Brave New World

Boston Tea Party





1951 Ford

Today, December 16th, was a very important day. First of all, it was the 237th anniversary of the Boston Tea Party. In 1773, the colonists were sick of paying all the taxes that King George was levying upon them, and eventually got to a "we're mad as hell and we're not gonna take it anymore" moment. A bunch of guys got dressed up like Indians (in those days no one cared about political correctness; they were still "Indians", not "Native Americans") and dumped all the tea that the British had shipped through the East India Company into Boston Harbor. For all intents and purposes, it was the beginning of the Revolutionary War. This makes December 16th a significant historical date. This particular December 16th, however, holds even more significance. You see, today marks exactly one month to go till my birthday on January 16th. Big deal, you say; everyone has birthdays. Why is this birthday special? Well, I'll tell you why: I was born in 1951, that's why. Go ahead, do the math...I'll wait. Got it? Good. Big number, isn't it? Well, I know you'll agree with me that this big birthday is more significant than many other, run-of-the-mill, garden variety big birthdays, simply by virtue of the fact that it almost didn't happen! Anyway, here are some fun facts about 1951:

A new car cost $1800.00. Bread was .16 cents a loaf, a first class postage stamp .03 cents, and the average annual salary was $4200.00. Harry Truman was in the White House. The Yankees beat the Giants in the World Series, shuttling back and forth between the Polo Grounds in upper Manhattan and Yankee Stadium in the Bronx. And, believe it or not, we were just six years removed from the end of the Holocaust. Had my parents not left Europe when they did, I might not be sitting here writing posts. Unbelievable. So to celebrate my last month in my fifties, I took Babby to the movies. She's been bugging me to take her for months. In the car all the way there she kept trying to get me to turn around and take her home. "I don't want to bother you," she said, in typical Babby fashion, "I'll just go for a walk on Thirteenth Avenue". Of course it was about twelve degrees at the time, so I decided that shpatziring* on the Avenue was out of the question. When we got to the theater in Sheepshead Bay, Babby made a beeline to the restroom. She came out all upset, so I asked her what the problem was. "I couldn't wash my hands; the sinks don't work", she said. I told her that you have to put your hands under the faucet and the sink turns on automatically. "How was I supposed to know that?" It was a valid question. The last time she saw a movie, Uncle Dave's** beard was still black. She washed her hands in the water fountain. Now her hands were wet. I ran into the men's room to get paper towels. Nope. None to be had. Electric hand dryers. So I went to the concession stand and got some napkins. After the movie was over, we both needed the bathroom. I figured I'd take a chance: I went into the ladies' Room with her to show her how to use the sinks and the hand dryer. Luckily it was empty when we went in, but it didn't stay that way. Soon a woman came in, gave me a glance, sized up the situation and didn't say anything. Whew. On the way home, Babby kept talking about what a great time she had, but also about all the new-fangled gadgets she had encountered. "I don't belong in this world," she lamented, a refrain I'd heard from her a thousand times before. I knows how she feels...without even asking, the guy at the theater had sold me a senior citizen ticket. Time to move to Century Village.

* Shpatziring = Strolling.

** Uncle Dave = My Brother-in-law, Dave (see "The Incredibles", 11/14)

Quack, Quack!

