’ll need a rocket booster to get to “shuffle.” I imagine gallstones, kidneys shutting down like clockwork, uncontrollable flatulence, adult diapers, eyesight so bad it would make Mr. McGoo chuckle and as my main fashion accessories an oxygen tank and a tube up my nose. Beyond that, I figure to be the very picture of health.

I’m a bit more concerned with my mental status. If you’ve read this far, you’ve probably surmised I’m already about three bricks shy of a load. That’s all right. The best case scenario for my old age is kind of an endearing dottiness, where I’m merely eccentric and dodder around the house like an old English guy, and the worst I’d do is absent-mindedly brush my teeth with shampoo or put shaving cream under my arm pits.

The scenario I’m not too excited about is getting old, senile and just plain crazy, leering at young women in halter tops, having fits at fast food restaurants, taking off my shirt at discount drug stores and driving cars into buildings. Then being put into some kind of a home ... with a roommate. Oh Jesus! I don’t want to die with Wheel of Fortune on the tube in the background. I really don’t.

And what if I didn’t have any money? What if I became a “ward of the state”?

I don’t exactly know what that is, but it doesn’t sound good at all. In my less optimistic moments I think about being 79 and a ward of the state, spending my last years in some godforsaken room with my black socks falling down over my white shins, and an indifferent attendant ignoring my bedpan and turning the TV to Wheel of Fortune. And then glaring at me with utter contempt after I accidentally drop some lime gelatin on the floor.

He wouldn’t even bother cleaning it up, because I’m just a lowly ward of the state.

I look at it this way. If none of this comes to pass, just think how delighted I’ll be.

July 2007
Betsy's Paralegal

I was talking to my ma the other day, and she gave me some news about my sister Betsy, who’s a lawyer with a practice in a little town in Washington. Betsy’s lone paralegal quit, so now she’s looking for another one.

After I hung up the phone, it hit me. Why don’t I be Betsy’s paralegal! What a marvelous opportunity to weasel my way into the legal profession. Betsy can teach me law, and then my brother-in-law Joel, who’s a circuit court judge, can teach me judging. I should be able to pick it up in a week or two. I enjoy journalism as a career, but you have to be realistic. If I combine my lawyer and judge salary with my humor column salary — well, you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure it out. I’ll be sitting pretty.

I’ll make it clear to Betsy right off the bat that my first love is what we attorneys term homicide law. I’ll tell her to put me on all her murder cases. In my role as paralegal, I’ll track down homicide witnesses and interrogate them, or perhaps go undercover and infiltrate a suspected murderer’s home or office. I’ll be sure to pack heat, like that guy on Perry Mason.

“What if some of these Washington mugs try to get cute with you?” you ask. This is a small town. All I’ll have to do is snarl, “I’m Betsy’s paralegal,” and they’ll cooperate, don’t you worry about it. They’ll fold up like a 12-dollar accordion. I’m in from Cleveland, baby. I’ll show them how paralegals operate in the big city. I’ll show them in-your-face paralegaling!

Of course, all my legwork is merely pre-court appearance preparation. I’ll also help Betsy with “briefs,” which are the folders lawyers bring into court to show the judge before the trial begins. A brief has to contain all the necessary information so the judge can take it home, read it as he drinks his evening bourbon and decide on a ruling. Or, if there’s a jury, overrule them if they “fudge the verdict,” which happens a good 65 percent of the time. It’s a very complicated process which I can’t hope to fully explain here, but my primary role of paralegal is to help Betsy nail the real murderer, who is usually sitting in the courtroom.

As we do expose the murderer, we have to be prepared he’ll try to make a quick exit through the courtroom window. “You got a gun, you can pop him,” you say. Hey, this isn’t the Wild West. There are sheriff deputies and bailiffs to take care of that stuff. A paralegal’s duties are confined to bringing killers to justice, nothing more. Besides, Betsy and I aren’t exactly spring chickens anymore. We can’t be chasing miscreants around the town square, potting at them with revolvers. You have to let the rest of the legal system do its job by sending these people up the river or giving them a ride on Old Sparky or what-have-you.

Besides, this is where Joel comes in. After a year or so of paralegaling, I’d like to become a judge. Ironically, as a magistrate I’ll have less power to choose what cases I work on than I did as a paralegal. Where as a paralegal I could work on sexy murders, drug busts and interstate kidnappings, as a judge I’ll have to rule on whatever comes before me.

This being a small town, these cases could run from anything to juvenile delinquents terrorizing citizens with snowballs to divorce and probate beefs. “What’s a probate beef?” you ask. That’s what happens when a person dies, and then his or her family argues about the will. As judge, you get to tell everyone what they inherit from the dead person, using your legal acumen to decide stuff if the will gets murky. For example, if the will states “I leave Herbert my real estate holdings,” you have to determine which holdings Herbert gets, and which holdings you get. I mean, you’re not doing this for free.

I’ve already called Betsy to share my ideas with her. She interrrupted me midway to tell me that she’s doesn’t generally do homicides, but nevertheless she’d “review” my resume and get back to me “sometime in the near future.” I also wanted to rap with Joel about the judging game, but Betsy said he wasn’t home (although when I called, I thought I heard his voice in the background say “What’s that wack job want now?” It must have been the TV).

In any event ... see you in court!

[10-26-89] June 2007
You're Fired

During this past layoff at the paper, I thought I would do some freelance writing and make a little extra cash.

I intended to work several hours a day and write articles to make the people howl with excitement.

I didn’t, of course. With so much free time in the day there was no way I could get anything done. I couldn’t get anything done in the morning, because I had to take an hour-and-a-half walk. When I returned from the walk it was 11:30, and I spent a half-hour thinking about lunch, a half-hour eating, and a half-hour digesting. I couldn’t get anything done in the afternoon, because I spent the afternoons in research, which meant reading magazines and watching TV. By 3:30, I had to think about taking my nap, a siesta lasting from 4 to 5 p.m. And when I awoke from my nap it was almost time for the TV news report, which I prepared for by reading more magazines and wandering around the apartment. And, of course, after 6 p.m. is evening, a time for relaxation. So very little got written.

Another problem was that I couldn’t think of anything good to write about when I did think about it. My best idea was a story about Zsa Zsa Gabor, on trial for smacking a Beverly Hills police officer. My theory was that the police officer mistook her for her sister, Eva Gabor, and had made an ill-advised comment about Eva’s TV show, Green Acres, not knowing that references to Green Acres enraged Zsa Zsa, who flew into fits at the mere mention of this CBS situation comedy that kept Eva, not Zsa Zsa, in the public eye. But that’s as far as I got with it.

