"Don't Complain, Wally"

I was at Burgers Bar on Coney Island Avenue in Brooklyn last Wednesday night. I only go there on Wednesday night. That's because I go to Weight Watchers on Wednesdays, which means that I can go there after my WW meeting and pig out, and have a whole week to be good and make up for it. I'm not sure if that logic makes any sense to anyone else but me, but I find it quite ingenious. So here's the thing about Burgers Bar: they have the best kosher burgers on the planet, IMHO*. Burgers Bar charges a lot more for their burgers than other kosher fast food joints do, but they taste like meat, and that seems to be a foreign concept to the other places, whose burgers generally taste like styrofoam. I chose that picture up there on the left (an ad for a new Burgers Bar opening in Israel) to show you what their burgers look like. And they actually do look like that! When was the last time you saw a burger that inviting that didn't come off your grill at last Labor Day's barbecue? Now, the question of just how kosher they are is for another blog at another time. Suffice it to say that there are those in my community who consider this emporium of bovine perfection to be below their impeccable kashruth standards.

As far as I can tell, there can be two reasons for this:

1. They can't believe anything that tastes this good can actually be kosher, and

2. Burgers Bar's propensity to change their rabbinical supervision

every twenty minutes or so.

As far as I'm concerned, ever since I found a gray hair in my burger that came from the rabbi's beard, I consider the place to be 1000% kosher. Also, even if it's not and I have to do time in purgatory as a result of my having partaken of this evil, mouth-watering delicacy, I think it'll probably be worth it, especially if I can bring along a few raw Burgers Bar patties that I can grill down where I'll be going**. I will now attempt to salvage the rest of this post from tumbling into more useless segues and/or tangents and get back to where I was going. I think it was Bayonne. No, probably not. I was going to discuss Wally*** and family. When I was leaving Burgers Bar after having my Wednesday Night Usual (house burger with BBQ sauce and Garlic Mayo and fries; don't get me started on their fries), I ran into Wally. He's a guy I've known for quite a while. I'd stop just short of calling him a friend; I'd say he falls into the "acquaintance" category. I like Wally, but I've always felt sorry for him. He's a sad-sack type of guy who never seems to catch a break. Although he's reasonably bright, he's married to a woman who I believe (along with many others who concur) is borderline, um, mentally challenged. I don't know if that's the proper PC appellation du jour (I believe "retarded" is no longer considered acceptable), but you get the idea. Wally was having trouble paying the mortgage on his Brooklyn home several years back, and he came up with what I thought at the time was a clever solution: he sold the house, bought one in New Jersey for a lot less money, paid off his mortgage and even had some money left. He was at Burgers Bar with his aforementioned spouse and one of his sons, who has apparently inherited his mom's penchant for smiling indiscriminately during a conversation, usually with his mouth open. Just to make conversation, I said, "How's it going, Wally?" An innocuous question if there ever was one. "Everything's going just the way everything in my miserable life has always gone." Oooooookay. this is gonna be a fun little chat, I thought. Then I suddenly fell prey to what I like to refer to as the "reformed smoker syndrome". There is a tendency among those who have kicked the habit to try and coax (read: badger) others to do the same. "Don't complain, Wally," I said. Don't complain? Why the heck not? The guy's miserable. Why shouldn't he complain? Just because I went through a near death experience which has changed my attitudes greatly, do I have the right to go around like a pollyanna-ish goody two-shoes telling people to be happy with their lot? Frankly, I don't know. But I can report with some degree of certainty that Wally, recipient of my unsolicited,cheerily banal platitude, did not particularly appreciate it.

His response was a grunt which, freely translated, meant

"bug off, you smiley-faced gadfly!". Well, I guess I've been called worse.

So...next time I encounter a buddy who expresses sentiments similar to Wally's,

do I just shut up and listen and try to be supportive?

I think it's a rhetorical question.

The elusive Banal Platitude.

                                           * IMHO = for you old folks who aren't familiar with texting lingo,

IMHO means "In my humble opinion."