When you've seen as many doctors as I have over the last year, you get to the point where you can pretty much smell an incompetent doofus before he opens his mouth. Incidentally, have you noticed that commercials these days have replaced the word "doctor" with "health care professional"? As in "ask your health care professional if dipping your fingers in boiling wax is right for you". That's a private joke between Chayie and me; you can ask her about it. Hint: there was actually a time when she listened to me, and not the other way around. Also, when they advertise a drug on TV now, they are apparently required to list all the nasty side effects. As in "Toplipin can cause severe headaches, dizziness and armpit hair loss. Do not take Toplipin if you are nursing, pregnant, may become pregnant, may eat tangerines or may see 'Gone With The Wind' on a Tuesday night. Other side effects include drowsiness, upset stomach, painful spleen and death. Consult your health care professional before using Toplipin if you have a wart on your nose." By the time the commercial is over, there's no way in hell you're ever gonna use the stuff; you'd rather keep suffering from halitosis than risk losing your armpit hair, for crying out loud! Anyway, incompetent doctors are as common as banks on 13th Avenue. Indeed, there are a lot more of them than competent ones. They're all over the place, but their headquarters seems to be Beth Israel Hospital in Brooklyn. And I use the term "hospital" rather loosely. Anytime someone recommends a doctor affiliated with that hallowed institution, I tend to run the other way. And I can't run these days. I bring this up because for the past week or so I've had severe pain in my right shoulder. When I say severe, I mean the kind of pain you associate with a migraine or a toothache; the kind that makes it impossible to concentrate on anything else. The weird thing about it is that it comes and goes arbitrarily. I'll be sitting still and it won't hurt at all and then...boom! Back comes the pain with a vengeance. I called Dr. Katzenelenbogen's office and he told me to go to an orthopedist. Then he recommended two practices. I had already been to one and was unimpressed, so I was stuck with the other one. I should have known better; the office was next door to Beth Israel. Drs. Morgan, Soifer, Capulsky, Harding, Happy, Sleepy and Dopey or some such ridiculous number of physicians practice out of this office, and I do mean practice...they're gonna keep practicing until they get it right. Did you ever notice that there's a direct negative correlation between how much time you spend in the waiting room and how good the doctor is? I hardly wait at all when I go to Dr. DePalo, a world class pulmonologist. Dr. Woo is one of the best voice doctors in the world, possibly the best. The longest I've sat in his waiting room is maybe ten minutes. I waited for this Harding clown for two hours! I knew the moment he entered the room that this guy had graduated at the bottom of his class. He was disheveled, grumpy and lacked even the requisite white coat, which would at least have given him the appearance of professionalism. After feeling around for a while and glancing briefly at my x-ray, he pronounced his diagnosis: pinched nerve with a little bursitis thrown in for good measure. I'm convinced that orthopedists say you've got a pinched nerve when they have no idea what's wrong with you. He gave me a cortisone shot that hurt like hell, and three prescriptions: one for a painkiller, one for a muscle relaxant, and one for physical therapy. Then he sent me to the front desk so I could pay my copay and make another appointment. It's now a few hours later. My shoulder is killing me, but my wallet is a bit lighter. As much as I love Brooklyn, I'll give you some good advice, kiddies: if you want a good doctor, go to Manhattan!

Getta Me a Passaporta!

My hero.

I actually did it; I sent in a deposit! I decided to do it post haste, before I had a chance to change my mind. I do that a lot; I'll decide to do something and then decide not to, usually either because I tell myself I can't afford it or I don't deserve it. Well, I probably can't afford this either, but I decided that I do deserve it, by golly! I've waited all my life to do this...im lo achshav, eimosai*? Do I know how much longer my life will be? A glance at the itinerary quickened my pulse immediately. First of all, we're slated to meet the world famous Chef Boyardee! I have long been an admirer of The Chef (he actually prefers "His Chefness"). While none of his delectible creations are kosher, anyone who can combine meatballs with dinosaurs qualifies as a culinary genius in my book. The Chef is quite old and frail and lives in a nursing home in a tiny fishing village called Corniglia. If he's not able to receive us that day, we will hopefully still be treated to an audience with his roommate, Uncle Ben. Then it's on to the Leaning Tower, the world famous monument to Italy's beloved national food. The Rabbi will attempt to answer some of the more widely asked questions about the tower, such as: Why are all the Pepperoni slices on the bottom? How has it stayed fresh all these hundreds of years? Of course, everyone knows why it leans to the right: it was designed by a Sicilian ancestor of Sean Hannity, Fr. Nunzio Hannitini. This bit of Italian trivia of course begs the question, why doesn't the tower contain any Sicilian slices? Speaking of trivia, we are also sceduled to visit one of Rome's most popular tourist attractions, the Trivia Fountain! You stand there watching the beautiful fountain spew forth its thousands of gallons of Asti Spumante while wearing complimentary headphones through which you hear such vital tidbits as the name of Michael Corleone's first wife who was killed in by a car bomb meant for him (Appolonia). In magnificent Venice we'll have a chance to go for a ride in a gondola, but unless I meet a nice Jewish/Italian girl who has no interest in matrimony, I think I'll pass. Riding a gondola alone immediately identifies one as a perdente', or loser. The Italians have long complained that it's much easier to form an "L" on one's forehead than a "P", and there is actually a movement afoot to have the word officially changed to its English counterpart. I could go on and on, but I'm sure by now you get the gist of how very special this tour promises to be. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go brush up on my Italian. So far I can say "Pasta", "Bologna," and "Mafia" rather fluently and with my usual verbal aplomb.