Another idea I was temporarily excited about was a story concerning a fellow running for mayor of Cleveland who held his own left buttock as he campaigned, this representing his political trademark, like JFK twisting his suit button. Then the buttock-holding candidate lost in the primary, far behind Ralph Perk, Jr. I felt this was a good idea but maybe not saleable.

This was the trouble with most of my freelance writing ideas. They weren’t practical. I spent a lot of time thinking about one idea I knew couldn’t pan out, but I kept thinking about it anyway instead of getting down to real work. It was after I saw a TV commercial with the Pillsbury Doughboy, a revolutionary spot wherein the Doughboy is lying on a chaise lounge asleep or perhaps dozing. Usually, as you know, the Doughboy is poked in the stomach by a human finger and chuckles delightedly. This time, the hand that usually gives him the poke has mercy and covers him with a blanket. When I saw this commercial I took all sorts of notes and paced the room with all kinds of thoughts about the Doughboy and if he really liked being poked. It was a big waste of time. You don’t make any money with ideas like that.

More than the bad ideas, though, was the lack of discipline. Writers are supposed to sit down and write no matter what, which is what I told myself, boss to employee. As an employee I only half-listened to this, smoking a cigarette, watching the clock, impatiently waiting to punch out so I could go home and take that nap we discussed earlier. Or I’d go on missions to Revco that were really just evasions of responsibility. I spent far more time at Revco looking at shaving needs than I did working. I compared Barbasol to Edge when I should have been whipping that Gabor piece into shape. I hung around the Duracell display instead of banging out those dynamite stories that would turn American literature upside down, set it on its ear, redefine it. Instead of making literary history I was messing around in dry goods.

I began to see that this was not the formula for success. I decided to take a good hard look at myself. This yawning fellow was not on the fast track to financial freedom with all the napping, crummy story ideas, and trips to Revco. So I said to myself, “I’m afraid your services are no longer needed here. Thank you and best of luck in the future.”

[5-3-89] May 2007
Hello, I must be going

When you’re leaving, I’m not going to hug you, cry and whisper “I’m no good at good-byes” like they do on TV. I’m very good at good-byes. From me you’ll get a wave and a simple “so long” with maybe a ciao, sayonara or vaya con Dios thrown in. No, I’m usually glad to see you leave so I can go about my business, which is usually not much, but it is mine. And though I enjoy being with people, being by myself involves a lot less strain. So. . . bye! See you later! I’ll call you! Take care!

No, for me it’s the hellos that are hard. When I first meet someone, I’m supposed to shake hands and say my name. My name doesn’t seem like it would be hard to pronounce, but it is. People think I say “Art” or “Ed” or “Mark.” I’m embarrassed when older guys in suits stick out their hands and say “How you doing, Art.” I think they want my name to be Art or Ed, good business names. On the other hand, some women hear my name as “Derek,” which conjures up the image of a British stud in a tuxedo à la Tom Jones. I feel terrible correcting them because it was my mushmouth that led to the confusion. No one knows what to make of the name “Eric,” either. It’s not identifiable with anything. If my name was “Webster,” people could say “Like Webster Slaughter, right?” They don’t do that with “Eric.” No one has the slightest bit of fun with “Eric.”

I can’t remember other peoples’ names, either. That kind of information flies immediately out the windows of my mind. I can remember your face, your problems, your idiosyncracies, your hopes, your dreams, your desires, but I probably can’t remember your name. Many people mistake my embarrassment with unfriendliness when I pass by them and give them a stiff “Hey, how you doing.” I’m ashamed that I can’t remember their name, so I look pained. Sometimes I don’t even say “Hey how you doing” when I think of all that could go wrong in mid-greeting. To compensate I try to smile, but I never get a full one out because I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be doing, so it comes out more like a grimace. In other words, when I pass most people, they either think I’m hostile or that I’ve got appendicitis or a spastic colon. I’m far from being a hail-thee-fellow-well-met.

And when I get to know people better, then I have to worry about hugging them. I don’t believe in hugging out of the family, though I will make certain exceptions. But generally, hugging makes me uncomfortable. I couldn’t go on the Oscars or Grammy awards ceremonies with all that hugging. You can’t tell me that all those people know each other well enough to embrace. Why the hell should I hug Madonna or Celine Dion? It’s no different here. There’s lots of people around who believe you should hug friends or even acquaintances.

I try to avoid this. I put on an exaggerated uncoordinated act when I run into people to make them think I’m all knees and elbows, so they won’t want to hug me. I’m not saying I jump around and frighten people; I’m more subtle. I just try to look slightly off. I want my actions to say, “If you try to hug me, I’m not guaranteeing I won’t loosen a few of your teeth with my chin on the approach. I also might jab you in a tender spot. But I’m willing to hug if you feel we absolutely have to.” Most people leave me alone when I give off these vibes. I can spot others who use the same strategy to avoid hugging, and I feel a special kinship with them. We look at each other in relief, knowing that neither of us are huggers and we can stop fretting, at least for the moment. But we both know that there’s always going to be somebody who’s going to want to hug in the future, so there’s always going to be something to dread.

Yes, good-byes are easy, and the rest is hard. So good-bye.

April 2007
How To Be Witty: Phrases to make you sound S-M-A-R-T

This will improve your life tenfold, so you’d better read it. Your social life is a joke because you haven’t mastered the simple art of conversation.

You’re a conversational slug. Forget all the other theories on improving your word power. You can use big words and still sound like a lout. Remember Howard Cosell?

Employ these stock phrases and you will sound witty, vibrant and cultured.

• “Ah’ve always depended on the kindness of strangers”: This is a line by big-deal playwright Tennessee Williams. Say it if someone offers to buy you a drink or a bag of nuts, or anything. It’s from A Streetcar Named Desire, the story of a southern woman and a Polish man, if anyone should ask.

• “Ah! Paradise Lost, no?”: Say this if someone should mention they broke up their marriage, lost their job, etc. It’s from a long, long poem about the devil written by John Milton. He’s dead, so don’t talk about him as if he weren’t, i.e., “He’s a real good poet from England, you bet.”

• “Et tu, Brute”: When the situation calls for a philosophical remark about betrayal, this baby fills the bill. It’s from Julius Caesar, a play by dramatic heavyweight William Shakespeare. Pronounce Brute Brewtay, not Broot, like the cologne.

• “Now wait a minute”: The key to this one is to say it like Jack Benny: “Now WAIT a minute!” It’s always funny, and you can say it anytime. (SPOUSE: I want a divorce. YOU: Now WAIT a minute!) It’s charming and shows that you’re a little bit wacky. If you can’t sound like Jack Benny, forget this one.

