The Tattooed Jew

Coming of age in the 70’s, the mere idea of getting a tattoo was (according to my parents) strictly for bikers and convicts, which were basically one and the same. In spite of society’s contempt, I was secretly drawn to the notion, and harbored an unspoken desire to join the pirates, outlaws and miscreant’s who brazenly displayed their tatts. Aside from the mortification my tattoo would rain upon the family, the fear of pain and regret prevented me from acting upon my hidden yearnings. And then, there’s the Jewish thing. According to ancient Judaic law, “defacement of the human body” is strictly forbidden, and with 15 years of Hebrew school drilled into me, that tape played in an endless loop every time inky images danced in my yarmulke’d head. Ever the good Jewish boy, I towed the line. Approaching 40, the proverbial “bucket list” crept into my psyche, and I called Sunset Tattoo on that famous strip in Los Angeles, and asked the junkie on the other end if it hurt. “Um, yeah, she replied between gum chews- it hurts like a motherfucker!” Slamming the phone down, flushed with Jewish guilt, I dropped it. A week or two later, I called another shop. Same answer. The third time, I called Sunset back and disguised my voice, lest the junkie remember my girlish whimpering from the prior call. “ Have you ever slammed your finger in a car door?” the new receptionist-slash-ex-con asked. “Well, it doesn’t hurt as much as that”. Less than thrilled, but still coveting, I persevered. I drove by the place but didn’t get out of the truck. I walked by and looked in the window. I went in , heard some screaming - and fled. And then... I told someone my secret wish. It was my husband, JP...and he. freaked. out. He ranted, he railed and ultimately FORBADE me from doing so. “Over my dead body” he howled, and stormed out of the room. “You are sooo not the boss of me”, I whispered under my breath, as I screwed up my courage and waltzed out the door. Before approaching the counter - where a scary looking dude with a mohawk and hundreds of piercings, was scowling, I looked around. The ubiquitous skulls, pinup girls and tributes to MOM adorned the walls, and I realized that I had no idea what I wanted permanently emblazoned on my arm. Price-to-pain quotient ever on my mind, the Jewish neurons looked for a bargain, while the gay DNA looked for “pretty”. I selected the smallest red star available and settled into the chair, which resembled Frankenstein’s, replete with hoses, gadgets and yes...needles. My Tattoo artist, named “Stripe”, had waist length black hair tied in the back, and Zebra stripes covering his entire body, stem to stern. Nervously lighting a cigarette and swearing that I was not drunk, I gave Stripe the nod and he began. It did hurt, but not as much as I had feared...and since my star was miniscule, it was all over in fifteen minutes. Plotzing, I skipped all the way to the truck, went home, and showed the old man a thing or two. I didn’t tell my family, of course- but when I had surgery a few years later, my Jewish mother flew out to add salt to the wound...I mean “help out”. My illness was serious, and it was touch and go for a brief, shining moment. As they wheeled me into recovery, My mother flew to my side, weeping and gnashing her teeth. “Oh my God!” she wailed, as I squeezed her hand. “Yeah... I made it, Mom” I rasped through the breathing tube. “Not that, you schmuck!” she shrieked, “You have a tattoo!”. Screaming like a Banshee, she gesticulated wildly while screeching the endless list of humiliation, disappointment and horror I had invoked. The cemetery issue came up and when I informed her that I had planned on cremation, she lost it. After what seemed like hours, Mom finally acknowledged that she was glad I hadn’t actually died, and made me swear that I would never let her second husband, a deeply religious man, ever find about about the you-know-what. When she asked me to swear again, that I would never get another tattoo, I quietly told her that I couldn’t make that promise. I had been thinking nothing else for a while, and realized that another birthday was just around the corner. This time, an artist friend had offered to do a custom design. “You know, Mom” I said “You can’t be buried in a Jewish cemetery either- you have pierced ears”. “Oh, that’s different” she sniffed. “Of course I can”. “Not according to the rabbi”, I replied, quoting the torah “You shall not make gashes in your flesh, I am the Lord”. “Well, your father wouldn’t give me diamond earrings, unless I could literally screw them to my lobes” she moaned. “There’s got to be a loophole”. “Only in your ears, Mom, but even if God doesn’t forgive you” I winked, “I do...it’s only a religious concept... we’ll both recover.

There's No Business Like Show Business!

Back in the 80’s, I started writing for television sitcoms and often found great material on the studio lot itself. Dozens of shows were being taped at any given time-and the incredible variety of actors, producers, directors and crews constantly provided great people-watching, and sometimes...conversations overheard that were far more entertaining than anything I could imagine writing.

One such conversation took place while I sat alone in my usual booth at the commissary, desperately trying to look as though I fit in with the other writers, scribbling away, pretending to work. Peeking over the banquette next to me, I spied a PRODUCER who had rejected one of my scripts script just a week earlier, arm in arm with one of the studio’s huge STARS, who was then riding an enormous wave of popularity based on her leading role in a top ten show. PRODUCER was introducing STAR to a NERDY looking guy who was attempting to carry a telescope, a manuscript and a briefcase, but failing miserably on all counts.

Intrigued, I looked up from my fake work and peered over my glasses, listening to the introductions taking place. From what I gleaned, the STAR was being wooed by the PRODUCER for a new show and the NERD was the science consultant, brought on board to explain the premise to STAR. My interest more than piqued, I picked up my pen...and prepared to take notes.

“Why hello, professor” said STAR in her famous southern drawl. “Goodness, that telescope looks impressive”. She stroked it in a weirdly provocative gesture and batted her eyelashes. NERD fussed at her hands and fumbled with the telescope.

“Really, miss, if you don’t mind- I’d rather you didn’t touch the equipment. It’s on loan from the University and quite valuable”.

“Honestly professor, I’m not a infant !” sniffed STAR, while pouting in the general direction of PRODUCER.

“Of course not, my dear child” PRODUCER soothed, patting her hand and stroking her cheek. “You, my dear- are a STAR!” Momentarily coddled, she went on. “Oh, professor, I simply can’t wait till it’s dark. I’m just dyin’ to see the Crab Nebula!”

NERD looks her up and down and snidely asks if she knows what the Crab Nebula is.

“Well, no” STAR mewed “But it sounds adorable. I’m sure it’s just darlin’ ”.

“Mock if you must” snorts NERD “But one day, mark my words, we’ll all be living up there, in outer space”.

“Oh, please, professor. It’s hard enough livin’ down here.” Throwing a look at PRODUCER, she adds “especially on my piddly salary”. Turning her attention back to NERD, STAR adjusts her lipstick and adds “Must be murder gettin’ good reception up there. Bad for the skin, too”.

Sighing audibly, NERD shuffles through his papers and addresses them both. “There are millions of galaxies containing billions of stars capable of sustaining life. Many believe that beings from other worlds have already visited Earth.

STAR nudges PRODUCER and laughs. “Do you remember that Christmas Special I did with Bob Hope and E.T?. I swear to god, that prune faced little monster gave me the willies! On the other hand, E.T. was adorable!” Not waiting for a response, she continued. “One day I’m in the commissary havin’ breakfast and I saw E.T just sittin’ there, alone. Well, normally, he had a bunch of his handlers literally surrounding him, so I sashayed over and asked if he wanted to share my pop tart. Well, he just sat there, not sayin’ boo. I figured he was shy, so I put a little piece in his mouth- I guess I was flirtin’ a little”.

(By now I was running out of paper and writing furiously on napkins.)

“Well, the next thing you know” STAR continues “smoke started comin’ out of his nostrils”. Smiling slyly at both men, STAR leans in and whispers “I’ve excited a lot of men in my life, but when E.T.s head started to melt, I knew somethin’ was terribly wrong.

She winked at the stunned men in front of her and slyly glanced over the booth at me- “Well, that’s when the sprinkler system went off and all hell broke loose!”

Stammering and fuming, NERD rose and shouted “This meeting is over! ” while gathering his belongings. Looking down his nose at STAR, NERD cleared his throat one last time and said “But before I leave, and I know I’m going to regret this, I have to ask...what happened to E.T?

“Well”... drawled STAR, while admiring her nails “After they hosed him off and the smoke cleared... he still looked better than Hope.”

The Dharma Diaries

DOES A BEAR SHIT IN THE WOODS?