*Im lo achshav, eimosai? = If not now, when?

Buon Viaggio!*



The Colostomy.

 I started looking in the travel section of the Jewish press. For weeks all I found were ads about hotels for Passover. Passover in Miami. Passover in Phoenix. Passover in Cancun. Passover in Zimbabwe. Okay, I made that one up. Doesn't anyone stay home for Yom Tov** anymore? I went away for Passover once with wife #1 and once with wife #3 (with wife #2, being in Crown Heights was exotic enough, thank you very much). I was in Newport, Rhode Island and Stamford, Connecticut respectively. Did you know that if you put one foot in the street in Newport, rather than try to run you down like in New York, the cars come to a complete hault? I had a lot of fun doing that. But I really prefer to have my seder in the bosom of my own, dysfunctional family. Don't you think "bosom" should be spelled "buzum"? After a few weeks, I finally found a tiny ad for a tour to "Mystical Morocco". Sounded great, but it was from December 23rd till January 2nd. I wasn't psychologically prepared to travel next week, and besides, Heshy Schwartz's son Avi is getting married on the 23rd. I was getting ready to be disappointed when I noticed that there was another tour advertised in the same ad. This one was to...ITALY! Wow! Italy! The tour leaves February 20th and returns February 27th. Presidents' Week. I found their website and looked at the itinerary; it looked amazing. I called and spoke to the tour director. Turns out he knows me and my brother and my sister and my dead cousin. He said he expects me to be the life of the party if I come. Little does he know that I'm no longer physically capable of being the wild and crazy guy anymore. Indeed, I'm not even sure I can keep up if there's a lot of walking involved. Then the "Voices In My Head" started...

Voice One: "You can't go, you don't have the money and whatever you do have you'll want to leave to your kids".
Voice Two: "You've wanted to do this all your life. You can scrape together the money and you can leave your kids your turtle collection".
Needless to say, Voice Two won!

* Buon Viaggio = "Bon Voyage" in Italian.
** Yom Tov = Holiday.

My Bucket List


 I first used the term

I finally got a round tuit.

"Bucket List" in a

post back in November.

