“Are these vampire teeth real?”

For the last three nights leading up to Halloween, I worked at a costume center. As my wife had been the prime procurer of our children’s holiday wear, this locale was new to me.

It was fun.
It was crazy.
It was odd.

Oddity broke new ground when a man in his forties approached me and asked,

“Are these male or female vampire fangs?”

“I’m sorry?”

“These fangs look feminine; do you sell men’s fangs?”

“We have adult and child, but not male or female.”

“Really, because they look like ladies’ fangs, don’t they.”

“No, I think a fang is a fang. Besides I think Anne Rice would tell you a vampire is androgynous.”

“What?”

“Those fangs are good, sir.”

I went back to the world of wigs and masks, no real questions other than, “Can I see that?” When another man this one in his thirties asked, “Are these vampire teeth real?”

“Yes, they are a hard type.”

“No, I mean are they authentic?”

At this point I was speechless. I have never been speechless in my life. I talk in my sleep… finally after staring into the man’s eyes looking for the hidden camera, I asked,

“How can I help you sir?”

“Are these teeth like the real vampire’s teeth?”

All I could muster was a weak, “Yes.”


Then this morning, as if the god of the undead had seen my plight, an article appeared in the Sunday paper. It was an interview with the aforementioned Anne Rice. To a question about people’s concerns over the portrayal of vampires in works such as Twilight and True Blood, she responded,

“I say, ‘Are you kidding? Vampires aren’t real. Keep that in mind.’”

Thanks Anne, I think from time to time it is important to remember this: Vampires are not real. Now, on the other hand, werewolves…

The Facebook Communication Generation Gap

In the 1960s, when the concept of the “generation gap” gained prominence, my parents straddled the line between their parents’ generation and their own. Married at 18 and 20, my mother and father held many of the same social and moral beliefs as my grandparents. Still, a quick marriage and fast family (two kids in the first four years of marriage) suggested a freewheeling live-your-own-life philosophy towards which the youth of America was moving. By the early '70s, television shows like “All in the Family” helped draw the line between the generations with the constant battle between Archie and his hippie son-in-law, Mike "Meathead" Stivic . My parents recognized Archie as a stereotype of their parents, but had no idea who Mike was supposed to represent. It certainly was not them.

Fast forward 40 years: My parents are now older than the Archie Bunker character, and my oldest is the age of Mike. The generation gap is now more about language then ideals. The Internet has made communication between the age groups easier. There is no question that my parents know more about my kids and their daily lives than my grandparents knew about my brothers and I.

Much of that knowledge has been supplied by Facebook. My mother is “friends” with both of my college-aged daughters. She will often make a comment like, “How come you didn’t tell me Beulah got that internship?”

“I didn’t know, Mom.”
For the record, I do not have a daughter named Beulah.

This is how the generations now communicate. A bit of information that domino-effects into a conversation.

The wildcard in this story is my wife. A modern woman, of the corporate managerial type: stockings,
heels,
glasses…sorry.

My wife spends all day on the computer, so when she is home she tries to stay screen-free. Subsequently, to the best of my knowledge, she has never read this blog…actually I’m not sure she even knows I write a blog…
it is over two years,
you would think she’d show a little interest…sorry.

So when my mother called my wife in a semi-hysterical state and yasked (i.e. yelled as she asked a question): “Beulah is sick?!” (See above)

My wife said, “I don’t think so.”

“Well, she posted it on her wall.”

“What wall?’

“Her Facebook wall.”

When my daughter got home, my wife asked, “Are you sick?”

“No.”

“Your grandmother said you posted that you were sick on Facebook."

“No, mom. ‘Sick’…it means ‘cool.’”

“Sick means cool?"


Now, to my credit, I knew that “sick” meant cool. But neither my wife nor my mother did.

This Facebook communication generation gap is making translators out of my generation. It forces us to answer questions from our parents that we were able to avoid when we were younger. “Who is the boy in that picture?”
“Who is the girl in that picture?”
“Is that a boy or a girl in that picture?”

My solution: Facebook should have a quiz that must be completed by both parties before a friendship can be made. Or if not an intergenerational compatibility exam, then how about an age range for friendship? A generation used to represent twenty-five years. I feel the Facebook Communication Generation should have a span of five years for friendship. If I am the only one who has had this issue, then there is one more thing I would like to suggest:

Girls, please de-friend your Grandma!

"It's great to be back here at Macy's"

I had a rough week.