• “How Kafka-esque”: This little gem is appropriate when someone is telling you of problems with the authorities, such as the police, small claims court, or the phone company. (YOUR FRIEND: Hey, the phone company turned off my phone without warning me, and when I try to call them, the line’s always busy! YOU: How Kafka-esque.) Kafka was a Bohemian writer who dealt exclusively with such stuff.

• “Fiddle-dee-dee! I’ll think about it tomorrow”: Scarlett O’Hara said this in Gone With The Wind. It’s a good line to use at work. When your boss assigns you a task, just say this to display an attractive take-it-or-leave-it attitude that will impress your co-workers.

• “Cast a cold eye/ On life, on death/ Horseman, pass by”: Use this in any situation. It’s from a poem by Irish rhymesmith William Butler Yeats. (YOUR FRIEND: How you doing, anyway? YOU: Cast a cold eye, etc.) Finish up with the quote by saying “Yeats, of course.” And it’s Yates, not Yeets.

• “I tell you, it’s a whole different sex!”: Jack Lemmon said this to Tony Curtis in Some Like It Hot, and he was describing women. Naturally, women can use it to describe men. Very sophisticated.

• “Frankly, I thought it uninspired”: This little sweetheart is perfect in any conversation concerning movies, music, theater, books – any of the arts. (YOUR FRIEND: Hey, didja see Porky’s II? It cracked me up! YOU: Frankly, I thought it uninspired.) You will be regarded as a person disturbed by the absence of quality in the art world, and that equals s-m-a-r-t.

• “Mea culpa, mea culpa”: Latin for “my fault, my fault.” When you’re caught in some bonehead move, this is much better than “whoops” or “ho-boy” or “holy jeez.” You won’t compound your infraction with a knucklehead response. (YOUR BOSS: Jenkins, you lost us the TRW account! YOU: Ah, mea culpa, mea culpa), and chuckle suavely.

• “It’s just good old-fashioned pork barrel politics”: You can sum up any shenanigans in City Council with this one. (YOUR FRIEND: Hey, I hear Councilman Druthers used our city tax to buy himself a private jet! YOU: It’s just good old-fashioned pork barrel politics.) Always good because nobody really knows what it means.

• “I’ll take the Fifth on that”: A witty way to deflect unpleasant questions. From the Constitution. (SPOUSE: You’re seeing someone on the side aren’t you? Aren’t you!! YOU: I’ll take the Fifth on that.) Say this as gaily as possible, and everything will be just fine.

[1-26-94] March 2007
Cry of the Timberwolf

In winter I’m generally as tough and adaptable as a Minnesota Timberwolf, but this year a combination of factors has made it difficult for me. And though, like the Timberwolf, I usually suffer in silence, as a member of the media I feel it’s my duty and obligation to reveal how sick I feel so that maybe my experiences can help others.

Like everyone, I currently have a head cold. However, mine traveled up from my chest to my sinuses. As any doctor will tell you, colds normally travel down, dripping from your sinus passages into your lungs. This dripping forms a puddle in your lungs, causing what we close to the medical profession call congestion.

The congestion in your lungs makes you feel like coughing, but often your coughing just causes the puddle to splash around in there. It’s non-productive coughing. That’s why you need an expectorant (from the root word “expectorate,” or “to spit it all up”). You want to spit the puddle up and out, whereupon you can then go on about your business.

You ask, how does an expectorant work? Well, it’s a little like the scrubbing bubbles in basin, tub and tile cleaner. The cough syrup somehow knows to slide down into your lungs instead of into your stomach, where it then breaks up the congestion into tiny particles of what we call sputum. It’s got foaming action. And, if it’s worth a damn, it will make you drowsy.

Unhappily, recent advances in the expectorant field have made it possible to take cough syrup without feeling drowsy. I always make it a point to buy expectorant carrying the drowsiness warning on the box, because if you’re home, and it’s nighttime, drowsy’s good.

However, the stuff I just bought didn’t have the drowsiness warning – and yet it didn’t carry a “non-drowsy formula” banner on the box. I assume cough syrup will make you drowsy unless explicitly told otherwise. I felt that perhaps the drowsiness warning was left off in an oversight – or maybe not an oversight. Maybe it was the old bait and switch: to get you to buy their cough syrup they don’t tell you it will make you drowsy, and you take it at the beginning of the day. Then you find yourself at work, expectorating and nodding out.

But what these cough syrup people didn’t understand was, I was willing to play along. You don’t have to tell me it will make me drowsy . . . just as long as it does. I outwitted myself in this matter. I overthought the whole thing. My congestion was broken up, but I wasn’t properly narcotized.

You say, “You really had a bad experience with that cough syrup.” Yes, but you don’t know the half of it. After I took the cough syrup my cold traveled to my sinuses, the expectorant doing its work too well, with the sputum traveling up into my sinuses. The laws of gravity had once again let me down, unless I had unwittingly been on an incline during this period. But who gives much thought to the positioning of their heads and feet during the day? We’re all far too busy for that – especially me, with my executive-type management duties.

To battle this I took allergy pills. I bought a brand new bottle of pills to replace the (open) bottle of pills I had accidentally knocked into the toilet. The pills had then met an even worse fate in that particular facility due to my not paying attention to the havoc I was wreaking upon them until it was too late. Without going into specifics I will candidly say these pills were ruined on every conceivable level.)

But it didn’t matter, because these pills didn’t have sufficient nasal-passage-shrinking power anyway. I was mouthbreathing in bed, the dry heat parching my throat, so I got up and squirted nasal spray in my nose. This prescription nasal spray had expired in March of 1993, but what could I do? The stuff barely had the pep to make it out of the dispenser but it still had enough scrubbing action to clear one nostril.

Now I’m going back to the drug store to buy fresh nasal spray and something that will knock me out. I’m going for one that says on the box “May cause marked drowsiness.” Marked, there’s your key word.

[11-3-93] February 2007
Fabio and I On Love

As I listened to the CD Fabio After Dark, a collection of brief discourses on romance by the long-haired Italian supermodel (alternating with songs by established artists), I felt his views on love deserve amplification and commentary. I will present his remarks followed by my own, which should essentially cover the subject for you.

Buon giorno. I’m Fabio. An’ I’m vary interested in what makes romance work. I want to share wif you my recipe for a perfect evening ... Wan I plan a date, I want to make sure dat everything is perfect for us. Music is de mos’ important thing to set the mood for the night ... A song can speak for me wan I cannot put my feelings into words. I listen to a solo and I think of a duet. Wan it’s dark, I turn on the music, I light the candles. Thar is no timetable for us for a fantasy that we will make come true. – “Fabio: About Romance”

What Fabio is saying here is that he sets things up before a date by lighting a few candles and putting a special song on the hi-fi. And the song isn’t something uptempo like “The Yellow Rose of Texas” or “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” it’s slow and romantic – like “Wind Beneath My Wings.” When Fabio says “I listen to a solo and I think of a duet,” he’s not being literal, he just means when the music’s going he’s thinking about sex. Then he removes his shirt and it’s off to the races.
I would add that you also might want to serve tortilla chips and dip.