**Just in case G-d is reading this: I'm just kidding.

*** Wally's not his real name.

Browbeaten

Before I begin, I want to make something clear: I have not ingested any hallucinogenic drugs, eaten any magic mushrooms or licked any toads. My eyebrow problems are not all in my head. They are ON my head. So far everyone to whom I've tried to explain my condition either laughs or looks like they're stifling one. When I called Dr. Greenspan about it, even he didn't understand what I was talking about. And he understands everything. So here I go again, trying to explain it one more time, this time in writing. I hope no one from Bellevue reads this blog; I don't want anyone in a white coat knocking on my door. See Mr. Bean over there to the left? See his eyebrows? That eyebrow position is not your average default position. Normally your eyebrows rest right above your eyes, pretty much straight across. That way when you're surprised, for example, you lift them. Your eyebrows are not in a permanent "up" position. Make sense so far? Well mine are in a permanent "up" position. How can that be, you ask? Well, I haven't the foggiest. Sometimes I consciously bring them back down to their regular position, only to find them back up again as soon as I stop concentrating. You're laughing. I know you are. Well, it's not funny, gosh darnit! It's not funny because it actually gives me a headache every so often. Think about it: a part of your body is in a position that takes effort rather than being where it's supposed to be. Don't you think that would be exhausting after a while? Have you stopped laughing yet? Anyway, I called Dr. Greenspan and tried to explain it to him. "So you have an eyebrow spasm," he said. I explained that it wasn't a spasm; it was just that my eyebrows had a mind of their own, and they wanted to be where they wanted to be. "Uh huh," he said. You know you're in trouble when a doctor says "uh huh". Then he told me that he'll be in Sasregen for Mincha* on Shabbos, and that I should show him what I'm talking about there. I haven't gotten there yet. Then I asked my son-in-law Yehuda. He's an LCSW, not an MD, but he's a pretty bright guy and I thought he might be able to offer some insight into my plight without cracking up. "Uh huh," he said. You know you're in trouble when a social worker says "uh huh". He suggested that he hypnotize me. I was game. But the next time I mentioned it, he had changed his mind. So here I am with my rather bizarre eyebrow problem and no one to turn to. I think I'l eventually make an actual appointment to see Marvin (Dr. Greenspan) in his actual office rather than trying to have him diagnose me in shul. I've googled "eyebrows" and haven't come up with anything. So for now I'm in a perpetual state of surprise. Which will probably be appropriate when they finally put me in a rubber room.

Sasregen for Mincha = Sasregen: name of a Temple in Flatbush, Brooklyn.

Mincha: afternoon services.

Stir Crazy

Richard Pryor and Gene Wilder
in "Stir Crazy" (1980)

STIR CRAZY:
stir-cra·zy/ˈstɜrˌkreɪzi/ [stur-krey-zee]
–adjective slang .
1. Informal . restless or frantic because of
confinement, routine, etc.:
I was stir-crazy after just two months
of keeping house.
2. mentally ill because of long imprisonment.

I like my apartment. I really do. But today, December 28th, is the third day I've been cooped up here. It's like when you really, really love pistachio ice cream and you have nothing in your house to eat and someone gives you a few dozen tubs of Breyer's Pistachio (your favorite) and you eat nothing but pistachio ice cream for a week. You'll never look at pistachio again. In fact you may never look at ice cream again. This comes under the heading of "too much of a good thing". So anyway, like I said, I like my apartment. The only thing I don't like about it is that it's been freezing in here lately more often than not. Funny thing is that I get to control the thermostat. It's across the hall and I can just go out there and adjust it upwards anytime I feel cold. Only problem is, it doesn't seem to help. I'm beginning to suspect that it's just a dummy thermostat that does absolutely nothing, and they installed it so that any tenant they happen to rent to can feel better pschologically while their teeth are chattering. But other than the fact that I sometimes feel like I'm living in an igloo, the place is perfect for me. I'm even keeping it c-l-e-a-n (don't tell anyone; I have a reputation to maintain). After roughly half the doctors in the Greater New York area informed me that I better clean up my act or my next address just might be c/o Beth Moses Cemetery, Farmingdale, New York, I figured it was time to see what it's like to dwell in a place where one can actually breathe. It's actually pretty cool. Don't know why I didn't think of it before. So I think I've established that I like my apartment. Did I mention that I like my apartment? Did you know that someone exactly nineteen days from his sixtieth birthday tends to repeat himself? So, finally meandering back to my original point (and, I might add, not a moment too soon), if I don't get out of here soon, they're gonna find me curled up in the bathtub humming "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" while smiling broadly and drooling. The snow started early Sunday morning and just kept coming. I actually had the presence of mind to venture out for a few minutes that day to pick up a container of milk at the corner bodega. I understand that there is now more snow out there than there are prunes in Cincinnati. And everyone knows that Cincinnati is the Prune Capital of the World. Actually, as blizzards go, this one is strictly a rank amatuer. Back in '96 we had over 30" dumped on us here in Brooklyn. Of course I wasn't here at the time: I was bright enough to leave Sunday morning on a bus to a friend's wedding in Baltimore and couldn't get back for three days. But that's for another blog. We got 17.5" inches this time and, thanks to His Highness Mayor Bloomberg, about 17.25" of that is still lying in the middle of the street, waiting to be plowed. I'll bet you want to know what I've been doing for the past two days, other than going through Shas yet again. Well, I've been drawing my version of a Picasso on my kitchen wall. I kid you not. When I was unpacking I found an empty picture frame and thought it would be cool to hang it around a picture drawn directly on the wall. I don't know if I would actually have done it had I not become a prisoner in my own place because of the caprice of Mother Nature. But I am actually doing it. In washable crayons, seeing as how this joint doesn't belong to me (although I can't imagine that they would actually remove it when I leave!). I picked the Picasso because you don't really have to know how to draw to copy it. So far I think it's coming out pretty good. What do you think?