The post, "The Wright Stuff", was about my decision, after a visit to Dr. Woo's office, to finally visit the Guggenheim,
something I've wanted to do forever. Having lived in New York all my life, there was absolutely no reason why I hadn't fulfilled this particular, non-demanding dream before. It was just one of those things I kept telling myself I would do when I got around to it. Since Dr. Woo's office is pretty much around the corner from the museum, I couldn't come up with an excuse not to go. Anyway, as you know, I had a blast. But going to an iconic art museum virtually in my own back yard was a piece of cake. So I started to ponder what I really wanted to do before shuffling off this mortal coil. I mean the hard stuff, the stuff that heretofore I really had viable excuses for not doing. The first thing that popped into my head was the most obvious: I've always, always, wanted to travel. I'd read magazines or watch TV and see some really magnificent sites and say to myself, "self, you're gonna die before ever seeing any of those places". The excuses (or as my shrink would have put it, the "resisitances") were always around and handy: I was working. I was tired. I was married. I was single. I was broke. That was my favorite. Being broke is a great excuse for not doing a lot of things, because it's actually a valid reason. Truth be told, however, if you want something badly enough, you find a way to make it happen. It took my almost fatal run-in with pneumonia for me to realize that if I ever actually want to see any of these exotic locals, I better get a move on. So I started researching where to go on my first exciting excursion. I'd already been to Israel twice and while I absolutely adore being there and intend to go back (hopefully more than once), this trip was going to be different. The only other faraway lands I'd been to were Mexico about 100 years ago and Rochelle Park, New Jersey. I decided I wanted to go to Europe. Being the happy-and-peppy guy that I am, my first thought was not Paris or London, where I could marvel at the Eiffel Tower or Buckingham Palace. Oh, on, those would be too pedestrian for an intellectual like me. I wanted to go to Auschwitz! Prague, Vienna, Budapest, Krackow; now there's a line-up of places where I could see as many Jewish cemeteries as my little demented heart desired. I figured if I doubled up on the Zoloft while I was there, I'd be okay. Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately) I couldn't find anyone who was doing a guided tour of Eastern Europe this year. I called Rabbi Pesach Krohn and Rabbi Berel Wein. Rabbi Krohn hurt himself last time he was in Israel and isn't going anywhere for a while and Rabbi Wein is going to Africa. Last time I checked, Africa wasn't part of Europe. It's also outrageously expensive. So I went back to the proverbial drawing board. Well, I finally found a tour that was perfect for me. Can you guess where I'm going? Stay tuned!

Mr. Clean

Let's face it: I'm a slob.  Not that there's anything wrong with that, but I am.  I won't make excuses like I did about my temper.  At least there it lends itself to an explanation that holds up rather well under scientific scrutiny.  I used to delude myself into thinking that I was merely sloppy, not dirty.  Even now, I think that was the case for a while.  But the fact that a good portion of the medical community familiar with my case is convinced that my last apartment almost killed me makes me realize that while living there, I ratcheted up my slovenliness to a whole new level.
I didn't leave dirty dishes lying around, but the place was definitely dusty.  And while I tried to keep the birdcages reasonably clean, I was quite lazy about Oscar's.  It was huge and he was incredibly messy, often throwing his food around just for the hell of it.  So not only was there caked-on poop and dust and dander on the bars and in between the crevices of his cage, there were sunflower seed and pistachio nut shells (he loved pistachios) and feathers and general bird schmutz all over the place.  It was a studio apartment, so his room was my room, and I wound up breathing all that stuff in. I fed him fresh fruit every day (he was particularly fond of pomegranates), and by the end of the day there were little bits of fruit flung around as well.  What's more, during the summer that attracted fruit flies.  I researched online how to get rid of them when you have a bird; none of the alleged solutions I found worked.  Then things really got out of hand.  Did you know that the insect world boasts a critter known as a "birdseed moth"?  Well, neither did I.  Apparently this particular pest lays its eggs in the birdseed and those eggs often get packed with the seed when it's being commercially processed.  Then when they're in your apartment, they hatch, and you're absolutely inundated with tiny little white moths.  There are traps specifically made for birdseed moths, using their pheromones to ensnare their little footsies in industrial strength glue.  While these traps do work, they very rarely keep up with the amount of moth progeny flitting about your domicile.  So now, let's review: my place was a veritable cornucopia of dirt, dust, dander, feathers, and bugs.  Is it any wonder it almost did me in??  To a man, every doctor who treated me told me not to go back there.  Ever!  Not even to pack!  The handful of times I absolutely had to be there (like when I showed the place to my mover), I wore a surgical mask.  So here I am in a brand spanking new apartment.  In keeping with my new policy of self-improvement (and also because I prefer to go on breathing...I'm funny that way), I've changed my evil ways, baby.  Perhaps this is all the result of my having spent five months in the presence of my sister, a person who can spot a cake crumb under a table at a hundred yards.  She is OCD about so many things (e.g. all the ingredients of her chulent* must be put in the pot in exactly the right order or the world as we know it will cease to exist) that she makes Howard Hughes look like a germ-laden vagrant.  Oh, and the ants!  In the warmer months her kitchen is invaded by tiny little ants.  Chayie literally can't sleep if there's one miniscule creepy crawly left on her counter.  I've never seen a house cleaner than Chayie's.  I think one of us must have been adopted.  Anyway, I'm much, much better at keeping my residence reasonably inhabitable.  I make it a point to put things back where they belong after I'm finished with them (what a concept!), something I've never done before.  I'm dusting and sweeping and...ugh...vacuuming.  And guess what?  I've been here about two months, haven't had a cleaning lady, and the place is pretty much spotless.  Can I keep it up?  Who knows.  I will tell you this, though: there's definitely something to be said for living in a place where I can breathe deeply without having to worry about a moth flying up my nose.