[Breathlessly] I can be vary shy when I first meet a woman. But I’ll always dream of learning her secrets. First I look into her eyes ... Thar is a quality in a woman’s eyes that show more than her physical being. It reveal her tanderness, and passion. Her inner beauty. I loff to take her anyplace I can devote all my attention to her. It can be a corner of our li’l ressrunt, it can be in front of my fireplace, [whispering] curled up, together. – “Fabio: On Inner Beauty”

Fabio can tell a lot about a woman by her eyes, which he shyly looks into before going to a restaurant. I don’t quite understand why he goes on about her eyes revealing her tenderness and passion, then immediately jumps into talking about going to a restaurant. I guess he takes the woman to the restaurant, looks into her eyes and sees if it’s all right to ask her to go to his fireplace where they can then curl up.

I like to take a special lady to a ceenema whar we can hold hands in de dark and wheesper vary quietly about what we see. I wonder: Will she kees me ... like dat? Will I always be de hero of her life? I wish there were more romantic feelms, because romantic feelms can lead to beautiful adventures after we leave de theater. – “Fabio: On Films”

Here’s where Fabio and I seriously disagree. I don’t believe you should talk at the movies, even “very quietly,” because that drives me nuts. I go to very few movies because inconsiderate people like Fabio are whispering at their dates. While he’s worrying about being a hero and if he’s going to get kissed, I’m trying to enjoy the movie, and I can’t because he’s babbling. If Fabio wants to whisper at his date he should rent a video from Blockbuster and do it at home.

There is no place I’d rather be than on a tro-o-pical island. We seem to have it all to ourselves ... just me an’ my special lady. There are no ... phones ... to intrude on us. Feesh from de water ... froots on de trees ... an’ wahnderful silence. The only sounds we hear are de sound of nature ... and of our hearts ... beating as one. – “Fabio: On Tropical Islands”

Fabio would like to spend time with his date on an island, where no one’s calling him on the phone trying to get him to subscribe to magazines or take out insurance on his credit card. Amen to that. I’m not too crazy about his fish idea as I assume he’d eat the fish, which is no treat, believe me. What’s he going to do, wade out in the ocean and catch fish with his hands? Please. I’m concerned about the fruits on the trees, because I don’t think islands have normal-type fruits like apples or peaches. I’d rather bring food. Some deviled ham, maybe. I also think wonderful silence would pall after a while, so I’d bring a short-wave radio so I could listen to a little sports talk. But that’s just me.

January 2007
The Old Grocery Guy

My wife Barbara and I were standing by the celery at our local supermarket when an elderly gentleman rolled his cart up to us.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said to me. “Do you allow your daughter here to accept candy from strangers?”

He then handed Barbara a piece of hard candy, which she looked at in confusion.

“You get one too,” he said, and gave me a piece. I thanked him, and the old man said, “Did you hear about the Amish hooker? She had 10 men a night. Oh, I’m sorry, that’s terrible,” and he walked away.

I popped the candy in my mouth and Barbara gave me hers, evidently fearing that this could be the gift of an escaped sociopath from a home for the criminally insane attempting to murder strangers with poisoned candy. I ate her piece as well because, sociopath or no, I was hongry. (They were good, too, little butterscotch affairs, and save for a minor bout of diarrhea later I suffered no ill effects.)

This old fellow really inspired me. A little song, a little dance, a little seltzer down your pants. The incident made me completely rethink my thoughts about the kind of elderly guy I could be.

I’d always assumed I’d be a miserable old fart, sullen and withdrawn, snarling at small children. Get away from there. If you break that your parents will pay for it in full, I promise you. But it doesn’t have to be that way. I could be creative and put all this negative energy I have to work making people happy, going up to them and telling them jokes in questionable taste. The man in the supermarket proved it can be done!

What I do have to remember is that I can’t do this now. It’s one thing to have a lovable, Gramps-looking gentleman with a cane in his shopping cart approach you and offer you candy and a dirty joke; it’s totally different if it’s a middle-aged stocky goateed guy. Then we’re talking possible arrest and jail time. But there’s nothing wrong in planning for the future.

All right, I’m 79 years old and I’m in the supermarket. I’ve got a few items in my cart: bran, Beano, rubber tips for my cane, Depends, whatever. By that time my evil-looking goatee would be long gone, and so would the rest of my hair for that matter. I’ll have a bushy white mustache and be wearing eyeglasses. Think Wilford Brimley with a larger snout.

And instead of that dyspeptic look I always figured I’d have, I’ll be smiling and have a twinkle in my eye. I’ll have to work on the smile and the twinkle because as of now, it cannot be done. I’ve tried to twinkle at myself in the mirror, but all that happens is my eyes tear up. Barbara tells me I need to smile more, but when I try, she says, “Never mind.” It doesn’t matter, I can certainly master this crap over the next 30 years.

All right, say you’re a young married couple. You’re in the supermarket, standing by the margarine, inspecting a tub of Fleishmann’s. Suddenly you feel the bony finger of an old man tapping you on the shoulder. That bony finger is me!

“Excuse me,” I say. “Is this margarine party by invitation only?”

“What?” you say.

“I brought the drinks,” I say, handing each person a little bottle of airline vodka. Hard candy might have been OK for the guy we ran into, but I like to splurge. “Here’s looking up your old address,” I say, draining my bottle of vodka. “Say, did you hear the one about the hooker who only liked a certain kind of margarine? It was the high-priced spread. Oh, that’s bad, I’m sorry.” I’ll smile and twinkle at you, then roll my cart away.

Man, this is going to be great. The hell with waiting. Why should old folks have all the fun?

[10-28-92] December 2006
Adult Meat: and other tantalizing supermarket positions to dream about

My local supermarket is now hiring. I got the memo through a flyer I picked up at the store. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for.

The flyer says there are full- and part-time positions available in Adult Bakery, Adult Deli, Adult Produce and Adult Meat. “We are looking for friendly customer service oriented people,” the ad says.

I am so their man it’s not even funny.

I dig ’em all, each and every grocery department. I could be a floater, zipping from bakery to deli to produce to meat, helping PEOPLE at each counter, and freelancing in the aisles, too. Customer service is my middle name. I’m not kidding about this. I’ll serve you ’til you beg for mercy!

I’m happy to shelve, slice, scan, load, unload, bag, whatever you need. But I really need to be let at the customers.