Then yesterday, I walked in to Macy's with Mrs. Green Thumb and the oldest ping pong ball. Music was blasting. At first, it seemed that the system that piped the music into the store was broken, because IT WAS BLASTING. The song that was playing was Elvis Presley singing "Can't Help Falling In Love With You." My oldest turned to me and asked, "Can you do something about this?"

I had to think for a second. Was there a reason why she thought I worked at Macy's?
No, she was expressing her displeasure, and I was in the line of fire.

With no ability to stop or even lower the music, I did the only thing in my power. I started to sing along. That's when I heard Mrs. Green Thumb say, "Someone is singing over there."

My heartbeat quickened as I worked my way through the ladies casual section toward what could only be an...

Elvis Impersonator...
Elvis Evoker....
Elvis!

The King was in between Handbags and Juniors. He was wearing a powder blue jumpsuit, his belt riddled with rhinestones. I made my way directly in front of a speaker, my favorite place at any concert. He introduced his next number, "My Way," as a song that both Frank Sinatra and Elvis had recorded. I loved the fact that he spoke about himself in the third person.



He sang "Jailhouse Rock" and customers and Macy's employees alike danced. As Elvis sang, I thought about all the speculation about his life and death. I considered how thin he had gotten. He looked more like Screech from "Saved by the Bell" with a pompadour. And then Elvis spoke again, and he gave us the long awaited answer.

"It's great to be back here at Macy's"

He hadn't died, he hadn't been abducted by aliens; we had been looking for him in Vegas, in Graceland, in every kitchen in the land. But all this time, he had been at Macy's, and he liked it there.

When he finished and was available for pictures, I went to find my loved ones. I was reenergized. No longer did I feel like a Hound Dog. The King, he revived me.

Later in the afternoon, I thought about something I had known since I was very young: music is magical.

Thanks Macy's. Thanks Elvis.

This is the binding tie

If I am forbidden from burning my leaves…


If I am required to send them to an eco-friendly natural waste site…


If I am forced to buy and use biodegradable paper bags to dispose of the leaves…


Why are the companies that manufacture those bags permitted to bind them together with a non-recyclable plastic strip?

Sad But True

Today, my mother had an exploratory procedure at a central Jersey hospital. After a day in the OR and recovery, my baby brother and I helped our parents into their car before we headed back north. Mom turned to us and said, “Thanks…”

Wait, I forgot the first part.

A year ago, Dad had a quintuple bypass. It was by far the most intense, scary surgery anyone in our family had ever had. That morning, my middle brother and I met our parents outside the hospital. Both looked nervous and frightened out of their wits. My brother and I went into care mode. During the pre-op time one of us would stay with Mom while the other stayed with Dad.

That’s when the fighting started. Neither one of us wanted Mom. During the entire time Dad was completing the registration process, my brother and I were carrying on like…well, us. When my parents went into the prep room and we had said our goodbyes, a very stern looking nurse approached us and said:

“Follow me please.”

Halfway down a hallway, she unlocked a door and asked us to go in. As she walked away, she turned and said, “Please don’t close the door.”

Once she had left, I asked my brother: “Are we in trouble?”

He simply answered, “This may be a record for us.”

Two minutes later, a woman ten times sterner appeared at the door. She asked, “Do we have a problem?”

She may have asked this based on information that stern #1 had given her. Or perhaps it was that, in only two minutes, I had built a house of cards using prostate care pamphlets, while my brother had started an inappropriate relationship with a vibrating armchair.

I stood to answer partly because I am the oldest, but also because I was the only brother in the room not having sex with a piece of furniture.

“No problem, we’re sorry. Our Dad is having bypass surgery and we’re very nervous. If you want we can go to the waiting room.”

She answered quickly, “No, thank you, there are people in there. Please do not leave this room until your father has been brought to the OR. You can then go to the main waiting area.”

“I’m sorry, I will have to step out when I get a text, our brother will not be able to find us in here.”

All color ran from her face as she asked: “There‘s a third?!”

My brother, who by now was sharing a cigarette with the La-Z-Boy, looked up at her and said with not a note of whimsy in his voice, “Yeah. And he’s the crazy one.”

As she left, he turned to me and asked, “Are we in hospital jail?”

Five hours later, Dad was in recovery, as everyone breathed a sigh of relief. We shared with the family the reason for the armed escort leading us from one waiting room to the other earlier.