It schnowed yesterday. There was white stuff on the ground in Pittsburgh the day I was born, but I was only three hours old and don’t remember it. Naturally, I was pretty suspicious of the mysterious forces at work and barked my adorable head off till HE let me out. HE’s the one who told me it was schnow. HE thinks HE knows everything- when I should eat, what I am allowed to play with, what time I should walk, for cryin’ out loud! The list goes on, but I won’t bore you the way HE does me. Suffice it to say that we’ll call it “schnow” just to get HIM off my adorable back.

I’ll be one year old in just a few short weeks and at this point, I have a pretty good handle on things. HE worked (completely ignoring me, as usual) way too long yesterday & I’ll admit...I was a little bored, so I shredded the mail and chewed the corner off a place mat because I could. HE was suitably impressed with my handiwork and spoke loudly at me for quite a while. “Job well done!” was all I could think, as I sashayed my adorable ass downstairs in search of adventure.

The clink of keys in the kitchen distracted me enough to drop my goof ball and fly (as if on gossamer wing) to the door, determined to not be banished to THE CRATE...
Surprisingly, I was told I could “tag along” (honestly, HE treats me like a baby!) and run some errands. Trust me, I know what errands are- a boney at the bank, a rawhide at the post office and maybe, just maybe, an open window in the truck, so that my adorable ears might flap in the (much cooler than Cuban) wind.

With aforementioned boney firmly planted in my adorable mouth, we headed home. I tried to steer but HE is always in my way. The French Bull dog next door was on patrol, so I made a quick pish and slinked inside before she could spot me. (Don’t get me started on the French!) For something completely different, HE proceeded to talk on the phone for hours, ignoring me, so I slipped downstairs again and heavily drooled on one (only one!) of HIS “favorite” slippers. When HE discovered me gnawing on it, I got lots of attention, so I’ll be sure to try that again soon.

All in all, a pretty average day. I sneaked outside when I overheard HIM talking with the Russians across the road about me being the only Havanese within 100 miles, and of course, they were waxing rhapsodic over my countless adorable charms, so I loped off into the woods. I suppose that I should explain that we live in the woods, so pretty much everywhere you look is, well...woods.

For some unknown reason, I have gathered (by HIS endless blabbering) that I am not supposed to explore said woods on my own. “Bite me!”, I said under my adorable puppy breath and took off like a bat (yep, I know what a bat is- had one in the kitchen) out of Hell, which is apparently a place I’ll be visiting at some point soon, according to HIM.

I picked up a schtick, dropped it, found a pine cone- dropped it- and stopped dead in my tracks. My adorable nose twitched, dripped a little and quivered uncontrollably. Suddenly, I remembered one of HIS many phone calls revolving around a bear that had been spotted the day before. ‘Course, I didn’t believe HIM ( he makes stuff up all the time!) and I didn’t see the stupid bear, (if I’m being totally honest, they freak me out a little) so I only had HIS word...until that glorious moment, finally alone for one damn second, adorable paws firmly rooted in bear shit. In the woods. Alone.

I scouted for eye witnesses and proceeded to roll. It was so fresh, that it was still moist (maybe from the “schnow”?) and I was able to get the shit really imbedded in my hair. (I’ve heard that other dogs have fur, whatever that is, but not the Havanese!). I rolled, dove & leaped about with an air of dignity rarely seen while cavorting in a steaming pile of shit. Torn from my reverie by the (kinda loud) sound of HIS voice booming in my general direction, I was startled and panicked for a brief, shining moment.

I considered my options (knowing that it was only a matter of time) and decided to hide the evidence in the best way possible, so I ate it. Well, you’d think I was spawned by Satan herself the way HE carried on. Was not (even slightly) amused by the amazing aroma that I had acquired (all by my adorable self, thank you). No praise, no proverbial pat on the back- in fact, HE shrieked (like a damn girl scout) grabbed me (kinda ruff) and literally chased me around the house, completely ignoring the Russians (so rude) screaming his bloody(not so adorable) head off until I acquiesced (dogs have vocabularies too, ya know), doing my doggone best to look sheepish (whatever that is) and avoid trouble.

Still smarting from the infamous “skunk incident” last July, I was in no mood. I raced around the house, leaving remnants of bear shit on the couch, the rug, (was only on the bed for a minute for cryin’ out loud) and apparently, the effluvia (look it up) was permeating the entire house, which I would think was a good thing, but apparently not so much.

Once HE got a hold of me again (and got some bear shit on his hands) it was over. HE screamed and ranted and raved, drawing a bath (aarrgh!) while holding me by the scruff of my adorable neck. I think the worst is over, but HE still seems to be a little pissed - muttering about the puppy breath being a “thing of the past”...who knows? I try to not pay attention to his constant drivel and just do my thing, knowing full well that I will be forgiven. Why does HE love me so? I’m Dharma, dammit- and freakin’ adorable.

Heart Month-No Laughing Matter?

Sadly, like millions of others- my family is no stranger to heart disease. Cardiac failure has played a role in several deaths close to home, including my father and grandparents on both sides.

My dad, and his before him, were both dead by the age of 54. Little wonder then, that I had some anxiety regarding my own health as I approached middle age. Granted, the advancements in health care, with an emphasis on awareness and prevention have been staggering since my father’s day, but still...

I smoked (just like them) and had little to no concern regarding my own well being, believing (like most young folks) that I was impervious to the dangers that felled other members of my family tree. That, in addition to the fact that I appeared to be in good health, kept me from over analyzing the situation as I breezed through life, with nary a care in the world.

For the most part, I enjoyed my youth. I had a lot of friends, was pretty sociable and spent a good deal of time yukking it up with my pals, participating in theatre productions and later, in film and television as well. Often playing the “comic relief”, I did actually spend a lot of my time laughing.

I still remember being a kid and my father wagging his finger in my face , accusing me of “making everything a joke” and “not taking life seriously” enough. Admittedly, he had plenty to be concerned about but I had purposely chosen a different path. Now all grown up and having had a small “Myocardial Infarction” myself, it would appear that my “smart - ass attitude” may have actually saved my life.

I was lucky. Several years ago, I went out for lunch with friends, felt a weird sensation in my left arm and became short of breath. My coworkers concern swirled around me as I suggested that I might be having a heart attack-but insisted on driving myself home to have a nap, thinking I was jumping to conclusions. Against their wishes, they did let me leave- but I drove myself to the hospital instead.

Stress tests, angiograms and minor surgery were in my future as my brand new cardiologist asked me “what the hell was so funny?” Sure I was scared, but was laughing out loud at the absurdity of the situation. Looking back, it’s comical to have thought that I would escape what heredity had in store for me since birth. The difference between my survival and the generations before me? Hard to say for sure, but I have always lived by the adage that “laughter is the best medicine” and lately, medical science seems to agree.

In a 1996 study published by Dr. Lee Berk and fellow researcher Dr. Stanley Tan of Loma Linda University in California, research showed that laughing “lowers blood pressure, reduces stress hormones, increases muscle flexion and boosts the immune system by raising levels of infection-fighting T-cells, which produce disease-destroying antibodies.” (www.oohoi.com/inner_self/mind/laughter)

In Berk’s study, the physiological response produced by laughter was opposite of what is seen in classic stress, supporting the conclusion that laughter is a “eustress” state: one that produces healthy and positive emotions.

In March of 2007, researchers at the University of Maryland
( www.umm.edu/news/release/laughter) concluded that laughter is “linked to healthy function of blood vessels. Laughter appears to cause the tissue that forms the inner lining of vessels to dilate, or expand in order to increase blood flow.”

When the same group of study volunteers was shown a film that produced mental stress, their blood vessel lining developed a potentially unhealthy response called vasoconstriction, reducing blood flow.

Michael Miller, M.D., director of preventative cardiology at UMM medical center was quoted as stating that “given the results of our study, it is conceivable that laughing may be important to maintain a healthy endothelium and reduce the risk of cardiovascular disease.”

He went on to say that “the magnitude of change we saw is similar to the benefit we might see with aerobic exercise, but without the associated aches, pains and muscle tension.” Miller did admit that the study was not able to determine the source of laughter’s benefit, but suggests the possibility that the chemical release of endorphins that flood the body while laughing, could be a determining factor.

More studies are underway as each fresh discovery triggers new research. An earlier study by Miller suggested that laughter may be good for the heart and was based partly on questionnaires that helped determine whether people were prone to laughter and ascertain their levels of hostility and anger. Half of the 300 volunteers in the study had suffered heart attacks or had undergone coronary bypass surgery; the other half did not have heart disease. People with disease responded with less humor to everyday life situations than those with a normal cardiovascular system.