Update

I've never posted about Dr. Marvin Greenspan*. Marvin is my neurologist. I call him Marvin because that's what he prefers. Or Greenspan. Lots of people, including his patients, just call him Greenspan. He is a brilliant guy, and yet the most unassuming, unpretentious doctor you'll ever meet. But that's not what makes him really special. What sets him apart from others in his field is his altruism. Marvin sees patients gratis. Not all of them of course, but for the ones he knows can't afford their copay, he waives it. I've known him since elementary school. He was in the "A" class while I was in the "B" class. There was also a "C" class. In those days they didn't worry about stigmatizing kids; if you were a dummy, you were in the "C" class. Over the years, Marvin has been more than a doctor to my family and me. He took care of my father A"H and has seen my mother as well, and has never accepted a dime. He has become more a medical confidant than a doctor. He had a very serious heart attack a few years ago, and yet he works his butt off. I asked him recently why he doesn't retire; L-rd knows he doesn't need the money. "I love it too much," he said. I knew what he meant, too. He loves helping people. He's funny, he's brash, and he can sometimes be blunt to a fault. He's an absolutely terrific doctor but more importantly an amazing human being. When I first awoke from sedation after being on a respirator for a week, I had Chayie call him for me. I was confused and frightened and wanted him to use whatever clout he could to get them to discharge me. Because of my trach, I couldn't talk. So I listened. "Idiot!", he yelled lovingly, "You just used up one of your nine lives. Now lay on your ass and let them make you well." That's the Marvin I know and love. Back around seven months ago, my hands (and sometimes the rest of my body) were trembling terribly. He told me I had something called Benign Essential Tremor. I got the feeling it was just a catch-all phrase that doctors use for tremors of unknown etiology (or idiomatic tremors, in medical jargon). I wanted him to prescribe something for them. He wouldn't. The only medication he thought was any good was contraindicated for anyone with breathing problems. Of course. "But what should I do?", I wailed. My shaking was really bad back then. There were times I even had trouble writing. "Ignore it," he said. It was difficult to do at first, but after a while a strange thing happened: I kind of got used to it, and as a result I didn't think about it that much. And when I stopped thinking about it, it improved. In fact it has improved to the point where it's almost non-existent. Yes, my hands still shake occasionally, but very slightly and usually in the evening when I'm very tired. My writing is no longer affected whatsoever. Then there was my Drop Foot. Marvin said it would improve on its own, and eventually would probably disappear altogether. Well, it has improved. I haven't bothered to wear my brace for a while and i can walk just fine. My left foot (starring Daniel Day Lewis) still drags a little, but I'm conscious of it so I compensate by deliberately lifting it a bit with each step so it doesn't get caught on a sidewalk crack and send me flying. Marvin is of the opinion that there must have been a period while I was sedated when my brain was oxygen deprived. But he explained to me that the brain is a remarkable organ, very capable of healing itself. It also has the uncanny ability to have different sections take over the function of other sections that have been damaged. Patience is key; I wanted everything to be all better right away, and Marvin cautioned me not to expect overnight miracles. So I waited, and Marvin was right. Doesn't he ever get tired of being right all the time? However, there are still three things that I would like my brain to work on. Are you listening, brain?
1. The ringing in my right ear is still there. It's not loud enough to drive me totally bonkers, but it is rather annoying.
2. I've developed little tics. Sometimes they're in my hands, sometimes my legs. They're tiny and only last a second, so I don't think they're noticeable to anyone but me. But I know they're there and I'd like them to stop.
3. This one is really driving me nuts. I have eyebrow problems. Okay, you can stop laughing now. I know it sounds crazy, but it's true. I'm not quite sure how to describe it. I think I might have to dedicate a whole post to it.
I don't want to sound like too much of a kvetch**, considering how much modern medicine has done for me. In the back of my mind I know I'll never be 100% physically again. But if Marvin can arrange for everthing else to resolve, can't he have a little one-on-one with my ol' gray matter and fix everything else? Well, Marvin, can't you??

* Not his real name.
** Kvetch = Complainer, Whiner.