Mom was not amused. Baby brother relished the fact that he had not been involved and the middle and I blamed each other.

So back to today…

Today my mother had an exploratory procedure at a central Jersey hospital. After a day in the OR and recovery, my baby brother and I helped our parents into their car before we headed back north. Mom turned to us and said “Thanks. Thanks for being here, and thanks for not being arrested.”

Sure, Mom. Anytime.

Zen and the Art of Garage Cleaning

For fifteen years, I have wanted to build a Zen rock garden behind our house. My wife has said she would support this decision, but only after I clean the garage.

This seemed to me a reasonable request. So one Sunday morning, in the spring of 1995, I went into the garage with the intent of cleaning, organizing and sweeping the space. I figured I would be done by lunchtime. Then, off to the garden center to pick out the rocks that would be the base for my outdoor meditation room.

Fall of 2010, our backyard is still void of any river stones. I am still in the garage.

The Zen garden, the "dry landscape"--like its creator--is never complete. It is ever-moving and ever-changing. For me, it was to be a place to discover. Discover my thoughts, my visions, and ultimately the edge of my limits.

After fifteen years in the garage and nearly twenty-five years of marriage, I have awoken. The blinders have fallen from my eyes. I can see clearly now that my wife is my Zen master. Though she would deny the very idea, I know she sent me into the garage because it was to be my Zen garden. Never finished, always changing, forever making me redesign and rethink how I can use that space.

I am now content. No longer will I hide my face as the neighbors ask, "Still cleaning?"

My wife, on the other hand, will not be happy at this realization. For now, when she asks the same question she has asked for fifteen years: "When will you be done?"

I will be able to answer in the only way a student of Zen should...

“Never.”

Here is my Eddie Fisher Story

Yes, I have an Eddie Fisher story.

In 1989, I was asked to stage manage a fundraising show. The event benefitted a beautiful old church in the New York suburbs that both time and the diocese had forgotten. There were holes in the roof, and on rainy days there were puddles in front of the altar and down the center aisle.

I was asked by a friend to help pull off the event. He had called everyone he knew to ask them to reach out to anyone even remotely connected to anyone of note who might volunteer their talents. This call to charity was answered by radio, TV and film entertainers. Most had a connection with the area or a friend who did. One of the people who said, “Yes, how can I help?” was Eddie Fisher.

This show differed from your typical theatrical performance in many ways, the first of which was its staging before the altar of a needy church. More importantly, there was no rehearsal at all.

That evening, I met the entertainers upon their arrival, walked them to the “stage" and asked them about their needs, “Podium? Music stand? Microphone?” When I met Mr. Fisher, I introduced myself and took him though the paces. The "microphone" question was answered with a response that suggested he thought I was insane. “Yes, of course I want a microphone.”

Once the show began, I stayed off to the side. In between acts, when the lights went down, I would move whatever equipment the previous entertainer used while setting up for the next performer as each found their mark on stage in the dark.

Mr. Fisher was scheduled to sing "Ave Maria." The performer before him, a former Miss America, was to sing "God Bless America."

Her rendition of the song that Kate Smith made famous was stirring. No microphone, no accompaniment--only her voice filling the church. The audience, as well as those waiting to perform, had tears in their eyes. When she finished and the lights went down, I moved in the dark to the center of the stage to set up the microphone at the height that was prearranged for Mr. Fisher, who then met me frantically screaming in a whisper, “Get it out, take it off, take it off!”

I stopped dead in my tracks and turned, still holding the microphone stand, and moved back to where I began. Even in the eye-adusting half-light, it surely looked comical because there was a slight chuckle from the audience. The last face I saw as I moved out of view was my wife's, as she mouthed to me the question on everyone’s mind: “What are you doing?!”

Mr. Fisher sang and the rest of the show concluded without a hitch. The performers exited down the aisle to applause, followed by the audience. They were going into the first of two post-performance receptions. I was the last to leave the church.

I was anxious to find my wife and explain what happened. As I turned the corner to enter the reception, I was grabbed by the shoulders and turned to find an apologetic Eddie Fisher. “You have to forgive me, that was so unprofessional. I cannot believe I put you in that position, I am so sorry. But how could I use a microphone following that girl? I would have just looked stupid. Instead, I embarrassed you. I’m sorry.”

We shook hands. “Don’t worry about it, thanks for coming tonight,” I told him as we walked into the reception together.

When I heard about his passing, I thought it was time to add this tale to my story book.