Miller concluded by saying that “we don’t recommend that you laugh and not exercise, but we do recommend that you try to laugh on a regular basis.” I, for one, plan on staying the course. I’ve laughed my way through plenty of difficult times, but have always- knock on wood- come out ahead of the game. My mom would probably prefer that I was less of a clown sometimes, but we’ve had a lot of laughs together and she’s still here. My advice? Listen to Nat King Cole and “smile, if your heart is breaking.”

Tyra Banks Ate My Cell Phone

Yes, I adopted a puppy in November. Call me crazy. Devastated after losing my 14 year old terrier to the ravages of canine diabetes, I did not relish the idea of spending the winter alone in the woods without a dog to snuggle up with, which ( for dog lovers) does help stave off cabin fever and the accompanying doldrums.

I knew I wanted to rescue a dog in need and had no plans to adopt a puppy. No plans to house train in below zero conditions. No plans to bring a confused, abused and possibly insane animal into the home and yet- the best laid plans...

After searching the shelters for possibilities, I saw her. Small and frail and afraid, she called out to me as they often do. I took one look at those enormous, heavily lined eyes, her gorgeous hair (er, I mean fur) and seeing the possibility of intense beauty behind the fear, I proclaimed her new name was Tyra Banks and brought her home.

Naturally, all hell broke loose. She was fewer than 10 months old and had clearly been mistreated by some monster with no name. Tyra was afraid of the outdoors, had never seen a toy and had no clue where to pee. My severely lacking patience, combined with grief and loss over her predecessor all combined for an emotional roller coaster that had me tearing my hair out with frustration.

Having had (and trained) dogs my entire life, I was adamantly opposed to crate training and was always happy to expound on my totally uninformed position that it was “cruel” and “inhumane’ and just plain wrong.

This was, of course PTB (Pre Tyra Banks). Naturally, everyone I spoke with had an opinion, one which often had the word “crate” in the sentence. I pretended to listen knowing all the while that they were clearly mistaken and that crate training was not an option for me.

Tyra continued to pee wherever she cared to and destroy Christmas ornaments, shoes, caps, gloves and scarves, while I gently wept, walking her dozens of times throughout any given 24 hour period with virtually no success.

My fingers flew over the keyboard as I surfed the web for total strangers’ advice. More allusions to the “C” word. Hmm. I read. I mused. I caved. according to www.perfectpaws.com “Crate training can be an efficient and effective way to train a dog. Temporarily confining your dog to a small area strongly inhibits the tendency to urinate.” So far, sounding good.

Still believing that “father knows best”, I acquired the crate but did not put her in it. Then Tyra Banks ate a box of Hanukkah candles, peed right in front of me and devoured my cell phone. I had done enough research at this point to know that I could not introduce the dog to the crate through fear. Having visited www.itspawsible.com and www.thedogtrainingsecret.com, not to mention www.cratetraining.net I had picked up a hint or two.

I introduced her to the crate, made it inviting with blankets and toys and threw in a boney for good measure. Slowly, over a period of days, she went in by herself, making a little nest, taking a short nap. If she didn’t “go” during one of our numerous visits outside, I would suggest the crate for a while and try again. In just a few days, Tyra Banks chose to pee outside and was amply rewarded with praise.

I continued the experiment, giving her short bursts of confinement while working, since she would not leave me alone and insisted on “acting out" right in front of me, chewing up my brand new slippers and munching on clothes pins. She was not “punished and banished” to her crate for such behavior- she was admonished and then later- lovingly crated while I worked, in order to to avoid a slip.

Weeks have gone by. Tyra Banks pees outside. If she is cranky or mischievous, I recommend a “time out” in the crate, but never force her. If I catch her dragging a boot through the living room, she drops it and steps into her crate all by herself and takes a little self-imposed nap. This morning, while the ever-present plumber was here, I couldn’t find Tyra Banks. I looked upstairs and down, calling her by name, whistling and starting to worry that she had sneaked outside.

I found her, sound asleep, in her crate with the door somehow closed -without any assistance from me. Did she close it herself? It wasn’t actually latched, so my guess is yes. Does crate training help? My guess is yes.Is Tyra banks a good girl? She sure is getting there.

Go With The Flow

Just as the last gift was unwrapped, the last fruitcake tossed and the last, last minute gift delivered....company arrived. It wasn’t a surprise- in fact the post-Christmas gathering was planned months in advance.

Little wonder then, that the plan unraveled faster than a ball of yarn in the paws of a psychotic kitten. Don’t get me wrong-I love making plans. It’s the execution of a carefully thought out, meticulously choreographed and minutely detailed extravaganza that is usually my downfall.

The months-long preparation to drive to Philly, hook up with family in Media, PA and meet there with friends who were coming in from Pittsburgh, collapsed like a house of cards mere hours before the truck was packed.
Frenzied conference calls ensued. Alternate cards were laid out on the table before the players and a new hand was dealt. I selfishly volunteered to stay home and let everyone come here.

Granted, accommodations are less than ideal for six adults, six dogs and a partridge in a pear tree- but “what the heck, it’s the holidays!” I muse, while tearing through the house, making beds, getting the plumbing (always the plumbing!) attended to, scribbling shopping notes on tiny post- it’s strewn throughout the place and whipping myself into a frenzy of straying outside of The Plan.


More phone calls ensued. Strep throat struck in Philly, knocking out two very important members of the group. Sighing, I picked up the phone and added one more, in lieu of the now-missing loved ones. Creating menus on the phone with Pittsburgh, I flew out of the house, picked up an extra large dog crate, more beer , less wine and looked heavenward as it began to snow.

Choking back tears on another call from Philly, I hastily made additional post-its to facilitate the completion of all tasks before the roads became too slick to navigate.In light of shifting the venue, searching for the now all-important fondue pot became tantamount to finding the Holy Grail. A minimum of three was required to pull off Bob & Ron’s now famous fondue for ten and my basement was (and is) “The Nightmare Before Christmas” - a result of my flinging dozens of crates filled with ornaments, dog stockings and assorted holiday “cheer”, resulting in the impression that Santa had literally exploded in a last ditch effort to smother my tiny house in a mountain of holiday splendor.

One by one, cars appeared. Dogs barked, luggage arrived in heaps. Bags and bags and bags of groceries were unpacked. (Bob and Ron are always prepared!) The phone rang incessantly as the mayhem ensued and I multi-tasked my little heart out shouting instructions to anyone who would listen.

I don’t care for surprises (ask anyone who was at my fortieth birthday bash) but made a valiant attempt to “go with the flow” as continual changes were thrown at me, including a last minute “date” appearing on the scene. (don’t ask!)

Folks settled in as the dogs made themselves at home on every couch, chair and hassock in the place. Menus were fine- tuned as the animals, en masse, were fed and walked (repeatedly- in below zero weather). Maps were poured over as all parties concerned debated which sights were to be seen, now that the party was in the Catskills.

Amidst the mountains of coats, scarves,suitcases, hats and boots-I surveyed the comical scene and smiled. I was once again reminded of how fortunate I am. My friends had traveled hundreds of miles- at a moments notice, just to congregate and make merry... without hesitation.

The house smelled like hot cocoa and cookies (and dogs, dogs, dogs!). I breathed it all in, trying to capture the glorious moment in my head... creating the proverbial movie in my mind. I snaked my way through the living room, the ever-present phone to my ear, making even more plans for the next day- and the day after that. I forced myself to stop and smell the roses (yes, I mean dogs), soaking it all in. I took a picture or two to remind me of the moment and told each of my friends how much I love them.

We made more calls to those who could not attend and told them how much we loved them too. Either I’m becoming a complete sap as I mature, or maturity has caused me to appreciate something I have always possessed. Either way, it feels good, so I think I’ll just “go with the flow.”

The Missing Christmas Carol

SUNG TO THE TUNE
‘WALKIN’ THROUGH A WINTER WONDERLAND’



Coast is clear- wife is missin’
didn’t ask for her permission....

I’m wearin her clothes, her silk pantyhose
Walkin’ ‘round in women’s underwear!

In the store, there’s a teddy, little straps-
like spaghetti....it holds me so tight
like handcuffs at night

Walkin’ ‘round in women’s underwear!

In the office, there’s a guy named Melvin
He pretends that I am Murphy Brown

He’ll say “Are you ready?” I’ll say “Whoa man!”
“Let’s wait until the wife is out of town!”