The Legend of Roiteh Bendel

In response to all the cards and letters, here's how the whole "roiteh bendel" thing got started. It all began in a small town in Poland. In 1922 the Bendel family was bless with twin boys. The were fraternal and looked nothing alike; Henoch was smaller, with wisps of jet black hair and muddy brown eyes. Shmiel, however, was a stunning baby: a shock of bright orange hair, piercing pale blue eyes and a scream to match. Because of his intense carrot-top, he was immediately dubbed "Roiteh," or "Redhead". The two were inseparable. They were the only boys in a family of eight. Their six sisters fawned over them and sometimes dressed them up in girl's clothing, seeing as how that's all they had. By age eighteen they had developed into strapping young men. Shmiel (Roiteh) still had his flaming red hair, and Henoch was just...flaming. it was 1940 and things were about to go terribly wrong in their little town. The Nazis had invaded Poland in September the year before and they had heard rumors of massacres in other Jewish villages. Papa Bendel had a relative in Albany, New York, who agreed to accept one of his boys. Because Henoch was considered the frail brother, he was selected to go to the "goldeneh medina*". Believe it or not, Roiteh was glad he was staying; he wanted to kill Nazis! And so it was. The family (now there were nine: Momma, Papa, Shprintzeh, Golda, Yentel, Genendel, Hentcheh, Chynka and, of course Roiteh) eventually were able to hook up with the renowned Bielski Brothers. The Bielskis had set up camp in the dense Polish forest with just a handful of resourceful, but terrified Jews. The brothers vowed to protect their brethren, and also promised not to turn anyone away. They knew the forest like the back of their hands, and, by constantly moving, they were able to stay one step ahead of the Nazis, who knew they were there and could not manage to eradicate them. The Bendels joined the group and Roiteh was immediately drafted by the Bielskis to fight the Nazis along side with them. They had guns, rifles and even hand grenades, looted from Nazi armories and taken off fallen Nazi soldiers. The Bielski brothers had seen their parents and sister shot dead with their own eyes, so they were especially ruthless when capturing a Nazi. But their brutality was nothing compared to Roiteh's. When the partisans he was fighting with came upon a unit of hapless Germans, he would emasculate, disembowel and dismember them, and that was when he was in a good mood. But he always left one Nazi alive. This soldier, usually an officer, was the lucky one. Roiteh would cut off his ear and send him packing, with the instructions to tell his superiors in Berlin what had been done to his unit, and by whom. Eventually Roiteh developed a little calling card: he would tie a red string around the soldier's wrist; "red string" in Yiddish is "roiteh bendel"! The high command in Berlin knew exactly who he was, and couldn't touch him. Somehow the Bielskis and Company managed to make it through the war. In 1945 Papa Bendel called his cousin to seen how Henoch was doing. The man explained that Henoch had moved downstate to New York City and had become a fashion designer. He had also changed his name: French designers being all the rage, he had taken to calling himself Henri. Papa was heartbroken, but what could he do? Well, he thought, at least he still had his Roiteh. Roiteh, however, had other plans. Jealous that his brother was becoming more and more famous, he moved to Krakow and started a fashion line of his own. The story of the Red String had circulated among the survivors and Roiteh had become a legend within the borders of Poland. To capitalize on his local fame, Roiteh tied a red string around the wrist of all his models, and started wearing one as well. He figured that if it was lucky for the Nazi, it would be lucky for him, too. And indeed it was. Just a few months after opening his shop, his warehouse was gutted by a fire that had started in one of the electrical sockets. Although devastated, Roiteh consoled himself with the insurance money he collected, which totalled well over 50,000 American dollars, a princely sum indeed. Truth be told, his fashion line was going nowhere: although highly motivated by his jealousy of his brother, the fact remained that he lacked Henoch's flair and he knew it. So his business went up in smoke, but the legend of the lucky Red String remained and spread throughout Eastern Europe like wildfire. Eventually it made its way across the Atlantic, and was pounced upon by two enterprising Jewish businessmen on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. They began selling little, 7" pieces of red string for 3 cents apiece. Word got around among the newly arrived refugees and soon the shrewd partners had made a small fortune.
And the rest, as they say, is history.

PS There is actually a part of this fanciful tale that is true; there were, indeed, three Bielski brothers who amazingly rescued about 1,200 people during the war and never told anyone about it. If you're interested (and you should be), here's a link: http://www.holocaustresearchproject.org/revolt/bielski.html

* Goldeneh Medina = Literally, "Golden Land"; a reference to America.

Bendel Bonding



This one kinda looks like mine.



Not my Russian lady.
Just a generic Russian lady.

