Into the Closet

Welcome to my closets.

That’s right I have two. Neither of them is of the walk-in variety which is just as well since you would probably break your neck on the shoes heaped up on the floor.

Here in Closet One are my dress clothes. I rarely go here anymore since I stopped working. Yes, I have a lot of neckties. I love the little dears but rarely have occasion to wear one. Take a look at this one. Looks like just an abstract design right? Wrong! If you look real close you will see that the pattern actually spells out “fuck you.” I would wear this from time to time when meeting with disagreeable sorts such as the IRS auditors. I think I’ll hang onto it in case I’m ever invited on the Glen Beck Show.

Since ties have gotten skinny again and mine are of the plumpish sort, I think I may download a bunch of them on Ebay. It would all be gravy because I got most of them for free. Back when I was executive director of the Men’s Furnishings Association my members kept me well stocked in shirts and ties. Getting a tie was easy, getting a raise was tough.

It may surprise you to know that I was once considered something of an authority on men’s fashion. I even have a web site, www.shirtsandties.org, offering wardrobe advice to the rare man seeking it. I am thinking of starting a blog on men’s wear that ties into the web site. Unfortunately, the only fashion advice I can think of at the moment is “don’t wipe your hands on your pants.” I just ruined a new pair of jeans by doing exactly that after changing the oil in the lawn mower.

Oh look, here’s my tweed sport jacket that I wear all the time. Well, maybe not so much all the time since it seems to still have hair on it from the cat that died five years ago.

I am getting nostalgic, so let’s move on to Closet Two. This is the sanctuary of my more sporty items. You will notice that it is organized in two tiers. On the top are my bottoms, on the bottom are my tops. Here on the right are all my short-sleeve shirts waiting to go into storage in the basement until the spring. Oh, it is spring. So I guess I can let that one slide.

Why so many pairs of pants? Well, we have fat pants, medium pants, and thin pants so that I always have something to wear regardless of my ever shifting profile. If, after my demise, some archaeologist counts the pants by type and studies the wear patterns, he will learn that I spent most of my adult life in fat pants. I am happy to report, however, that after an intense diet and fitness program inspired by my daughter’s approaching wedding, I can squeeze back into my medium pants. I think it will take a really frightening report from my doctors to get me to go for the thins.

Up there on the top shelf are two of my favorite sweaters: the Irish sweater my mother bought for me in 1964 and the Norwegian ski sweater I purchased in 1971. I still wear both regularly. When I tell some middle aged person I have clothing older than they are, I speak the truth.

Oh, you have to run along? But we haven’t gotten to my dressers yet. Well, maybe next time.

Sinatra Quiz

I am in the midst of reading “Frank: The Voice” by James Kaplan.

I have long been a fan of Sinatra’s music, but never cared much for him as a man.

Nothing in this book that traces his life from his childhood in Hoboken to his career resurgence in 1953 changes that. We learn that he was a momma’s boy, a bully, a wimp, a prodigious philanderer, ruthlessly ambitious, ego maniacal, mobbed up, obsessive compulsive and a prima donna.

Hey, nobody’s perfect. Still, to paraphrase the author, he gave us the best part of himself in his music.

Now for you Frankophiles and Frankophobes, it’s time for a little quiz to test your knowledge of things Sinatra.

As usual, there will be no cash prizes. So, put your dreams away for another day and pick up your pencils.

1. How did Frank Sinatra get the scars on the left side of his face and left ear?
a. In a knife fight on the streets of Hoboken.
b. A little over-enthusiastic discipline from his over-bearing mother, Dolly.
c. Forceps marks from his birth.
d. Ava Gardner

2. Frank Sinatra was…
a. macrophallic
b. monochromatic
c. hydrocephalic
d. hydrophobic

3. Why was Nancy Sinatra called “Big Nancy”?
a. She was a foot taller than her husband.
b. To distinguish her from her daughter who was called “Little Nancy”
c. Because she took up two seats on the band bus.
d. She was macrovaginal.

4. How often did Frank change his underwear?
a. Never
b. Once a week
c. Every day.
d. Four times a day.

5. In a famous photo from 1951, Frank is shown getting off a plane to attend a mob meeting in Cuba. He is carrying a suitcase that is so heavy he has to support it on his hip. What did the suit case contain?
a. Narcotics
b. A cash delivery to Lucky Luciano
c. It has never been determined.
d. A three day supply of underwear.