Later on, if you wanna- we can dress like Madonna
Put on some eye shade and join the parade

Walkin’ ‘round in women’s underwear!

We’re walkin....in women’s underwear!

-author unknown

I Remember Mama

As a child, It’s difficult to appreciate the hard work that our parents go through to make the holidays special, magical and wondrous. Today, as an adult, I can look back fondly and revel in the efforts that my parents endured- between work, keeping the house running and still finding time to make Hanukkah memories that linger.

My father was a jeweler and far too busy (especially during holidays) keeping food on the table and a roof over our heads to be burdened with magic, so the brunt of the “Festival of Lights” fell on my mom. She too, worked at my dad’s store during the busy times and was woefully overworked during the season, but undaunted in her task to create special times that my sister and I still discuss to this day.

We both complained bitterly that we were given “short shrift” during the holiday’s, since we were not blind to the Christmas trees, stockings and the heaping piles of gifts that our non-Jewish friends appeared to reap from the mystical Santa that never slid down our chimney, therefore my mother had to be more than creative in an effort to appease us.

Because Hanukkah is celebrated over a period of eight nights, we were told the story of Judah and the Macabees. We lit the Menorah faithfully and had the requisite potato latkes and chocolate coins, known as “gelt”. We made our gift wishes known and my mother would make a game out of each night, with notes strewn throughout the house, teasing us with clues as to the whereabouts of each hidden (single) gift every night. To make it more exciting, the gifts grew in size and desirability as the nights wore on. Clothing was always first on the list, I suspect because mom knew it was a let down. This way, the final night was anticipated greatly, with the fervent wish that we would get something we actually, truly, desperately desired!

One year, it was the coveted bicycle for each of us that unbeknownst to us, our parents- exhausted from working all day and long into the night, had to assemble.

Another year it was stilts. Ahhh- the stilts! My sister and I wanted them so desperately, we almost forgot the feeling of being cheated out of Santa when they appeared before us, with the warning that they were never to be used inside the house. Yeah, right. As soon as the parents were out of sight, we were very busy mastering the art of stilt walking up and down that grand staircase in our Victorian home (it’s a Hanukkah miracle that we didn’t kill ourselves) and walked to school every day on those stilts for months!

For quite a while, my entire life revolved around LEGO and my mother kept me well stocked through the holidays as each new piece came out on the market. I missed having “special time” with mom during the season and had little understanding of why the parents weren’t around enough, so I started writing notes to mom about my daily activities at school and play. I would write my thoughts down and then enclose them in a LEGO house, or barn, or school, or even a Temple (as I recall) constructed laboriously and with great detail, adding window boxes, lights, chimney’s and the like.


Every morning, without fail, I would awake to an entirely new LEGO structure that was built (By mom, of course) late into the night with a reply to my note, laden with what their day was like and responding to my carefully elucidated details of my fascinating third grade life. It wasn’t until many years later that my mom explained how grueling it was to take apart my LEGO house, read my missive, write a response- and then rebuild a new structure of her own design, replete with turrets, smokestacks and outdoor lighting from her own LEGO imagination.

This simple (or so I thought) tradition made Hanukkah magical for me. I had no clue how tired my parents were, nor how hard they had worked to make it all seem so effortless for my sister and I- but looking back now? Wow.

I even wrote the people at LEGO all about it once and I’m sure they were enchanted, but did not feel it necessary to bestow every piece of LEGO ever created upon me, as a peace offering of Hanukkah magic. That was my mom’s job and she still manages to make magic for me every day, one way or another.

If the LEGO people are listening....it’s not too late. That little boy is still alive with wonder deep inside the grown up man and I remember mama (and her Herculean efforts) with appreciation, a sense of Hanukkah magic and love- above all else- love. Thanks, Mom.

Thanks For The Memories

It’s that time of year again—a time to gather family and friends, make some time-honored recipes and give thanks. I have so much to be grateful for that I hardly know where to begin.

First and foremost, I am grateful that I’m still here to celebrate the holiday. Having survived (over the years) three stomach surgeries, a small heart attack, esophageal cancer and a stroke, it’s a miracle that I can still be such a pain in the neck, but (fortunately for me) my family and (oh, so special) friends still want me hanging around and apparently, I have a lot of unfinished business.

My doctor seems to feel that I will “still be yakking it up, even as they lower me into the ground” (nice, huh?) and I am determined to keep talking (and writing) until such time.

I am thankful that I grew up with such a strong sense of family and what it means to be surrounded by love and support from a (very) colorful cast of characters. Thanksgiving has always provided fodder for stories over the years, and it wouldn’t surprise me if there was an entire book waiting to be written, if only I could find the time.

I am thankful that my grandparents were around during the “wonder years,” and that I had the great good fortune to grow up in a multi-generational household. We weren’t exactly the Waltons (Goodnight, John-boy) but we had traditions that I still hold dear and close to my heart. My mother’s parents were among the first in Binghamton to acquire a color television (yes, I’m that old!) and an instant holiday tradition was born. Dinner at Gramma Fay’s and the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade in living color.

Back in the day, relatives gathered from near and far to celebrate (my Gramma Fay was one of 11 siblings), and the laughter and tears of those huge dinners still reverberate today. My father’s mother, Gramma Helen, lived with us for a number of years and passed down family history, some incredible recipes and the importance of family values and a sense of belonging.

My Aunt Marcia, Uncle George and assorted cousins were in attendance, and are still around to reminisce and ruminate as I give thanks. Just this year, Aunt Marcia gave me my grandmother Helen’s “good china,” which I now use every day (after all, if I only dragged it out for “special occasions,” I’d be able to use the dishes 20—if I’m lucky, maybe 30—times!

My Grampa Mack was an extraordinary human being, and I am extremely thankful to have grown up with his amazing generosity of spirit. I sorely miss him (and the rest) to this very day.

Although my father has been gone a long, long time, my beautiful, talented, creative and loving mother is still going strong in Delray Beach, FL. She might not care to admit it, but she is, in many ways, directly responsible for me being the happy (and hapless) lunatic that I am today.

My sister lives in Canada now and celebrates a “Thanksgiving” that I don’t even pretend to understand, but it is impossible to get through the day without recalling one year in particular. Vicki was already in college when my mother asked for her help with the turkey. Apparently, Mom had asked said sister to take the bird out of the oven to cool.

Presumably, Mom intended that the turkey should cool somewhere inside the house (duh), but Vicki (for whatever reason) put it outside, where our German shepherd spied it, sniffed it and dragged it through the snow, happily chowing down. I don’t remember a lot of laughter in that moment—but we sure do chuckle about it now. Being the hopeless romantic that I am, I like to think that they are all looking down on these special occasions, laughing, crying and thinking about keeping the turkey indoors.

I do know that this time of year always conjures up memories that need to be written down before it’s too late. Are there Hanukkah stories to relate? You bet. Passover tales to be told? (Oy! Don’t ask!) All I can say is, if I’m not six feet under, apparently I’ll still be talking. As long as someone (yes, even strangers on the street!) wants to hear it (there are still plenty of memories to pass down to my nephew) I am on call. Hopefully, there are plenty of stories that have yet to unfold. Can’t wait to see what Thursday has to offer. One thing is sure, with my sister 1,000 miles away, the turkey is (probably) safe!

eat me

‘Grandma’s Kropetzl’ - a potluck recipe from the past...

A family recipe from the kitchen of Jonathan Fox

“Sense memory” is so strong that just a whiff of an old, familiar dish can send one reeling into the past. Such is the case with Grandma Helen’s Hungarian noodles and cabbage. Grandma has been gone a long, long time- but thanks to her ‘Kropetzl’ she will always live on... in our hearts, in our minds and in this case, in our stomachs!

There have been many special occasion over the years, that have required a delicious,covered, potluck dish. I find that holidays are, in particular, a perfect time to get out the family cookbook, leaf through the dog-eared pages and cook, cook, cook!

These days, only a lucky few have the wherewithall to conjure up a meal for the masses- and potluck has become more popular than ever. My grandmother’s special recipe, concocted in the old country out of ingredients found on the farm, has never failed me.

Cabbage, onions, noodles and spices are all that is required, so even at my most destitute, I have always been able to show up when invited, gigantic casserole in hand.

Herewith is Grandma Helen’s recipe, which I now serve in her own dinnerware, for your holiday feasts!