“Hello, how may I fulfill your deli needs today?” That’s what I’ll say standing behind the counter, deli hat rakishly tilted on my head. “What number you got?” Pulling the little cord or whatnot to get to the next number. “Eighty-four? Eighty-five? Eighty-six? Who’s got eighty-six?” I’m rehearsing this as we speak.

“A pound of the Sara Lee maple ham? Good call. Sliced wafer-thin? Good call again. I like to ball it up and suck on it between my tongue and upper palate. Get every bit of that sweet maple pig juice! That’s the ticket. Anything else? Can I interest you in a pound of Swiss for even more deliciousness? No? Okay, move along, move along. Eighty-seven, eighty-eight, eighty-nine.” Friendly, but efficient. No number, no deli, no nonsense. That’s how it’s going down at Adult Deli when I’m there.

On my days in Adult Produce, I’ll wander through, stocking the fruits and vegetables and make helpful remarks. “Not that one.” Or “Don’t store that with your other citrus, it’s a troublemaker.” Or “That may funk up your Nice N’ Fresh drawer.”

I’ll juggle red and green bell peppers to amuse the tots riding in the carts and playfully toss cherry tomatoes and radishes at the small fry driving the little red cars. Who says fruits and vegetables can’t be fun? That’s the message I’ll be sending the youngsters.

To further entertain, when I’m working the cereal aisle, I’ll sing commercial jingles from the past to correspond with what I’m stocking. Made with real fruit avor-flay, for breakfast or for acking-snay … oot-Fray Oops-Lay! … So all ashore that’s going ashore, get Captain Crunch at your grocery store! … Snap! What a happy sound, snap is the happiest sound I’ve found … K-E-Double-L, O Double-Good, Kellogg’s best to you! … Cinnamon TOAST CRUNCH! Really holler that last one to make the shoppers jump. Ha ha!

“Maybe you should just get a job as a grocery clown,” you say.

Listen, I understand there’s a time for fun, for lying down in the freezer case, pretending to be a corpse among the DiGiorno pizzas. That’s a given, that’s normal grocery hi-jinks. But I’ll take my Adult department duties seriously, make no mistake.

For example, I’ll determine just how many pastries, cookies, cakes, pies and other sweets it’s kosher to sell while I’m working Adult Bakery. Obesity in America is a serious issue and I have a responsibility to not enable.

“I think two apricot Danish are plenty for today, dear. No, the pound cake isn’t for sale … no, dear. No, the chocolate éclairs aren’t available today … no, no, no.” Knowing, of course, they may do an end-around and snatch up some Krispy Kremes or Little Debbies, but they won’t overindulge from my shop.

Sure, I’ll encounter some initial resistance – a little whining here, a little complaining to the manager there – but I’m looking out for my bakery customer’s waistline, and she’ll thank me in the long run. When milady’s peering down at that pleasing number on her bathroom scale, she’ll think, “I’m glad the Adult Bakery Stallion saved me from myself yet again. He’s a winner, and now so am I.”

The possibilities are endless. As a shopper, I can barely refrain from dispensing unsolicited grocery advice to my fellow customers now. To be paid to do it? Oh. My. God.

[10-28-92] November 2006
My congressional campaign speech

I know it’s a little late, but I’ve decided to run for the congressional seat in my district. I don’t know which district it is exactly, but one of my first acts as your congressman will be to find out. And I won’t rest until I do – you can depend on that.

The reason I’ve decided to run is many-faceted. The first facet is that I care about people. As a congressman I will stand up for my constituents. No corporate or special interests will dictate to me how I’ll vote on the issues. Gifts? Perks? Junkets? Special privileges? Sure, I’ll take them. But when it gets down and dirty on that congressional floor, I’ll do the right thing for the people I represent. That’s a promise – from me . . . to you. (Here I’ll point at audience, my other hand placed on my thrust-out hip, my campaign trademark.)

The second facet is that I want to help people I care about. What good is caring if you don’t help those whom you care about? I’m going to help my constituents; just see if I don’t. If I don’t, you’ll know the reason why! I won’t hide under my desk or behind the sofa or take a quick trip to another state. I’ll be there if you want to complain, or whine, or give me a hard time. I’ll be there for you. If the line’s busy, just keep trying. If I’m not there, I’ll be there later. Just leave a message. I’ll get back to you. Count on it. (Pointing again.)

Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, is I want to be an instrument for change. Change is a hard thing. It involves risk.

It involves daring. It involves turning old notions on their heads and trying new ideas.

That won’t be necessary with me. I can implement change without all that risk stuff. How? With people. That’s right. With you! With my constituents. You’ve had enough of us in the Congress telling you what’s what, and what’s best for you. What we need are congresspersons who listen to their constituents; I mean really listen. This is what I plan to do. I’m going to perk up my ears, put them to the rail, and wait for that train that’s the voice of the people to come rolling into the station. When it pulls in, my head will be on that rail, listening. So . . . all aboard . . . for improved service in your congressional district! All aboard for change! Woo, woo! (Here pantomiming pulling a train whistle.)

But what are my programs? What are my plans to improve health care, produce jobs in the private and public sector, stimulate growth, and relieve the gridlock in Washington that prevents so many fine plans from being implemented?

I have a Four-Point Plan – a Five-Point Plan, if you count private and public sector job production as two separate things, because there are two different sectors, but originally I thought of it as one big thing: job production. But they wouldn’t give them different names if they weren’t different things, correct? The way I see it is, public sector jobs are like jobs in government agencies, and private sector jobs are say, jobs in art galleries. You can rest assured one of my priorities as your congressman will be to find out the difference between the two, and let you know as soon as I do. Promise. (Point, hip thrust.)

At any rate, Four-Point or Five-Point, take your pick. I don’t have time to get into specifics, but let me just say that each point – whether it be the First or Second or Third or Fourth (or Fifth, depending on which program you prefer) – will be given equal attention by me and my staff. We’re not going to spend months on the First point and then, because we run out of time, not get to the Second or Third. That’s not the way I’m going to do things. Why? Because that’s not the way you do things. You don’t run your household that way. If you did, you’d be out of a job. The least your congressman can do is budget his time and delegate his responsibilities so his points can be implemented, the way you do at your home and business. Who says we congresspersons can’t learn anything from our constituents? (Laughing warmly here.)

Please consider voting for me on November 7. Because, really, a vote for me is a vote for yourself. And I think yourself is a pretty good person to run this district. (Nodding sagely as I walk off stage to thunderous applause.)