So got all my stuff together, my oxygen, my cane and my brace and walked to the Homecrest Health Center on Avenue S.  It's literally three blocks from my apartment.  I put the oxygen tank in my highly fashionable, vintage messenger bag, and then stuck the cannula up my nostrils.  It's been a long time since I used oxygen, thank G-d.  It was hard for me to imagine that I used to walk around with this thing in my nose 24/7.  It is sooooo uncomfortable.  I guess you can get used to anything.  After all, I got used to breathing through a hole in my neck, too.  When I got to the place, my breathing was free and easy.  Damn!  I figured I'd have to really channel my inner Lawrence Olivier and give the performance of a lifetime.  I thought I'd walk through the door and right into the Doctor's office.  Right.  I should have realized that city bureaucracy doesn't work that way.  There was a waiting room full of people in various stages of handicapped-ness.  Virtually everyone in the room had a cane.  There was a neck brace or two.  There was a guy with a very wierd contraption on his arm and hand, with pullies and rubber bands and stuff.  I was the only one with oxygen...nah nah nah nah nah!  I had to sign in and I asked the guy hat the desk if there would be a long wait.  That's like asking a dentist if the root canal is gonna hurt.  "You'll be outta here by 3:45", he said.  I looked at my watch.  It was 2:15.  An hour and a half.  Actually, not as bad as I thought.  But it was a typical city agency waiting area: No magazines (unless you count the various pamphlets about AIDS awareness and gonorrhea).  There was TV right in front of me that was turned off.  I figured I'd have to use my old standby whenever I'm in situations like this: go through Shas by heart.  I was right at the beginning of Brachos when Eddie* walked in.  I've known Eddie forever.  We went to elementary school together and there was a time that we were really good friends.  Eddie is enormous.  He looks like a walking mountain.  He's gotta be 6'2" and I can't even imagine how much he weighs.  I happened to notice his sneakers, maybe because they were just a hair smaller than those cute little Smart Cars you see zipping around these days.  I asked him what size they were.  Eighteen.  Eighteen!  You can't get 'em in a shoe store, Eddie said, you have to order them from a catalog.  He's so big that he's had trouble walking for a long time, but the last year or two he's had heart problems as well.  He has a pacemaker.  OMG...I have a friend with a pacemaker!  Boy, am I getting old!  So at least with Eddie there I had someone to talk to, and before I knew it they were calling Mr. Zweeg.  Yes Zweeg, not Zweig.  I get that a lot.  I limped my way into the Doctor's office.  At least I thought it was a doctor's office.  Sitting before me was a Russian lady.  A very nice Russian lady as it turned out, but a Russian lady nonetheless.  She had one of those official looking ID cards dangling from her neck.  No white coat.  No stethoscope.  Nothing to indicate that she knew any more about the practice of medicine than I did.  In short, I don't think she was a doctor.  Maybe a nurse of some kind, but definitely not a doctor.  She looked over my paperwork while I sucked hard on my cannula.  If it were a movie, I would surely** have been nominated for an Oscar.  She didn't even bother looking at me; she was too enthralled with my medical history, and, I might add, rightly so.  Finally she looked up and said, "boy, you've had a wery rough year."  No, it's not a typo...she said "wery".  As if to confirm her rather obvious observation, I handed her my list of meds.  She looked it over and stopped at the Imuran.  Imuran is generally prescribed as an anti-rejection drug for kidney transplant patients, or for patients suffering from severe rheumatoid arthritis or other auto-immuse diseases.  She wanted to know why I was taking it.  I didn't know.  His Majesty Dr. DePalo had prescribed it.  So you have an auto-immune disease, she said.  Hell, I wasn't gonna argue.  I guess so, I said.  So according to her I had lung problems (my breathing), heart problems, (my A-fib episode) and an auto-immune disease (she made that one up).  She probably thought it was amazing that I was even walking around.  She looked up from the papers and said, "you'll get the permit in the mail in about four weeks".  That was it.  No cold stethoscope, no rubber-gloved examination, nothing.  I could have kissed her.  Then on my way out, she made it a point to show me her "roiteh bendel".  It's a red string that Jews wear, usually around their wrist, to ward off the Evil Eye.  She obviously had seen mine.  She gave me this knowing, "we're from the same tribe" kind of smile.  "It's from Israel", she said proudly.  I was going to say "big deal, mine is from an even holier place: Eichler's!", but I thought better of it. Hers was a simple red string.  Mine is a little fancier, it has a Chamsa, a Sephardic Jewish good luck thingy dangling from it.  But it didn't matter.  I think I could have strode in there like a triathlete and I would have gotten the permit.  After all...I was a Lantzman***.

* Not his real name.
** And don't call me Shirley.
*** Lantzman = a fellow countryman or friend; same idea as "Paisan" in Italian. 

It's Showtime!

Way back in August I applied for a Handicapped Parking Permit from both New York City and New York State. At the time I was still totally oxygen dependent 24/7. I got the State permit almost immediately. It allows you to park in those ubiquitous blue parking spots with the wheelchair logo that you see in parking lots in malls, movie theaters, etcetera. It's a handy thing to have to be sure, but it pales in comparison to the city permit. A "Handicapped Person Permit" from NYC is a huge perk for someone who has trouble walking. I guess that means I actually qualify. You can park almost anywhere, except in "No Standing" zones or in front of a hydrant. You laugh at "No Parking" signs and forget about alternate side parking. You sneer at parking meters; you are exempt from feeding them. It's the Holy Grail of parking permits. There's only one eensy-beensy catch: you have to be examined by a New York City doctor. I have an appointment tomorrow. The only problem is that I'm much, much better now than I was in August. Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining; I'm thrilled that B"H I'm feeling okay. But in this context, a little wheeze couldn't hurt. So I've decided to pull out all stops: I'll bring my oxygen and my cane, and I'll wear my brace. I've already skipped my Lasix for today, so maybe I'll be a little winded when I get there. It turns out that the office I need to report to is about three blocks from my apartment. If I walk there, I should be legitimately out of breath. I hope all this stuff works. I have this picture in my mind of a bored, underpaid, white-coated bureaucrat grumbling his way through his day, with a big rubber stamp in his hand that says "APPLICATION REJECTED". He'll put the stethoscope that he keeps in the freezer on my chest, listen to my lungs and pronounce them clear. Which they are, B"H. "But I can't breathe!" I'll whisper, perhaps throwing in a cough or a throat clearing for good measure. Maybe if I hack a loogie on his desk...nah, too gross. It reminds me of the time I went to fight a traffic ticket and put my hat and newspaper on the judge's desk. Not smart. I think if the guy could have raised the fine, he would have. So I'll have to stop short of the loogie and take my chances with all my paraphernalia and my incredible acting skills, painstakingly honed by scores of terrible plays in camp. It won't be that different; I had to ad-lib then, and I'll certainly have to ad-lib tomorrow, too. But camp was forty years ago (yikes!). But you know what they say