I don’t know how to make a small amount, so be aware that one can cut this recipe in half and still have enough to choke a horse.

The only ingredients necessary are:

three to four medium (or two very large) yellow onions. Two heads of cabbage. One and 1/2 boxes of Lasagna noodles. Salt and pepper.

Liberal use of butter is required. Remember, they didn’t live as long back then- but I would not substitute. Use the butter- your doctor will forgive you.

In a large pot, melt a stick of butter. Peel and chop (cry, if you must) the onions and slowly, lovingly, sautee the onions until they are very soft and begin to carmelize. (yes, it takes time- but if I can do it, so can you!)

Once this is accomplished, keep the onions on simmer and cut up the cabbage. It seems like a lot (because it is) but keep in mind that by the time you are done, the cabbage will have cooked down considerably. Add the chopped cabbage into the pot with the onions and cook the concoction slowly- on low/medium heat, stirring continually throughout.

While the cabbage is diminishing in volume (I did advise a large pot) put up a vat of salted water until it comes to a roiling boil. Adding a bit of oil to the pot will keep the noodles from sticking. Break the Lasagna noodles up with your hands into smaller pieces and boil according to directions, but keep in mind that you are using more than one package- and alter the cook time accordingly.

As the noodles are softening, continue stirring the onions and cabbage, slowly adding salt and pepper ( a little garlic couldn’t hurt) to taste. By this point, one should have a considerable amount of all three ingredients. Drain the noodles well (without rinsing) throw some more butter in the mix (what can I say?), add the lovingly prepared onions and cabbage to the pot. Stir, stir, stir, making sure that all of the noodles are drenched in the mixture. Taste. Add more salt and pepper until your taste buds come alive and head out to your party, confident that folks will think you’re a genius, rather than good old fashioned peasant stock.

My family has attempted substituting all sorts of noodles over the years. Stick to the plan, don’t ask why.

Serves 15-20 and tastes as good cold (the next day, or later that same night) as it does hot from the stove top. Serves the masses for pennies, which these days... really works for me!

GUYZ AND DOLLZ

Barbie

Ken, have you noticed there seems to be an awful lot of competition out there these days?

Ken

Listen’ hon, it’s a whole different world. we’re practically dinosaurs, for cryin’ out loud!

Barbie

Well, those “Bratz” girls are giving us all a bad rap. Whatever happened to “My Little Pony”? She was precious. Just wholesome enough and had that pretty shiny purple hair......

Ken

Her hair color was a little psycho, if ya ask me- but I’m still steamed about the abundance of homo's in the market place. Not easy for a real guy like me to get a date anymore.


Barbie

There are those who would argue your “real guy” status. Besides, What are you doing looking for dates? What am I? Chopped liver?


Ken

No, sweetie, you’ve always been a real doll. I’m just sayin’.

Where do all those Keebler elves keep coming from? I’ve yet to see a female in the bunch. That hole in the tree looks like one big gay party if you ask me.

Barbie

I can’t imagine what you have against them. They’re here, they’re queer. Leave ‘em alone, for cryin’ out loud!

Ken

I’m just sayin’... between those fruity teletubbies and Bert and Ernie, we men have got our work cut out for us.

Barbie

I hate to break it to you, sweetie, but you’re no G.I. Joe. I love a man in uniform!

Ken

Well, now you are really getting me worked up. I have half a mind to give Skipper a call!

Barbie

Oh....Didn’t you hear? She’s been seeing one of the “Spice Girls” for over a year- and they’re already passé!

Ken

Hmm....Yogi and Boo Boo started it all. Practically made pedophile a household word.

Barbie

Oh, please! You’re just still sensitive about the whole “genitalia issue” At least I got a little junk in the trunk!

Have you seen the Incredible Hulk? Now that’s what I call a man, baby!

Ken

You bitch. I’m surprised those assholes in corporate haven’t come out with 'Hoochie Mama Barbie' yet. Clearly, you are a whore. The years have not been kind to you. Aside from that, Miss Thing, you have clearly become the international poster child for anorexia....I’m just sayin’.

Barbie

Miss Thing? I’d bet my Monopoly money that you’re the one who's gay and just refuse to come out. I remember the 70’s, you know. You had a pierced ear and carried a man-purse. At least I was a stewardess at the time. I had a career. What were you doing? Learning to surf and working on your tan.


Ken

Pot to kettle, pot to kettle- come in kettle! 'Malibu Barbie' ring a bell? Driving that pink Corvette and teasing Mr. Potato Head. As I recall, you made the eyes pop right out of that filthy gourd! All I know is that In fifty years, you have yet to put out!

Barbie

You’d be surprised. Just ask the 'New Kids On The Block'. Living dolls- each and every one. Or 'In Sync'. They had no complaints. I dated one of them for months.

Ken

My point exactly. Didn’t he turn out to be.... oh, I don’t know.....Gay?

Barbie

Well, you’re no Jolly Green Giant, pal. In fact, one would be hard pressed to find anything in your pants worth talkin’ about.

Ken

Gay, gay and gay! You believe that story about Sprout being his “son”? Someone should call social services.

They’re all fairies. I’m tellin’ you, those friggin’ elves are hiding something....



Barbie

Again with the elves? I suppose you think the Travelocity gnome is a perv, too.

Ken

Well, if he is- I’m sure you’ll give him a roll.

Admit it Barb- our days are numbered. Whatever happened to Betsy-Wetsy? Think I’ll give her a holla. Later, doll!

Keep Manhattan, Just Give me That Countryside!

Okay.....it began as a simple aside. My friend Jonathan Kitzen was up at the house last year, not long after I had made the trek from Los Angeles to the Catskills. He surveyed the land and (casually) commented on the fact that since there were maple trees on the property, come next year (in other words, now) I could be making my own maple syrup. Hmm.

“Really?” I responded. “What a festive idea!” and let it go at that. Little did I know what was in store. Surprised that I even survived the Winter (which bit my flat white ass like an Evil Bitch from the gaping maw of Hell itself) I observed the snow melting and began to notice plumes of steam rising into the atmosphere from various farms scattered all over the county.

“That would be sap boiling” was the answer from the very talented and fabulous Ellany Gable when I inquired as to the source. “It’s maple syrup time”, which triggered the (casual) comment from Kitzen....

I began to muse. “Was it really possible to make my own maple syrup from my own maple trees in my own back yard?” The idea seemed ludicrous, yet alluring.... Ludicrous ideas are probably better off left to their own defenses, me thinks. Hind sight? 20/20.

Internet searches began to creep into my psyche. Apparently, it was in the realm of possibilities. There are literally hundreds of sites dedicated to instructional manuals on the how-to’s of producing maple syrup from the one-man-band, boil at your own risk, (not for the faint of heart) method of maple syrup production. Remember Lucy stomping grapes? Child’s play.

According to Randall B Heiligmann at Ohio State University (shoulda been my first clue- what the hell do they know about maple syrup in Ohio?) the process is simple. A few necessities- A drill for the spouts (aka Spile) being used, buckets or bags, plastic tubing, elderberry stems, (WTF?) gallon jugs, storage tanks and various and sundry pans, pots, canning jars and materials for straining the boiled sap during the last steps of the process. Hmmm.

Being a man, it did not occur to me to read all of the instructions or feel as if I needed to follow them to the letter. I don’t stop at a gas station to ask for directions... why then, would I stop by a farm and ask for helpful hints? I guess simply assumed that I could do my own IKEA version. Tap the damn tree and the sap will flow. Hmm.

Having (admittedly) skimmed my manual, I overlooked the possibility that I might need a hydrometer (whatever that is) and that this process should always be conducted outdoors.
“The raw sap needs to be boiled at temperatures in the range of 200-230 degreesF. Steam given off during boiling carries small amounts of sap and syrup that can be very sticky” Hmmm.

I drilled. I tapped. I waited. Unless weather conditions are idyllic, there can be days when there is no sap flow. Other days can produce up to several gallons of raw sap from a single tree.("This", I tell myself, "explains why three ounces of genuine, honest-to-god maple syrup costs $28.00" The trees and buckets must be checked constantly, since there are very strict time frames involved. Too cold out? No sap for you! Too warm out? Sap can turn rancid on you in a New York minute. Too busy to check the buckets? Bucket (and highly prized contents) is overflowing and attracting insects of every shape and size.

The sap flow began slowly, teasing me with visions of Vermont and log cabins, Amish folk toiling away for tourists. I’m guessing my fingers were a bit sticky and I must have missed page 11 of the manual.