6. How did Frank come by his legendary breath control?
a. He was born that way.
b. From studying Tommy Dorsey’s trombone technique.
c. By holding his breath until he got what he wanted from his mommy.
d. By studying Ava Gardner’s trombone technique.

7. In the Dorsey days, he had a clash of egos with Buddy Rich. How did Frank resolve it?
a. He hired goons to beat him up.
b. He hid Buddy’s drum sticks.
c. He told on Buddy to Tommy Dorsey.
d. He suggested sensitivity training.

8. Why did he flunk his army physical during WWII?
a. A punctured ear drum and emotional instability.
b. The army couldn’t afford his underwear tab.
c. He was too short.
d. His macrophallus kept getting caught in his boots.

9. Who was his major competition for the role of Maggio in “From Here To Eternity”?
a. Wally Cox
b. Eli Wallach
c. Dana Andrews
d. Charlton Heston

10. When he accepted the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor for his performance in “From Here to Eternity”, whom did he thank?
a. Samuel Cahn
b. Dolly
c. Ava Gardner
d. No one

Answers: 1-c; 2-a; 3-b; 4-d; 5-c; 6-b; 7-a; 8-a; 9-b; 10-d

Lost

I got lost the other day going to someplace I knew how to get to.

Getting lost is literally my worst nightmare. I have this recurrent dream that I am lost in the city (always the city) and have just trudged dozens of blocks only to realize I am going the wrong way and have to trudge all the way back to where I originally became lost. At this point panic and exhaustion are overwhelming me and I am already looking to the Conscious Observer to blow his whistle and weigh in with his usual ruling: “Enough with the trudging. You are not trudging another block. You are getting up to take a leak.”

I was on my way to drop-off my entry in an art show which was being held at Prallsville Mill in Stockton, NJ, about an hour drive from my house. I have been there on several occasions and passed it on many others.

I decided on a scenic route which would take me through miles of farms and small villages.

As I rolled along in my semi-trusty, twelve year old Volvo station wagon, I felt disoriented by the dramatic change in the landscape created by all the snow that has fallen this winter. Nothing looked the same. I began to feel disoriented and uncomfortable expecting Rod Serling at any moment to advise me I was about to enter the Twilight Zone.

Route 29, on which I was driving, runs right through Stockton, but I was uncertain which side of the town the mill was on. Traveling across the snow covered countryside, I was on autopilot having a lovely little daydream about how I would spend my Nigerian Sweepstakes winnings buying large houses in warm places.

Soon I came to Stockton.

Since Stockton is one of the smallest towns in New Jersey, I was through it in a nonce and out the other side without ever encountering the mill.

Now my disorientation became panic. Perhaps the mill isn’t in Stockton at all. Perhaps, it is some other part of the state altogether. Perhaps it doesn’t exist. Perhaps I dreamed it. Perhaps I’m dreaming now.

Now you may be wondering why someone in such a fragile navigational state would not have a GPS. Well, as I am sure you might guess, I seem to have lost it.

When I am befuddled, I usually compound my predicament by making a foolish decision. Stockton is on the Delaware River. On the other side of a short bridge lies the State of Pennsylvania. The address on the art submission clearly states Prallsville Mill, Stockton, NJ. The building is owned by the Hunterdon County (NJ) Cultural and Heritage Committee.

Inexplicably, I decided to seek it in Pennsylvania.

And so, I sped through the Pennsylvania countryside looking for a New Jersey destination. Just as I was about to yell to the Conscious Observer, “ISN’T IT TIME FOR ME TO TAKE A LEAK, FOR CHRIST SAKE,” I decided to call Kathie.

Here is how the conversation went:

Me: I’m lost.
Kathie: How could you be lost? Where are you?
Me: I am in Pennsylvania.
Kathie: Why are you in Pennsylvania? Prallsville Mill is in New Jersey.
Me: I thought a little bit of the other side of the Delaware may still have some New Jersey on it.
Kathie: It doesn’t.
Me: I thought I heard that some of it wound up there because the Penn family back in the 17th century got into a boundary dispute with the Jersey Proprietors and that’s how they settled it.
Kathie: You’ve GOT to stop drinking while you watch History Channel! I’ll put the address in Map Quest. It’s in Stockton.
Me: No, its not. I went through there.
Kathie: You must have driven right by it. You were probably daydreaming.
Me: Of all the damn nerve, I don’t daydream when I drive!