about riding a bike. Wait a second...what do they say about riding a bike?

My Visit With Bob

Bob (left) and a fat guy.

I finally got to see Bob! I had trekked up to Columbia Presbyterian once before, only to discover that he was off that day. And when I say trekked, I mean trekked! I really loathe driving in the city and I loathe trying to park there even more. And I'm waaaaaay to cheap to put the car in a lot. So I shlepped up to Columbia by subway. I think I could have gone up to the Catskills quicker. Remember, too, that climbing stairs is not my favorite thing in the world. My lungs don't much care for it, either. And the subway has lots and lots of stairs. So I made up my mind that if I ever decide to try and see Bob again, I'm gonna make darn sure that he'll be there! So on October 25th, I called Columbia and asked for Bob. Um...that's all I knew, Bob. No last name. The operator was very professional and very courteous, considering she had a moron on the line. "I can't page someone named Bob only, sir", she informed me. Like I didn't already know that. "He's a nurse" I replied, rather sheepishly. "Sir," the exasperated lady said, "I'm sorry, but I need Bob's last name in order to page him." Sheesh! How many nurses named Bob could they possibly have? Then I had a brainstorm. Actually in retrospect, it wasn't much of a storm; it was pretty obvious. Okay...I had a brainshower. I told her he worked in the ICU! Before you could say "Beth Israel Sucks", Bob was on the line! I gotta tell you; it was sooooooo good to hear his voice. If you recall, this man was literally a life-saver while I was in the ICU. He did things for me way above and beyond the call of duty. We decided I would come visit him the next day. I went by subway again (apparently frugality dies hard) but I didn't really mind because I knew he would be there. I had looked online for hours the week before I came to see him to try and find a gift that was appropriate. Nothing. 99% of all "nurse" presents were specifically for women. My last hope was the gift shop in the lobby, and lo and behold, there it was! A very pretty picture frame with "World's Best Nurse" or some such nonsense engraved on it. No women! I took my treasure into the elevator, the doors opened, and there he was. I cannot adequately describe to you how happy I was to see him, and I'm pretty sure the feeling was mutual. I know Bob has hundreds of patients under his care in the course of a year, but I felt that he and I had a special bond. He was great with the whole gang: my kids, my siblings, my mom. G-d only knows what he did for them while I was sedated. The man is a tzaddik*. We hugged and reminisced. About falling SATs**. About feeding tubes. Even about enemas. He even remembered my kids' names. He asked if Bonnie (Blimie) had had her baby yet. I tried to convince him that he had saved my life and he had a very sweet "aw, shucks, I was just doing my job" attitude. Then suddenly a bonus appeared: Dr. Natalie Yip was making rounds! The same Dr. Yip I had harassed every day I spent in the ICU, trying to get her to tell me when I could go home. I had done this even when I couldn't speak. Our reunion was more subdued than it was with Bob, and that was as it should be, especially in front of the gaggle of freshly scrubbed young interns she was leading on rounds. She had been pregnant the same time as Blimie, and she had had a little girl, too. Before I left, Bob asked if I would write a letter to his supervisor. When I got home I sent her a glowing report. He deserved it.

*Tzaddik = Literally, it means a righteous man. In this context, however, "saint" comes closer.
**SATs: Refers to the oxygen saturation in one's blood.