Elated that I had by now (about 5 days in) collected @ 5 gallons of raw materials, I unglued the pages only to discover that it takes FORTY-THREE gallons of sap to produce ONE GALLON of syrup and that in order to produce the syrup, I needed to boil somewhere between 16 and 28 hours at a time, adding sap to the pot as I went along, reducing it to a mere fraction of the opening bid. Hmmm.

I figure “Can’t hurt to try, I’m already a bit sticky” and so I begin. Setting up the fire outdoors (as freshly instructed) I find that to reach the temperatures necessary for a continuous roiling boil, I then have to check my pots on a minute to minute basis and continue to add raw sap as the liquid boils down, stoke the fire, tote that barge, lift that bale.

I move the process indoors “Just for a minute” I tell myself, to see if I can speed up the momentum. Well, it boiled on the stove all right. “I have a vent” I tell myself, as the steam rises into the air, neglecting the fact that we have 16 foot-high ceilings. I put the timer on 30 minutes as I work at the computer. I continue to add sap (per instructions) and feel quite pleased with myself that (against all warning) the boiling method (indoors) seems to have great advantages. About 5 hours in, I notice that the air in the kitchen seems, well....moist. as I gaze at the 16 foot high ceiling, something clear and warm drips onto my face. I look up again. I scream. “Hmm, guess i oughtta get that sap outdoors again” I rasp, as I race around the house, sopping up what is now a continuous downpour of steam, sap and syrup literally raining down on me (and of course, the dog).

I throw out yet another teflon pot, toss my second pair of shoes into the trash and begin again, more determined than ever before. I will not let a tree get the best of me, regardless of how sticky it wants to be. I dedicate items of clothing to the event. (They call me Mister Sappy Pants)

Five days and many, many gallons of raw, undiluted, tasteless sap later, I have reached "critical mass" and the once clear liquid is about to experience the magic of molecular change from sap into syrup. Having skipped page 14 altogether, I am unaware that this “miracle" takes place within a 3 minute time frame and if you miss it- you have a gooey, sticky, burnt piece of rock-hard maple candy (Oy!) at the bottom of your (once again destroyed) Teflon pot. Hmmm.

I call my mother in hysterics, to inform her that I have not slept for days and that I was quite possibly in over my head. I hauled sap, I boiled. And boiled. I spilled sap down the front of my shirt. On my shoes. On the dog. I stepped in (clear) sap and walked through the house. I picked bugs out of buckets and then boiled a bit more. At this point, I had successfully produced over one ounce of maple syrup and "was done", I shrieked at my poor Mother, "Done. No more syrup!"

She asked me how it tasted. Tasted? Had not occurred to me to check. After the six straining's through gauze and spending 2 days cleaning the floor (and dog) and tossing my second pair of sticky sneakers into the trash, tasting it was the last thing on my mind. I was still haunted by having found myself in my pajamas (during a snow storm) stirring boiling sap and weeping quietly with Liza the wonder dog (ever present) at my side.

Earlier that day, my neighbor told me had spied me screaming at a maple tree, pounding it with my fist and demanding that it start flowing. Evidently, she had observed me flailing my arms about, gesticulating wildly and calling the tree a selfish bitch. Hmm.

I hung up the phone and approached the jar holding over one ounce of golden liquid and stuck my finger in. I tasted it. I swooned. I think I wept for a brief, shining moment. I picked up my drill and my taps and my buckets and marched my sorry ass out into the yard. Had a brief chat with the trees and apologized for my outburst earlier in the day. I decided that if the tree was willing to do it’s part and flow (on a good day), then I was willing to give it another shot.

Everyone I spoke to made sure to let me know they wanted samples, even while I assured them I had produced enough syrup for (possibly) one pancake, (which I don’t even eat). Hmm.

I am now 2 weeks into the process. After spending hundreds of hours boiling, straining, collecting, cajoling, crying and throwing away clothing, I have @ 8 ounces of syrup. But this is no ‘Aunt Jemima Original Recipe” (which apparently means that it contains absolutely no maple syrup whatsoever) high fructose corn syrup, cellulose gum concoction. This is a sticky, gooey slice of heaven in a jar. Better than sex. (Hmm) This is my life now, my raison d’etre, the reason why I was put on earth.

The story is far from over. I have yet to check my buckets for the day. Time is running out, sap season is almost gone. After spending 12 hours boiling the other day, I happened to look in the mirror and saw something white sticking out from the back of my neck. Upon inspection, turned out to be a piece of cheese cloth stuck to my hair (For all you home hobbyists- maple syrup makes an excellent glue!)

I have tasted the nectar of the Gods and am undaunted in my task. I will (come hell or high water) make enough syrup to have french toast this weekend. (Or die trying, whichever comes first.) As far as sending syrup to all my friends? Yeah, right- as soon as they start spinning straw into gold.

When I told my pal Greenlee that it had been on my “bucket list” to make maple syrup before I die, he pointed out that it was probably the only thing on my list that required an actual bucket. Hmmm. Food for thought.

The Hanukkah Story......Still Illuminating After All!

I think I was five years old when the light bulb went on, eliminating any shadow of doubt....Christmas and Hanukkah were not the same! I guess it was Kindergarten that set the flood gates open. Until then, I had been either at home or nursery school, which was held at Temple Concord, so my only experiences were all based on being raised in a Jewish household.

Being exposed to all of my new classmates , out there in the “real world”, set in motion the many changes that take place as children begin the adventure of learning about the world around them. I came home filled with questions about Santa Claus, Christmas trees, Stockings filled with toys...even a few about Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

Somehow, in the good ole’ days, my mother always seemed to be one step ahead of me. Ever prepared, she brought out a new ‘Golden Book’ which I vaguely recall being entitled “The Festival of Lights- the Story of Judah and the Maccabees”. I tried to find it on Ebay, but no luck yet.

“After all, you can read now” my mother reminded me, “I think you’ll find the story illuminating” she added. “Let me know if you have any questions”

I ran up to my room, excited to know that there was a great big book, filled with illustrations, that would provide the answers to all of these new and perplexing queries. Until that moment, I had assumed that every family on every street was lighting the candles, one at a time, and speaking Hebrew. It was the same year that the concept of giving...and receiving gifts, really started to take hold.

I read that book over and over again. I was entranced with the very idea that a small but determined group of people
led by Judah Maccabee and his brothers, could band together and find like-minded individuals, who all believed that they had the right to choose their God.

Jerusalem had been under siege by Antiochus Epiphany, who dreamed of being as powerful a ruler as Alexander the Great had been over 100 years earlier. In his ignorance of the Jewish faith, coupled with his desire to change and dominate the people who lived in the land he had seized control of, Antiochus began the destruction of the Jewish Temples, and drove those who would not obey, into the hills.

It was hiding in those hills and knowledge of the land that allowed the Maccabees to build their resistance and and become a tiny faithful group that, after months of planning and praying, began to fight back- winning battles that seemed impossible to the great Syrian army that had been sent to destroy them originally.

Against all odds, The Jews were able to finally reclaim Jerusalem and Judah found a Temple that had been defiled, but not destroyed. Knowing that his first task was to rededicate the Temple, he gathered the holy men to help. Traditionally, in the days before Antiochus, all sacred temples had oil lamps that continuously burned, as a symbol of the peoples faith and their dedication to Judaism.

Finding only enough oil for one night was a blow to Judah and the Maccabees, as they needed more time to spread the word that the fighting was over- and that the hundreds of others who had been in hiding could safely return and rejoice.

Judah knelt before the altar and prayed that the lamp would remain lit, allowing them the time they needed.Miraculously, the oil continued to fuel the flame for eight nights. Some say that it got even brighter with each day. The Temple once again glowed with the symbol of the Jewish Faith. Those eight days and nights came to be celebrated with an annual festival and ever since then, Jewish people all over the world have celebrated this event.

Suddenly, the menorah made sense to me. The gifts exchanged, one per day, over the 8 days also had new significance. I don’t remember being sad that I didn’t have a Santa Claus, or midnight mass. What I remember is a renewed sense of what it meant to be Jewish and that people all over the world had many different beliefs.

I remember my mother filling in the gaps and explaining diversity and faith. I remember feeling special that our family had different traditions than my friends up the street. I remember going to a neighbors to see them light their tree and their family coming to our house for latkes and the ceremonial lighting of the menorah. I remember reading about Judah and The Maccabees. As I remember, it’s still a pretty good story.