And so I re-crossed the bridge and went through Stockton again keeping an eagle eye out for the mill and, sure enough, there it was right where it was supposed to be. In my defense, let it be noted that it was very difficult to spot because the building was below road level and curbside snow piles hid it entirely.

I had submitted my work and, because I was so happy to have made it there, I volunteered to gallery sit and bring an appetizer to the artists’ reception.

Soon I was heading happily and confidently toward home and wishing I hadn't volunteered to make an appetizer.

A Visit to the Other Side

As the little old lady and I stood next to each other at the sinks washing our hands and avoiding eye contact in the mirror, I wondered when she would start to scream. Instead, there was just an awkward silence that seemed to last forever.

Of course, the absence of a urinal should have clued me in that this was the lady’s room. However, it was a Chinese restaurant and I thought I read somewhere that the Chinese hadn’t invented the urinal yet.

What really threw me off was that, as I was heading for the facility, the door was wide open and a middle age man with two male children was leaving. He even held the door for me, thus preventing me from seeing the handsome bronze plaque that announced “Women.” One of the children was screaming his head off complaining of an injured finger.

Why the male delegation was using the lady’s room when in fact there was a men’s room next door, we will never know. Why the dad didn’t give me a heads-up, so to speak, also remains a mystery. I can only think the old lady was part of their group and was forgotten about in the injured finger ruckus. Who coldly offers up granny to a stranger of the opposite sex?

After I noted the absence of a urinal, I proceeded to the first of the two stalls. I attempted to enter but the door did not yield. Assuming it was stuck, I pushed a little harder. Suddenly, the occupant cried out: “go away!” I assumed it was another of the children who was still finishing his business, when in fact it was the little old woman.

She must have been terrified to see my large sneaker clad feet looming under her stall door. And since they are overly conscientious about refilling your water glass at Chinese restaurants, her worst fears must have been confirmed when she heard me strafing the toilet with a loud and long leak from the stall next door.

Of course, her fear was nothing compared to my chagrin when she suddenly appeared beside me at the sinks. It instantly became obvious where I was. I am thinking arrest and public humiliation. I am thinking front page of the New York Post, but I am also thinking nonchalanting it out. I decide that if she asks why I am here, I will respond with the punch line from the old Myron Cohen joke about a cuckolded husband who discovers his wife’s naked lover in the closet: Everybody’s gotta be someplace.

But she slowly and quietly scrubs away seemingly unconcerned about her proximity to a potential sex fiend. I get a terrifying vision that she might not be a little old lady after all, but a homicidal transvestite dwarf like the one in the Daphne DuMaurier movie who wanders around Venice slaughtering innocent men with a butcher knife.

In the end, nothing was said and we both silently left the room.

When I got back to our table, I told Kathie what had happened. Without looking up from her menu she said: “I’m sure you left the seat up.”

Toning It Down

In case you missed it, there is a national conversation going on about whether violent language leads to violent acts.

Take it from me, it does.

Here’s my personal experience..

I was typing away on my much hated Dell PC with the witticisms flowing like fine wine when up pops an ad smack in the middle of my work warning me of the dangers of “getting hacked.” “I’ll hack you, you cookie-crammed piece of crap,” I cried in a pique of interrupted genius and raised my Wolfgang Puck meat cleaver to put the wretched computer out of my misery. Only the pitiful bleating of its terrified mother board snapped me to my senses.

If even a master wordsmith like me can be pushed to the brink by violent language, just think of the effect on ordinary people?

When I considered all the violent language we casually use in our everyday conversation and the potentially tragic outcomes if any of it was acted on, I decided I would do the patriotic thing and tone it down. I suggest you do the same.

No longer will I take a stab at something, neither will I take a shot at it, or give it a crack.

I won’t have a blast, get bombed, wasted, or hammered.

I will not gun my motor, kill my engine, or stomp the pedal because, technically, the car still belongs to the bank.

If I am on target with something, I will try not to picture some hard projectile I have launched striking something soft and squishy. I will consider the store of the same name just a name and not an invitation to mayhem.