Baby, It's Cold Outside

Did you know that it's harder for asthmatics to breath when it's cold out? Well, it is. I've known about this for years; Kalman supposedly had asthma as a kid. I say supposedly because the only time it bothered him was when he was playing basketball in the backyard and it was freezing out. I might add parenthetically that the aforementioned basket that we put up in the backyard was way more trouble than it was worth. Kids started showing up on their own to play, whether Kalman was there or not. In fact, they came whether we were home or not. It didn't really bother me that much; after all, what harm could come from a bunch of kids playing in the backyard, right? The biggest problem was my neighbors. Our house was right across the street from a public school, so eventually the group playing included kids from there as well. As long as it was just yeshiva boys, my enlightened neighbors never said a word. As soon as students from PS 99 started showing up, the proverbial excrement hit the proverbial fan. I remember like it was yesterday when a black kid, who had come to play uninvited, used the spigot on my next-door neighbor's house (that she used to water her lawn) to quench his thirst. She went totally ballistic. She enlisted the help of some others on the block and confronted me about what was going on. Prejudice on parade. I thought they were going to tar-and-feather me and ride me out of town on a rail. Of course being the reasonable young man that I was, the more they complained, the more I dug in my heels and refused to do anything. I'd like to think I'd be more receptive to other people's concerns today, but way back then I really was not a very cooperative fellow. Perhaps a lot of my attitude had to do with being stuck in a pretty bad marriage, but that's a pretty lame excuse. I didn't do a thing until the situation got completely out of hand and there were kids playing ball all hours of the day and disturbing me. I put up a sign stating that no one could use the basket without permission. Yeah, right...that'll work. When they just kept coming, I must say I came up with a rather ingenious solution. I took the front grill of one of those big, oscillating fans and fit it on the basket, and secured it with two locks. It fit perfectly. The kids drifted away immediately; it was like spraying Raid. Of course I had to climb up and unlock the darn thing every time Kalman and his friends wanted to play, but considering the basket was only about seven feet high, it wasn't too bad. So getting back to cold weather; Kalman found it harder to breathe cold air, and so do I. I first noticed it the Friday I performed at the Sephardic Nursing Home for the first (and last) time (see "Breathless in January, Part Two", July 30th). It was during an extreme cold snap, and my breathing issues were on their way to landing me in the ICU of Columbia Presbyterian. I shlepped my equipment back and forth in maybe 15 or 18 degree weather. To make matters worse, Babby had come along to shep nachas* from her favorite middle child. She sat in the car with me while I tried, for about five minutes, to catch my breath. Five minutes may not sound like much, but when you're gasping for air, it seems like five hours. So here we are again, on the cusp of winter. There have been some genuinely cold days, and my lungs have responded predictably. Walking any substantial distance has me huffing and puffing, and anything the least bit strenuous (e.g. taking out the garbage) has the same result. In keeping with my new policy of always looking for the silver lining in any given situation, I've decided that my new pulmonary woes have arrived just in time for my appointment with a New York City doctor who will examine me and determine whether or not I'm eligible for a Handicapped Parking Permit. My appointment is this Wednesday, and I intend to post about it soon. Meawhile, I think I'll just stay home a lot and drink Hot Chocolate while watching Judge Judy. Definitely sounds like a plan.

* Shep nachas = very loosely translated, it means to be proud of one's progeny. Or spouse. Or french poodle. Or whatever.

Where Are They Now?

Ever since I updated you on the wherabouts and condition of Chef Boyardee and Uncle Ben in a post, I have been innundated with mail! Also, emails, text messages and faxes. Hoards of people stop me in the street. Everyone wants to know what has happened to their favorite food character. Well, it took some time, but I managed to do some research and I now report faithfully back to you, my loyal readers:

1. Ronald McDonald. As spry as ever, Ronald continues to work ardently for McDonald's. He has the weekends off and usually spends them at the world famous farm of his uncle, Olde.

3. Frito Bandito. The bandito (real name Pedro Gonzales) has long since retired from the food
character business. He operates a covert bus service based in Guadalajara, Mexico, shuttling illegals over the border into Arizona.

4. Mr. Peanut. Unfortunately, Mr. Peanut was the victim of an apparent hate crime several years ago.  He was accosted on the street in his hometown of Boise, Idaho, by a group of young hooligans who cracked his shell and broke his monocle, all the while screaming, "we hate nuts!".  Yes, my friends, that's right: Mr. Peanut was assaulted!  The experience was traumatic to say the least, but the resilient Mr. P. has long since recovered.  The dapper fellow now lives in Greenwich Village with his partner, Mr. Cashew, whom he met several years ago at a soiree' at "Oh, Nuts!", a nut emporium on Avenue J in Brooklyn. Mr. Cashew was never in show business. Mr. P. and Mr. C. own a laundromat on Bleeker Street and seem to be quite happy.

5. Mrs. Butterworth. As sweet as ever, Mrs. Butterworth (incidently, her first name is Evelyn) came out of retirement several years ago and landed a job at Hallmark, writing copy for greeting cards. Anytime you pick up a card and find it to be extremely syrupy, chances are that it's Mrs. B's work!

6. Cap'n Crunch. Captain Ebeneezer Crunch was a hero in during Korean War. He commanded a ship that torpedoed a vital port in North Korea and thereby knocked out the enemy's ability to ship sushi to Brooklyn, which ruined them financially, forcing them to surrender. For his courageous actions he was awarded the Cereal Star, the highest honor bestowed on a food character. He now operates a fishing, the General Mills, out of Sheepshead Bay. They go out for blackfish every morning at 7:00, leaving from slip #7. Why not spend a Sunday afternoon with one of your childhood favorites!