[3-7-85] October 2006
The Auto Answer Man
Natural healing for living vehicles

Illustration by Kirk Anderson

Dear Auto Answer Man:
Does a whining under the hood indicate a serious problem, or is that to be expected in a 6-year-old car? The whining presents itself upon acceleration from a full stop and continues for 10 seconds or so. Any suggestions?
L.V., Cleveland
Dear L. V.:
The whining sound you hear is known as “the ghost in the machine,” and this means precisely what you might think: a profound spiritual anxiety in the chasis. A gentle lubrication – with safflower oil, baking soda and natural herbs – applied to the undercarriage will soothe the offending living metals.

Dear Auto Answer Man:
How best to jump a battery, negative to negative or negative to ground?
P.W., Solon
Dear P.W.:
To please your electrical system in its natural housing, the cable should be grounded to the vehicle with the temporarily unliving battery. And isn’t it wonderful how two vehicles can share life and breath with each other in this way: heart to beating heart. Would that humanity could live this lesson.

Dear Auto Answer Man:
What are some fuel alternatives to gasoline? I will not give the oil conglomerates another penny.
S.S., Brunswick
Dear S.S.:
Bravo, S.S.! There are many other earth sources for fuel. I’ve been running my car for years on a mixture of baking soda, reconstituted lemon juice, Colt 45 malt liquor and beeswax. For the precise ratio of these ingredients, please send me $20 in care of this newspaper.

Dear Auto Answer Man:
How do I bleed my brakes at home?
A.L., Chagrin Falls
Dear A.L.:
Do not refer to this process as “bleeding.” It brings to mind the primitive medical practice of leeching a human being in illness, when herbs were – and are – sufficient to cure sickness. Brakes have a difficult enough task to perform in your automobile and are among the most stressed of all mechanisms. Therefore, to clear air out of their lifelines, we liberate the hydraulic fluids from them. It is a beautiful and relaxing experience for your brakes and should be celebrated.

Dear Auto Answer Man:
My car – my good friend – is on its last legs, and I don’t have the heart to sell it and see it with another owner. The car was me; I was the car; I saw the world through its eyes, and it mine. How should I deal with this?
R.V., Cleveland
Dear R.V.:
There comes a time when beings separate and become two, and you must accept this inevitability. Your car feels your presence, and will continue to, even as it is compressed into nothingness at the junkyard. Celebrate its life, not its end; light candles and incense and feel, feel.

Dear Auto Answer Man:
How do I keep my alternator drive belt supple?
B.W. , Cleveland
Dear B.W.:
Perhaps the most erotic of all your automobile’s belts, the alternator drive mechanism feels best when fed with patchouli oil.

Dear Auto Answer Man:
Should I polish my car in a clockwise, or counter-clockwise motion?
T.T., Cleveland Heights
Dear T. T.:
First I must ask what kind of polish you use: Turtle Wax – which, did you know, uses the essence of real turtles in its composition – or organic polish derived from any number of plants that need not be uprooted to obtain their essences. Boycott Turtle Wax and use my polish, which you can obtain by sending me $20 in care of this paper, and your car will feel nature polishing it instead of the blood of turtles.

Dear Auto Answer Man:
My power steering chatters when I make a hard turn. My mechanic tells me the repair is not costly, but I’d rather do it myself. Is there a way?
O.M., Lakewood
Dear O.M.:
As in any human matter, there’s always a way! When your power steering – or as I call it, “fortified guide” – chatters, it canmean but one thing: time for an herbal balm! My Fortified Guide Herbal Balm can be massaged into the steering column by anyone from 8 to 80, and is available at NAPA stores statewide. The balm uses the power of the sun to generate liquid healing of the fortified guide’s nub. Try my balm on wheat-and-sprout pancakes too – delicious!

Dear Auto Answer Man:
How does a tire feel when it blows out?
C.R. , Mentor
Dear C.R.:
Profoundly depressed. The trauma of a blow-out is, to a tire, akin to the feeling of dropping dead to a human being. It is nothing to make light of, and meditation is the only course when it happens – after, of course, jacking up the car and putting on the spare.

The Cleveland Edition, 3-7-85

[9-24-87] September 2006
Dawgs

I was eating a delicious London Broil at Nighttown the other evening when it became clear I would not be able to finish. I asked the waitress for a doggie bag, and to my surprise she brought me just that. A real, old-fashioned 1954-vintage grease-proof doggie bag with superb drawings of grinning dogs on it and a little song too: “Oh where, oh where have your leftovers gone/Oh where, oh where can they be?/If you’ve had all you can possibly eat/Please bring the rest home to me!!” Now that’s good. I gazed upon this item fondly for a bit, then came to the sober realization that almost all the dogs I ever knew were not like the dogs on the bag.

The dogs I knew didn’t pant and grin and jump for joy. They were troubled or oddballs or both. Our family hasn’t owned a dog since 1961 because we went through some bad times with them. One dog, Happy, was a misfit, unable to get along with anyone or anything. The next, Jimmy, was run down soon after we got him. The final dog, a Weimaraner named Spook, bit my brother’s friend, Tommy, opening a series of doors in the house to get at him. The premeditated nature of this act forced my parents to give Spook away. We’ve been a cat family since. My sister living in Washington has a dog, but he jumps through closed windows. No one else wants to take a chance.

It was more interesting to observe neighbors’ and friends’ dogs. Both our next-door neighbors had dogs, and it was like night and day comparing them. On one side there was a collie named Laddie, who I swear was more intelligent than some of the kids I knew. This dog dripped dignity. He was owned by a distinguished German doctor, and when I’d see them walking together I’d think, “That dog likes classical music as much as the doctor does.” And that gave me a thrill.

On the other side, however, there were Tony, Pokey, and Violet. Well, first there was Tony, a nervous little pug who had asthma and a certain fondness for kids’ legs, if you catch my drift. He wasn’t bad and neither was Pokey, a nondescript mixed-breed who seemed about as average as a dog can get. But Violet . . .

Violet was put out early in the morning every day, and the neighbors’ driveway, where she was leashed, was right below my bedroom window. She was a little black dog with a real big mouth. I have never before or since heard a dog yap so ceaselessly as Baby Violet did. She emitted a piercing “Ike” sound, and she went with it. It was unbelievable. She never shut up. Now and then our neighbor would poke his head out the back door and say “Violet! No!,” but that only kept her quiet for as long as it took him to get his head back into the house. I would lie in bed gnashing my teeth, listening to Violet every morning.

My friends’ dogs were all a little bit off, too. I felt sorry for most of them. One had a goiter and slobbered. He was nice, but I didn’t really want to deal with him. Another was a St. Bernard named Sam whom I had a healthy respect for. I feared him. While not a violent animal, he seemed easily offended. I never tried to pet him or even look at him. He also seemed to know I was a jerk, leading his young master down an unsavory path, and he looked at me weird.