THEY SHOOT AUTHORS, DON'T THEY?

I am not a political pundit, nor do I have any desire to act as such. While I may have an opinion about almost everything, political agenda has never been a platform from which I choose to dive (head first or otherwise).

This election year has been most stimulating, however- and while I usually go out of my way to steer clear of such conversation at the occasional cocktail party or the Elks Lodge pancake breakfast, I found myself chatting with a neighbor last week at the local crafts fair petting zoo.....and Sarah Palin finally managed to get my goat.

An article in TIME MAGAZINE www.time.com/politics/article/0,8599,18379,00html
two weeks ago referred to certain actions that Ms. Palin took during her term in office as Mayor of Wasilla, Alaska in 1996. Apparently, these factoids are a matter of public record.

According to Vicki Naegele, (then managing editor of the Mat-Su Frontiersman) Palin told department heads that they needed her permission to talk to reporters- “She put a gag order on those people, something you’d expect to find in the big city, not here” says Naegele. “She flew in there like a big-city gal, which she’s not. It was a strange time, and (The Frontiersman) came out very harshly against her”

Palin went on to attempt to inject religious beliefs into her policy at times. “She asked the library how she could go about banning books”, according to political opponent John Stein, “because some voters thought they had inappropriate language in them- the librarian was aghast” That woman, Mary Ellen Baker, couldn’t be reached for comment, but news reports from the time show that Palin had “threatened to fire Baker for not giving ’full support’ to the Mayor”

A contributor to http://www.librarian.net/ names the books that Palin attempted to ban from the library. Here’s where it gets personal. (and the canker gnaws, not unlike the aforementioned goat)

The first book on her (to be burned) list was A WRINKLE IN TIME by Madeleine L’Engle. When I was seven years old, my mother took me by the hand and led me to our local library in downtown Binghamton, New York - which started my journey on a lifelong path of discovery and enlightenment called reading.

It was a bright, sunny day and I was still young enough to believe that the world was a beautiful place. My life was filled with joy and laughter, climbing trees and Kool-Aid. Tears and sorrow, disillusionment and pain were yet to be thought of- still light years off, in a galaxy far, far away.

With the help of our (long dead) librarian (I still have my very first library card, buried in the abyss ) and the gentle guidance of my mother, I scampered out of the library, my first ‘borrowed’ books clutched ever-so-tightly in my tiny, innocent hands and flew to my room to read (all by myself- for the very first time) A WRINKLE IN TIME .

I was instantly, magically, transported to a new world- one of imagination, creativity and excitement. A world that flung wide it’s arms to me and opened the floodgates that, to this day, amaze and delight me every time I crack open a new tome, another chapter in the
"NEVERENDING STORY" that is literature.

A WRINKLE IN TIME revolves around a too-smart-for-his -own-good little boy (I could relate), his older (too-nerdy-for-her-own-good) sister (I had one of those) their loner-boy neighbor (yup) and their wild and crazy adventures through space and time in a quest to find and connect with their (too-often-absent) father . The enchanting and Nebula Award winning story made me think. Made me learn. Made me laugh. Made me cry.

It was that moment that steered me toward the path I still meander. I was lucky- I had the “Leave it to Beaver”, stay-at-home Mom that told me to “look it up in the dictionary” (ooh, that reminds me- WEBSTERS NINTH NEW COLLEGIATE DICTIONARY was on Sarah Palins’ list of “objectionable” books) when I came across a word I did not recognize. Reading actually taught me, inspired me, nurtured me and ever so gently nudged me forth into a BRAVE NEW WORLD (yes, Aldous Huxley is on “The List”) - a world that the Sarah Palins of the planet would control if they could.

This frightening thought gives me pause. If Palin had been around in 1962 to dictate what books I checked out of the library (free will intact) would I be who I am today? Would I have matured into the man I am at this moment? Would I still possess the desire to learn, to imagine, to grow? Would I have developed the desire to write my own thoughts on a blank page?

There are other authors names on the now - famous list......Chaucer, D.H. Lawrence, Arthur Miller, Shakespeare, Steinbeck and The Brothers Grimm to name a few. I can’t even imagine a world without them. In fact, I’m still trying to imagine what “LIPSTICK ON A PIG” would look like.

A RAY OF SUNSHINE

Reprinted with express permission of The Towne Crier www.crierwired.com email comments or questions to: criernews@yahoo.com


9/07/08

“TWO MEN TALKING” CREATES STIMULATING CONVERSATION

By Jonathan Fox
The Towne Crier

The Tusten Theatre in Narrowsburg, NY is a charming venue nestled in the Catskills and apparently produces a variety of interesting and thought-provoking productions in association with the Delaware Valley Arts Alliance.

Last nights performance of “Two Men Talking” was certainly no exception. The authors, Paul Browde, MD and Murray Nossel, PHD are not actors, nor is the non-scripted production a play, per se. The gentlemen - and the production are nonetheless highly entertaining, thought provoking, often very amusing and theatrical and the audience arrived in droves, during a torrential downpour, no less, to show their enthusiastic support.

This “Performance Piece” is unusual in many respects- there are no sets nor props, the “staging” is non-existent and yet the mood created by these two men, alone on a bare stage is both moving and inspiring.

Paul Browde is a psychiatrist in private practice in New York City and Murray Nossel is an Academy Award nominated documentary film maker and practiced as a clinical psychologist in their native South Africa.

These men are both adept at story telling and their personal stories have intertwined in fascinating ways over the span of two decades. While no two performances are exactly alike, like snow flakes, they are each unique and beautiful and they weave their spell over the audience each night in different ways.

From their boyhood meeting as privileged, white upper-class South African Jews- to their adult lives - which take many twists and turns over the years as gay men dealing with the issues of Apartheid, AIDS, family and friends, their tales range from charming to alarming in the blink of an eye, the whole while captivating the audience with their wit, intelligence and panache.


From the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem to the streets of London to the decadent decade of “Sex, drugs and Rock ‘n Roll” in San Francisco, their stories are infused with humor, pathos and entertaining anecdotes that kept the audience mesmerized for 75 minutes or so, with no intermission.

An informal “question and answer” mini-event was held after the performance and surprisingly, the vast majority of theatergoers stayed in their seats for an opportunity to ask some probing and thoughtful questions of the authors, providing yet another opportunity to be entertained and informed about the variety of topics covered in the too-short addendum to the show.

The pair have performed this piece, in it’s many incarnations, all over the world and have formed a company that takes their unique perspective to private corporations and various organizations, encouraging the “private sector’ to share their own personal stories as a path to personal enlightenment and emotional growth.

How fortunate we are, that even here, tucked away in upstate New York (where both men own homes and spend much deserved “down time”) there is a place where we can gather as one and share some of these very special moments together.

SMALL, NOT FUNNY...... NOT FINE

9/06/08
Norman Duttweiler, Producer
Forestburgh Playhouse/Theater AMDG, Inc.
39 Forestburgh Road
Forestburgh, NY 12777

Dear Norman:
(I address you informally, since I feel as if we know each other- I have been attending shows at the theater for almost eight years.....and you appear to recognize me when I walk through the door- one of the many charms of a night out at the FBP)

I am writing you in regard to my most recent experience at the Playhouse: “GYPSY”........

One of the reasons I am doing so is that you and your associates ask us for feedback, on stage and in the programs- the insert questionnaire makes it clear that you are interested in what we, the viewing audience, think and feel in response to the various performances- and while I wish I had more positive comments regarding this particular production, please be aware that I have enjoyed many shows in the past and have contacted you in other seasons with praise as well........so my interest in doing so is not an isolated incident.

I’m an avid theater enthusiast and have enjoyed many performances at the Forestburgh Playhouse over the years- therefore I implore you to receive this in the spirit in which it is intended. I am a fan and shall remain so- however, for me, GYPSY was a disaster- from the second the overture began.....and remained so until I left at intermission- something I have done fewer than six times in the fifty years I have been attending live theater.

It would be fair to say that I have a soft spot in my heart for GYPSY- it has always been one of my favorites and I was thrilled to see that you were mounting a production this summer- I have seen the show done many, many times, in assorted venues, from Broadway to Summer Stock, so it would be unfair to assume that I arrived with any sort of preconceived notion of what was to come.

That being said, I felt strongly enough about this particular production to share my thoughts with you and purposely waited a good period of time before doing so, since my initial reaction (aside from horror and dismay) was one of pure anger.