I won’t knock my socks off because I’ll hurt myself. I won’t whack off for the same reason.

I won’t shoot the breeze, fire off a letter, punch in or punch out, blow it, kick the habit, bite the bullet, shoot from the hip, go in with guns blazing, or aim to please.

Where have you gone, George Carlin, when we need you?

On Turning Sixty Six

Today is my birthday, and time for some kicks.
Today is the day I turn sixty-six.
Please send best wishes, oodles and oodles,
But no greeting cards that speak of limp noodles.

To say sixty’s the new forty is all the rage.
Even with the discount, I’m late middle age.
It’s not a big landmark like sixty five.
But, nevertheless, I made it alive.

Seventy's the big one looming ahead,
But I hope to make sixty nine before I am dead.
I can’t help but find it an amusing condition;
It's the one time one's age is a sexual position.

Social Security had some good news.
I can earn all I want with nothing to lose.
To learn of this I'm quite overjoyed,
Despite the fact I am unemployed.

It’s time to reflect on friends who have passed.
I hope they won't mind if I go last.
Maybe it’s my movie, I say with delight,
And the good guy will be standing when they turn on the light.

Tho long in the tooth, I think with no smirk,
All my moving parts continue to work.
All runs smoothly, no bumps or no hicks.
Nothing wrong with me that prune juice can’t fix.

To celebrate life I head to the fridge.
Oh hell, where did I leave my damn bridge?

The Second Hand Christmas Tree and Other Coniferous Musings

We have a second hand Christmas tree this year.

It’s a little smaller than the ones we usually get, but is very nicely shaped. We purchased it from the Boro of Califon. It had been used at the Nellie Hoffman House, the restoration project with which we are involved, for a Christmas reception two weeks ago.

Kathie and I thought it was a shame for it to sit there and go to waste, so we bought it back from the town. However, since it has some miles on it, we fear that it might not make it to Christmas. I have this vision of waking Christmas morn to a brown stick and a pile of needles in the living room.

This was not the official town tree, however, which is a scrawny little thing next to the funeral parlor parking lot. This has only served for the past two years. Before that the tree was a rather splendid, large pine in front of the Historic Society Headquarters at the old train station. Unfortunately, it was planted on the right-of-way for a long distance gas transmission line.

The gas company said that the tree had to go because its roots were threatening to compromise the pipeline. This is a lot of hooey because the line, after it leaves Califon, runs through miles of heavy forest where enormous oaks and maples grow right up to the edge of the right-of-way and whose roots must surely “compromise” it.

But what town father wants to see a headline that reads: “Town Citizens Die in Fire Ball Caused by Village Christmas Tree”? So they caved-in and the funeral parlor tree became the official conifer. To me, the proximity of the parlor casts a pall over the tree lighting festivities and caroling that takes place in its very shadow. Lord only knows what mourners think when they see Santa has shown up on a fire truck at their loved one’s wake.

Many years ago, when our kids were young, I was Chairman of the Town Recreation Committee and in charge of the Christmas tree lighting. Unfortunately, I created a controversy with my music selections. At the time we were struggling financially and only owned one Christmas album. It was Walt Disney characters singing carols.

Well, there was outrage and I was forced to appoint a music director who had a more extensive and traditional collection.

I don’t know what the fuss was about. I liked the Disney album and my kids loved it. How could you not admire Goofy’s “five onion ring” riff on the “Twelve Days of Christmas,” or the way he artistically adlibbed a series of “dootey, dootey, doo, doos” through various other standards? And it’s all low brow, secular stuff like “Frosty”, “Here Comes Santa,” etc.

It’s not as if Donald Duck had a go at the “Ave Maria.”

And frankly, I’d rather listen to a duck with a speech impediment do “It’s a Marshmallow World in the Winter” than Johnny Mathis. If I hear him simper “it’s a yum,yummy world made for sweethearts,” one more time, I’ll toss my Christmas cookies.

Kathie and I are down-sizing. Several weeks ago, our son, Kris, and grandson, Owen, came down to go through his childhood possessions and to bring back home those he wanted to keep.

One of the things that went back was the Disney album. And so, another generation of kids will chime in and bellow “FIVE ONION RINGS” whenever they hear the “Twelve Days of Christmas.”

Hark! Do you hear what I hear? Pine needles falling everywhere….

Merry Christmas.