I should also mention Chrissie, the arthritic dog that ate Sugar Smacks instead of conventional dog food. I felt very sorry for Chrissie, the dog that struggled up the stairs fueled only by Sugar Smacks and her own determination.

Those were the only dogs I ever really knew. To me dogs are poignant animals that make me feel slightly guilty, but maybe I’ve just been associating with the wrong ones. I like them and I like how people like them, but I’d hate to think of a dog of mine crashing through a closed window.

August 2006
Auto Erotica

It’s time to get my Ohio driver’s license renewed. This time around, I am determined to get me a hot, tight, sex-machine driver’s license photo. That means enough sleep. That means watching the intake of my slightly sedating back pain pills, too, so my mouth doesn’t fall open cretinously as the picture is snapped. That means no hangover.

I’ve been rehearsing the ideal driver’s license look in the mirror. I don’t want to be some grinning assclown, but I can’t have the imminent prostate exam appearance either. I’ll drop in some Visine right beforehand, and arch my eyebrows as the shot is taken to present the look of a suave, bemused boulevardier. You thought you’d catch my eyes at half-mast? It is not to be, mon petite cherie license bureau lady.

I’m pondering, too, whether to do a Just For Men treatment the day of the shoot. Strictly a beard-and-sideburns deal. I have to be careful not to keep the goop in too long or it’ll be the Wayne Newton thing all over again, which was really humiliating. I have to carefully calibrate the Just For Men so that the facial-hair color lands in a happy medium, somewhere between Wayne Newton and Gabby Hayes. You really have to plan for this stuff. I mean, this is the face you’ll be presenting the world for four years.

What’s notable, too, about this particular driver’s license renewal is that this is the first year I will actually use it for driving. For more than 30 years my driver’s license was strictly for ID because I had talked myself into a driving phobia. I had pretty much quit driving in my early twenties.

In youth I had a series of unfortunate events with cars, like nearly driving into the family kitchen and slamming into trees. I would drive to the neighborhood saloon and then stumble home, forgetting the car and being mystified the next morning. Now where the deuce did I leave that Cutlass?

I had vision woes, too, stemming from being unable to wear a contact lens in my left eye, thanks to a lit match head landing in there. I misjudged distances, which made maneuvering a car somewhat problematic. Especially those ’70s boats. I had a couple of crap cars that drove like busted shopping carts and often died where I parked them. I had a really bad experience with a ’68 Pontiac Catalina. I can’t even talk about it.

So I just bagged the whole driving thing, getting rides when I needed them, taking the train to work and walking everywhere. “How environmentally responsible!” you say. Nah, I was just chicken, not to mention cheap. No car or insurance payments? That’s pretty sweet. I never went anywhere, but I had plenty of cash to throw away on rockin’ albums and CDs.

But last summer I just decided to get over it. I work at Cedar and Lee and live near Shaker Square, and walking to and from work in last year’s beastly heat didn’t appeal much to me. I could see myself staggering down Coventry Road, pouring sweat, then dropping dead of a heat stroke. So I weighed the choice between death, with morgue personnel laughing at my underpants, or driving a late model air-conditioned automobile to work.

I don’t have the one-eye excuse anymore. Those pesky spatial relationships are no longer a concern with two working eyeballs.

It also dawned on me that there are a lot of dunderheads out there driving, and how could I possibly be worse at it than them?

And even if I were a lousy driver, who cares? Nobody. That’s the great liberating knowledge I’ve acquired with age. Always morbidly and cripplingly self-conscious, I find to my delight that no one gives two shits what I do or how I do it.

So I start driving and discover I’m an excellent driver. Skilled and fearless, expertly maneuvering the sedan in and out of tight spots, zipping around like Jim Rockford. As a fresh, new driver I have a unique perspective, free of years of pent-up road rage. Hello, fellow motorists! I enjoy captaining my automobile! A friendly smile and a wave of the index finger.

Also, I put rockin’ tunes in the car’s CD player and blast away. Playing loud music and hollering along while driving the car is a good time. Who knew?

[8-1-91] July 2006
The Greatest Vacation of All Time

The best part of going to the northern woods of Michigan is swimming in the green lakes up there. I get wet slowly, by wading into the lake waist-deep, then patting water on my shoulders and stomach. I may look like an old guy doing this, but isn’t that better than risking shock or perhaps instantaneous death by jumping right in? How macho is it to be lying in some small-town Michigan morgue? Not very, I’d say.

Once I’m completely submerged, I like to blow air out of my lungs and sink to the rocky bottom. I pull myself along the rocks, pretending to be a bottom feeder or a parasite. This de-evolution is very relaxing. After coming out of the water I towel off and sit in the shade and read about Nazis. Is that a vacation or what? And the birds would chirp: Foo foo fweet. Foo foo fweet. Whoop, whoop.

At night we’d go into town and walk along the pier that goes out into Lake Michigan. Then we’d walk around the harbor in town where all the cabin cruisers are docked. The people sipping cocktails on board the docked cruisers would look at us, and we’d look at them. I didn’t envy them, because I like crawling along the bottom of the lake better than sitting on top of it in a boat.

We went on boats anyway. We paid $20 each to go on a cruise on an 85-foot schooner. There was no wind, so we drifted and ate Eagle brand potato chips they sold on board. We also went rowing on a rubber dinghy, with me battling the waves with nothing but brute strength and two aluminum oars. I didn’t even get a chance to crack open my Diet Pepsi, I was so busy fighting the current like an Eskimo. Our dream of floating peacefully in the middle of the lake and drinking our pops was crushed by Mother Nature.

But they say man is more brutal than nature, and this was proven by my sister during the trip, when she asked me to move some of the house’s deck chairs when I wasn’t feeling right. “No!” you say. “Not on your vacation!” Yes. When she started moving the chairs and I just stood there she said coldly, “Will you help?” Despite the way I felt, I did. At my funeral, people would ask my sister if I died from moving things around when I wasn’t feeling right, and she’d wave her hand dismissively and say, “Nah, he was just sick.” But my gravestone would read, “He didn’t look right, but they made him work anyway, even on vacation.”

You might think the whole trip was ruined by my sister’s inconsideration, but I forgave her and continued to have fun. I’m always on the lookout for animals up in the woods, and we saw a lot of them. We saw a raccoon mother and her kids. Raccoons’ main function in life is eating garbage and giving people dirty looks for bothering them. Even the baby raccoons look bitter. Geez, if you don’t like it learn a trade, like a beaver or a woodpecker. We also saw a great strapping deer run across the driveway. “Where you going, honey!” I yelled at him. And of course we saw rabbits sitting around.