I, as an audience member, felt cheated and betrayed on Tuesday, July 1st, perhaps even more so because I was excited to be seeing one of my favorite shows- in one of my favorite places- the Forestburgh Playhouse!

I think I am fairly well versed in the theater and have had my share of experience both on and off the stage , which gives me some insight to both viewpoints (in my own humble opinion)- so without further ado- I will now share.......

I think that there are some pieces better left to their own devices- and GYPSY to me, is no exception. While it might be “fun” to play with Shakespeare and set MACBETH in the Wild, Wild West- it is not necessarily a good idea, nor (in my humble opinion) is it a good idea to “rethink” the role of Mama Rose and make her playful, sweet, adorable,sensitive, lovable, naive and vulnerable. I believe that Jule Styne, Arthur Laurents and Stephen Sondheim were well aware of what characteristics they wished to portray in Rose- and made fine decisions regarding when to manipulate the audience into realizing those various aspects of a such a dynamic and multifaceted individual.

The fact that the character of Rose is based on an actual living human being also comes into play. While GYPSY is “suggested by the memoirs” of her daughter.....one cannot escape understanding that the show was written about real people and that certain basic and fundamental aspects of their personalities were facts and not necessarily open to interpretation.....

This remains another good argument (in my humble opinion) to not reinterpret a role which has virtually become a part of the American Theater Landscape. When one thinks of the term “Stage Mother” one conjures up a vision of Mama Rose.....and I believe the role should be interpreted by both actor and director as such, along with the respect due the authors of such a brilliant piece of Theater History.

Honestly, I was horrified. If I didn’t know that I was supposed to be ‘surprised’ by Rose’s entrance from the back of the house, I would certainly not have made that assumption based on the entrance made by Leslie Alexander. Given her meek and totally unimposing interpretation of the character, coupled with a choice to have her not be loud, obnoxious or “over the top”- hardly left room for her to appear vulnerable or for the audience to feel for her when her guard is finally let down later on in the show.






The only emotion I felt was one of pity for some of the other performers, who had to work with Ms. Alexander and her incredibly boring, ill-conceived , one-note interpretation of Mama Rose. (Of course, this is only my humble opinion)

Even though I have allowed time to pass between my seeing the show and putting “pen to paper”, I still shudder at some of the unbelievable choices that were made. I phrase this carefully, since I do believe these were, indeed, choices. It would be far more forgivable to think otherwise.

Somewhere along the "rehearsal road” someone made a choice to use a stuffed animal instead of a real, live dog. This seems inconceivable, yet it’s true. One of the many charms of the Forestburgh Playhouse is it’s intimate setting and that there isn’t a “Bad Seat in the House”......why then, even attempt to make me believe that the poor creature is holding a real dog- this isn’t ANNIE for God’s sake......the dog is hardly an integral part of the story line. If a live dog couldn’t be found, or there wasn’t money in the budget, or the dog that had been cast (if only!) died on opening night, why oh why, did someone not just open their mouth (anyone- even the Janitor) and say “For Christ’s sake- just cut the damn dog” ?

To fail so miserably to create the illusion (perhaps I should say “specter”) of poor ‘Chowsie’ immediately set the tone for the evening ahead and barely ten minutes had elapsed.

Quincy Confoy gave a competent and vivacious performance as Baby June. For some bizarre reason, Tim Mulalley was apparently directed (?) to portray POP as a grinning, foolish New York Cabbie who smirked his way through a thankless role, made even more so by the actor’s performance.

Unfortunately for the audience, (and I must say, the lack of response was palpable) we then had to suffer, as a group, through Ms. Alexander’s rendition of ‘Some People’. Weak, unfocused, tuneless and ineffectual are only some of the words that come to mind. I thank God she wasn’t dragging the “Pound Puppy” behind her on a string or holding an “invisible dog leash” from Disneyland in the hand that wasn’t calculating each and every second she had to endure before grabbing that damn plaque off the wall, since we could actually see the actor calculating each and every move she was about to execute before doing so.


By some stroke of extraordinary luck, we had the good fortune of some talent appearing in this train wreck. Bruce Sabath (as Herbie), Jessica Wagner (as June) and Laura Beth Wells (as Louise) were the proverbial “breath of fresh air” in an otherwise talent-free cast. This is a wonder to me, considering the enormous pool of talent that the theater has at it’s disposal. Considering it’s proximity to New York City and the vast array of actors available for the season, it seems incredible that there were not other fine casting choices that could have been made.

Bruce Sabath brought depth and a fine singing voice to the table and must have had difficulty working opposite the wooden, one-note (off key, no less) performance of the aforementioned Leslie Alexander.

While “Small World” could have been a golden opportunity for the audience to catch a glimpse of what lies underneath the facade of false bravado that Rose presents to the world at large, we had already been given little else from her and as a result, the number fell flat on it’s face, despite the valiant efforts of Mr. Sabath.

Suffice it to say that “no comment” is the best tactic to employ rather than discussing some of the other musical numbers in the show. While Quincy Confoy (Baby June)did her best with “Let Me Entertain You” she was backed up by a clumsy gaggle of girly-boys, who apparently were given as little direction as everyone else on stage that evening. The very same group limped their way through “Mr. Goldstone”, a number that is usually performed with vigor and enthusiasm- sadly, this time, not so much.

The clouds parted briefly as Laura Beth Wells took the stage alone to offer her beautiful and plaintive rendition of “Little Lamb” giving the audience a moment to sit back and remember that “GYPSY” was written beautifully and artfully, even though the actress was singing to some sort of stuffed animal- probably the synthetic-fleece version of Chowsie from Act One, Scene One.

Ms. Alexander continued to sedate the audience (and undoubtedly her costar) while performing “You’ll Never Get Away From Me”, which reminded me of the old adage about the “Pink Elephant in the Room”, since all I could think about was “getting away from her” as we suffered through the barnyard sequence and were finally rewarded with two talented people on stage, at the same time.


Jessica Wagner and Laura Beth Wells sang their hearts out (“If Mama Was Married) and roused the audience into showing our collective appreciation for their efforts. As far as I can recall, this was the first time there was actually a positive reaction from the audience, including myself, and we all enthusiastically applauded. Funny, isn’t it?

The role of Tulsa is a plum for any actor lucky enough to pluck it from the audition process.....Not only does the character play a pivotal role in the story line, but has one of the best numbers in the show, which is saying a lot, since the show is (under normal circumstances) chock-full of ‘show-stoppers”.

Apparently, the director (Edward Juvier) did not feel it necessary to cast someone who was capable of both singing and dancing at the same time- since Scott Patrick Allan was in no position to do so, even though it is the only requirement for the actor chosen for the role. Mr. Allan was clearly not up to the challenge since he was literally huffing and puffing
half -way through the routine and clearly had no business attempting to do so, once again leaving it up to Laura Beth Wells and her wig, ( which apparently was a football helmet covered in fake fur-) to salvage the scene.

At this point in the show, one is normally deeply involved in the story and therefore moved by Mama Rose’s reaction to June and Tulsa running off, along with the Newsboys (couldn’t wait to see them go!) and Act One has built up enough momentum to allow Rose to knock us out with one of the show’s signature songs, “Everything’s Coming Up Roses”. Sadly ,I was wishing that I had been knocked unconscious, rather than having to suffer through yet another poorly executed hatchet-job. Everything may have been coming up roses, but in this case, they were already wilted and instead of a lovely lingering scent, they left behind the stench of death and decay.

It was never my intention, even after the curtain fell on Act One, to abandon ship- since there were so many wonderful moments in the show still to come. The Toreadorables, the Strippers, Louise’s transformation from ugly duckling into the amazing Gypsy Rose Lee, the list goes on- but I was afraid of what might lie ahead. Act One was such a disaster, I could only imagine the butchering of Act two and I just didn’t have the heart to see it unfold before my already saddened and disillusioned eyes.


It may not have been fair to the performers, but I already felt that they and the director (and ultimately, the artistic director of the company at large) had been incredibly unfair to me. Apparently, I was not alone - as I made my way to the parking lot, there were others leaving, undoubtedly as disappointed as myself, some heatedly discussing it, some simply shaking their heads in disbelief.

When I got home, I called my Mother and told her the bad news. Her reaction? “How do you F***K up GYPSY”? she asked.
“I don’t know, Mom” I replied. “You’ll have to ask Norman Duttweiler. After all, he’s the producer”