* Chulent = a traditional stew-like Sabbath dish made with beans, meat
and sometimes barley and/or potatoes, depending on the recipe.

Chromosome 16

I've been meek as a lamb lately. So meek, in fact, I've barely recognized myself. As all you loyal blog-followers already know, since I got sick I've been working on improving some personality traits which I've deemed less than desirable. I think I've made some progress; heck, I'm sure I've made some progress. But apparently there are certain truisms about my psyche which are as immutable as the laws of physics. I'm sure all of you know the old maxim that redheads all have fiery tempers. In 1997 scientists discovered what causes redheadedness on a cellular level. People with red hair have two copies of a recessive gene on Chromosome 16 which causes a mutation in the MC1R protein. This means that in order to be blessed with the rarest of hair colors (only 1% to 2% of worldwide human population), both parents must be carriers. Sheesh...doesn't that sound like we're discussing a disease? The question to ponder is whether the same genetic anomaly that makes someone a carrot-top also leaves him with a propensity to be a walking volcano. Not possible, you say? Consider: people with Down Syndrome have a plethora of problems with which to deal, not only their obvious intellectual disability. There are the characteristic facial features and often heart defects and other health problems. The syndrome is caused by extra genetic material from chromosome 21. So obviously any change in one's normal genetic make-up can be responsible for more than one distinct physical and/or psychological trait. Of course, this is all a long, drawn-out, convenient excuse for me going totally ballistic over a parking spot on 13th Avenue in Boro Park last night.

The details aren't important. Indeed, I might even have been wr-r-r-ong (that's usually when someone says "the details aren't important"). Suffice it to say that the other guy referred to me as a particular orifice which appears south of the border on one's body. I, of course, took umbrage, and I hardly ever take umbrage unless it's just laying around and nobody else wants it. I'm proud to say that I came up with several different, somewhat colorful ways with which to question said neanderthal's manhood faster than you can say "get out of my face, you fat, ugly punk!". Things escalated of course, until we were standing in the gutter yelling profanities at each other loud enough to disturb the eternal slumber of the denizens of nearby Washington Cemetery. But here's the worst part: Babby* was with me. We were going to Kosher Delight for an "I only gained half a pound at Weight Watchers tonight after pigging out two nights in a row at two separate Chanukah parties this week" celebration. I was kind of hoping two things: one, that her hearing would be bad enough so that she couldn't hear her beloved middle child sounding like Richard Pryor on steroids, and two, that her memory (or rather lack thereof) would prevent her from bringing up this disgraceful fiasco over our sino-steak sandwiches. No such luck. On both counts. So even though I can truthfully state that all my soul-searching and self-improvement resolutions have not been for nought, I apparently have more work to do. But if I ever fly off the handle in your presence,

please remember: it ain't my fault...it's my genetics.

* Babby=Grandma. Meaning my mom. One of her proudest moments, no doubt.