My favorites, though, were the seagulls, who are just pigeons in sailor suits but look good to me anyway. We fed them bits of ice cream cones in the harborside park in town. Gulls are garbage eaters too, but don’t have the attitude, and when you see one perched on a dock, or better, on a piece of driftwood – boy, that’s maritime. That’s nautical. And if birds could talk, gulls would never shut up. They’re hustlers, like New Yorkers: “Hey, listen, hey listen, whattya gonna do with that sugar cone? Hey listen, hey listen, throw that over here. Say, whattya got there, hey, hey.” Gulls are all right.

The entire vacation was all right. Those were just the highlights I was talking about, and you might find different kinds of fun up there in the northern woods, like water skiing, or camping, or whatever. I personally probably wouldn’t care for the activities you choose, but what the hell, I’ve had my vacation, now you have yours!

[9-30-98] June 2006
Rapping with the kids

My wife Barbara and I were sitting at the bar of a fine East Side restaurant Saturday evening when a large group of dressed-up high school kids filed in and sat down at two tables nearby. At first I was worried they’d be noisy and raucous, disturbing my dinner. But after a few Finlandias I grew misty-eyed, recalling my own high school days. After another drink, I informed Barbara that I was going over to talk to the kids, and maybe give them some advice. She said, “Uhh ...”

I walked over and placed myself between the kids’ tables. “Hi gang,” I said, raising my glass and grabbing the back of a chair for balance. “Mind if I rap with you a little bit?” I saw surprised looks and heard a few snickers. I wasn’t insulted — after all, who did this old graybeard think he was, horning in on all the Saturday night fun? But there was plenty I wanted to say to these young people.

“Kids, I know you’ve heard this before,” I began. “But as I was sitting at the bar, I thought to myself: You know, over at those tables, that’s our future. And I said to myself, I said, ‘Self, if you don’t do anything else in this life, you gotta do this. You gotta tell these kids one thing.’

“And that one thing is this: Don’t ... let ... go ... of ... your ... dreams.

“Okay, you’re laughing. I get it. Who is this guy? And why is he crashing our big party?” I waved my drink around. “It’s just that when I see your faces I see my own face. Yes, believe it or not, this old fossil standing before you went to high school too. But you want to know something? There were no activities listed under my high school yearbook picture and I regret it to this day.” I waited a moment to let the kids absorb the full impact of what I was saying.

“I didn’t do anything. No clubs, no debating team, no student newspaper, no varsity nothing. You know what I did? I watched TV. That’s right. That’s what could have been listed under my picture: ‘Watched TV.’ Not that there was cable in those days. You had 3, 5 and 8. NBC, ABC, CBS, that was your choice. On, off, that was it. Volume control ... vertical hold ... Oh, maybe we had a few UHF stations, big deal. Big deal! Don’t interrupt, son, I’m talking here.

“The point is I piddled my time away. Ski club? Drama society? Don’t make me laugh. Prom? I never even smelled the prom. Nixon was president,” I said darkly. “Richard M. Nixon. Watergate. ‘I am not a crook, I am not a crook.’ Who could blame me for retreating from the world and looking for solace where I could find it?” I chuckled sadly, and dabbed at my eye with a tissue.

“Kids, just don’t do what we did. Don’t drink Ripple and Boone’s Farm Apple Wine and smash up Dad’s car ... and for pity’s sake don’t mix gin and vodka in a flask, then chase it with MD 20/20. Jesus God! That stuff tasted like Clorox bleach. I lost my glasses that night. I was on the floor at some party screaming obscenities and woke up wallowing in dried vomit. At first I thought I had slept in corn flakes. Ah, you girls think it’s funny now, but I certainly wasn’t laughing the next day. I was crying like a baby, I had to eat saltines all day long to settle my stomach.” I wiped at my eyes again, spilling a bit of Finlandia on one of the kids.

“Are any of you girls cheerleaders? I didn’t even smell cheerleaders. I talked to them sometimes in class, but not much. No, cheerleaders were a different breed of cat, a different kettle of fish. Not the world of cheerleaders for me. Rah! Rah! School spirit? I didn’t know from school spirit. This was the Watergate era, we found our fun where we could. I know you kids like rock music. I listened to rock music too. ‘Knights in white satin ... doo doo doo doo doo doo ... and I love you, wooooo, I love you, ohhhhhhh, I love you.’ Stereo systems? On, off, volume control, that was it. Treble if you were lucky. You kids have the technology, you have it easy. In the ‘70s computers were as big as cars. We didn’t even smell computers.”

I don’t really remember much more of what I said to the group. It may be that at that point my judgment had become slightly impaired, because I remember following two of the girls to the Ladies Room. I began to talk to them about how smoking aids my digestion but didn’t get a chance to finish because some restaurant functionaries came in and removed me. But I had a wonderful time rapping with the kids.

[6-9-93] May 2006
The Married Sex Machine

What’s it like being a married sex machine, you ask. Well, it’s very interesting. Now that women know I’m married, the old idea of forbidden fruit comes into play. They see the simple band of gold on my finger and think, “That sex machine is all married up, and now I want him even more...This desire could send me to women’s prison, but I can’t fight the feeling. It’s like seeing a luscious bon-bon or a jar of the finest caviar up on the shelf just out of reach.”

My wedding ring has a message for these women. The message is, “Too bad for you. You didn’t win the sweepstakes, this one here (my wife) did, and now you have to suffer.” It says, “You can look but don’t touch” and “Private property – no trespassing.” It’s like I’ve put up an electrified fence around myself. Though these women can no longer sidle up to me and knock me down, I still feel their vibes. So I have to put out my own vibes: Don’t get too close to the flame. You’ll just get burned. And for what? It’s a dream that for them can never come true. I pity them, yet I envy them their fantasy.

I see these women on the street and in the mall, but what can I do? I feel them giving me the hairy eyeball as they pass by, looking boldly at me and at the crease in my pants. I can’t stop every woman and tell her that these are wrinkle-free pants with perma-creases built in, that when I iron slacks myself the creases veer off to the right or the left, and sometimes I double-crease and then there are two lines running down the front of my pants leg so I look like I’m walking in two directions at once. How can I tell these women what they consider “fashion mastery” in reality stems from a practical decision in the marketplace? Am I to shatter their every illusion?

It’s the same with the wallet marks in my back pocket. “Look at the sex machine, he’s got a wallet. I wish I could be around when he takes it out of his pocket. Ooh, aah.” Do you think I enjoy this? I can’t even buy a pack of sheet protectors or double-A batteries at Rite-Aid without feeling women’s eyes on my wallet marks. They’re thinking, “He’s buying sheet protectors and batteries now – tomorrow it may be shampoo or floss or other personal items. Ooh.” Why can’t they leave me alone? A