7. The Green Giant. The Giant has been quite lonely of late. Although he has never married, he dated Uma Thurman for a while before the romance fizzled. Apparently Uma is a steak-and-potatoes girl while The Giant ("Jolly" to his friends) is a vegetarian, and this put a tremendous strain on the relationship. Also Uma was not keen on the idea of having green babies. His best friend, however, has always been the Giant from "Jack and the Beanstalk". The two have more in common than just their size. They also share their interest in agriculture. There seems to have been some sort of falling out recently, and the guys have not been in touch of late. Rumor has it that Jack's giant accused Jolly of selling Jack some new magic seeds, and of course he was livid! Jolly has asked his buddy Andre' the Giant to intercede, and perhaps he'll be able to patch things up between the old pals; stay tuned!




8. Betty Crocker.  Betty is a lifelong bachelorette.  She has wanted to marry since she was a teenager but inexplicably has never been able to find that special someone.  It's certainly not for lack of trying; she's dated myriad celebrities, from Sean Connery and Tom Selleck to Ben Stiller and George Clooney, all of whom were intrigued at the prospect of finally meeting the woman behind the ubiqitous "red spoon" logo, but oddly upon meeting her, all of the relationships were short-lived.  Now all her prospective beaus understand why the spoon appears on all the cake mix boxes, rather than good ol' Betty's kisser.

PS  Watch for our future updates on Speedy Alka-Seltzer, Tony the Tiger and the Vlasic Pickle Stork!

Brace Yourself

Remember I told you about my Drop Foot? Or Foot Drop? I never remember which one is correct. Anyway, I never posted about my brace. Leg braces are notoriously uncomfortable. If I were Bambi (left) for example, I'd shoot myself. I've had Drop Foot once before and it cleared up by itself. This time it hasn't. It's better than it was, but it's still there. When I was in Silver Lake, the Physical Therapy department dug up a brace for me. Braces are usually custom made so that they'll fit the patient perfectly. This one was some dusty old thing that was probably made for a dusty old patient who had long since gone to that big gym in the sky. When I tried it on, it cut into my leg. And my foot. And my calf. In fact there were very few places it didn't cut into. Maybe my head. I actually wore it a day or two before I realized that if wearing this monstrosity was the only way I was going to able to walk well again, I'd rather stay home, sit on the couch and eat Dipsy Doodles for the rest of my life. Maybe I could hire a nice woman named Olga to bring me my Dipsy Doodles. And my bedpan. Oops, I forgot about that. Okay, never mind. But it really was ridiculously uncomfortable. After a week or two the Drop Foot improved on its own, so I didn't wear the thing anymore. When I got home, I was pretty much a shut-in at Chayie's house for the first few weeks, so walking wasn't all that important. At the very beginning I used a walker and that helped. Once I got out into the real world, however, my left foot (starring Daniel Day Lewis) would drag slightly, but that was enough for it to catch on the cracks in the sidewalk occasionally. Seeing as how I was quite averse to falling and cracking my head open, I decided it was time to do something. A friend of mine has a nephew who manufactures braces and prostheses, so I went to see him. When I showed him the brace I had from Silver Lake, he found it quite amusing; it was so antiquated, he said, that he wouldn't be caught dead making one like that for a patient. It was made out of hard, white plastic and was quite heavy (see picture on the right). The one he made for me (see above) is made of a carbon-graphite material and is extremely light. Furthermore, the shaft that runs from the top to the foot is twisted. This design is called "energy return", meaning it literally puts a bounce in your step. Ingenious! I wore it out of his office and it felt great. I had been wearing my brown Rockports when I went to the guy's office, and they have a nice, thick, removable insole. The bottom of the brace goes under the insole. The thing is, you can't wear the same shoes every day. It gets embarassing after a while. Also smelly. So after a year or two, I switched to my black Rockports. Their insole is much thinner. Ouch! The brace cut into my sole almost immediately. Nothing worse than something messing with your sole, I always say. Then Shabbos came and I wore my dress Rockports (I like Rockports). Their insole is even thinner. Ouch, ouch! Even worse. I went back to the guy and he made some kind of adjustment and said now they'd be comfortable no matter which Rockports I wore. Uh-huh. In your dreams. So now I've pretty much stopped wearing the darn thing altogether. I figure if I fall and kill myself, my kids can always sue the city over the sidewalk crack that did me in. Or the bracemaker.

Or both. I think I'll end this post with a little ditty...

(with apologies to Sheldon Harnick):

Bracemaker, bracemaker, make me a brace,

Please make it fit, or I'll fall on my face.

Bracemaker, bracemaker, I'm warning you,

You won't want my kids to sue.

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.