Geoscopes

I have a friend who does Tarot readings for people, a pursuit that she takes so seriously you would think she's also the Secretary Of State. Recently she did one for me and before she started the reading asked me what I thought of the layout. It looked like this:

I told her I thought she ought to bet another five hundred and try to draw to an inside straight.

Ignoring me she then went on to explain that before she could start interpreting the meaning of the cards I would have to think of three questions that were very important to my life. "Think very hard," she said, "then tell me your three questions." This is what I came up with after about 30 seconds, 25 of which were spent looking over her shoulder at the muted television in the living room where a story was running on the news about the New York Yankees (I murmured to myself as if I was being pensive and thoughtful, but in actuality I was trying to read the announcer's lips) . Here's what I finally came up with:

1. When will I get laid again?

2. What are the Mega Millions numbers going to be this Wednesday?

3. If you tell me, do I have to share the winnings with you and could you please sign this release?

She didn't seem particularly amused and told me that you can't ask specific questions but instead must ask general questions. She asked me to think of another three questions and the first one that popped into my head was "If you can't be specific, then what's the fucking point?"

Then there's horoscopes. These things are so vague that I can't be bothered. They always seem to be skewed to the gender of the people who read them and the advertisers who buy space in the magazines that run them. For example, I might read my horoscope in "Ladies Home Journal" and find out that I ought to "buy a dress today from "Dress Barn®" to make myself feel better," but if I'm reading "Field And Stream" it will indicate that "now would also be a good time to take out a three point buck with your "Winchester Bolt Action 22®" as an expression to the world of your personal magnetism." Huh?

The other thing is that the dates of the horoscopes are too hard to remember. Capricorn, for example, goes from December 22-January19. I don't like things to start that late in the month, especially right before Christmas, because I'm generally too inebriated to remember them.

Now here comes a highly personal reason why I dislike horoscopes so much. I'm a Scorpio (Please don't start. I've heard it all and can already hear what you're thinking). If one more woman uses the excuse "I can't go out with you because you're a Scorpio," I swear I will start carrying scorpions around with me to parties and nightclubs and release them into the crowd for my own amusement (I may also enter the room with an affected British accent, wearing a monocle and a cape for effect. You've been warned and now you'll know to watch out for me).

Apparently Scorpios are the Quasimodos of the astrological chart for reasons I have not been able to divine, nor do I give a shit to. Ridiculous. Just tell me no and leave hideous southwestern lobster shaped insects out of your rejection. What the hell do New York women know about scorpions anyway? I can guarantee the only chance I'll ever have of meeting a woman in New York who has encountered an actual scorpion is if Marshal Dillon has a sex change operation and starts hanging out at The Blue Note. Now cut the crap and go out with me damn it!

Its for these reasons that I have decided to start my own method of foretelling the future. I call them "Geoscopes." They are totally different from horoscopes and will save you loads of time:

1. Each "Geoscope" sign starts on the first day of the month and ends on the last day of the month, six months later. Therefore there are only two. Easy to remember, even if you're loaded. You also won't have to worry if you're one of these people who as born on February 29th. And I don't have to sit here fucking around with photoshop all day trying to come up with graphics for 12 astrological signs and having blogger fuck my layout up every time I try to upload a picture (Yes, I know. Scorpios are intense. But after my "Geoscpoes" catch on I'll no longer be a Scorpio so who gives a shit?)

2. "Geoscopes" deal with the specific as opposed to the general and are not gender specific.

3. Rather than consulting the stars I just make the shit up, which believe me, is just as scientific.

Here are the two signs of MY Zodiac along with a quick history of each , characteristics of the sign AND a reading for you. You don't even have to pay me:

HISTORY: In 1952 when Kelloggs came out with Frosted Flakes they had to decide on a mascot. They narrowed it down to four; "Tony The Tiger," "Katy The Kangaroo," "Elmo The Elephant" and "Newt The Gnu." Elmo and Newt were quickly discarded and for a year boxes either featured Tony or Katy. Then the kids voted for Tony and Katy was gone. I figured, however, that kangaroos and elephants get enough publicity so lets throw some to the poor gnu who has an astrological type name and appearance, sort of like a horse/zebra with the head of a dog and an abdominal hernia. Actually I think its some kind of antelope. This only adds to the phantasmagorical cosmic enigma that is this new astrological sign.

CHARACTERISTICS: Newts are born on the cusp of the New Year's hangover, with a chance of precipitation north and west of the city and increased humidity. On coastal Long Island expect rain. Newts are loyal traitors with a mean streak that shows incredible kindness and generosity. Some Newts are eunuchs, some are Germans and some are both. Still others are known for a heightened sense of smell and are used by the police to root out truffles. Don't stare directly at a Newt during a lunar eclipse.

TODAY'S GEOSCOPE FOR NEWTS: Your moon is in Venus so get your head out of Uranus and start focusing. Tomorrow a man named Vladimir will give you an extra ham sandwich he has in his lunch box; don't eat it unless you want a rash on your left shoulder. Love will come hard and fast in the locker room of a bus station while a homeless man who resembles Jesus watches you and your lover and keeps shouting "next stop Albany!" Give him a quarter and ask him the time. He will hand you an envelope marked "Top Secret." Give this to the bus driver of the 5:14pm to Cleveland. He will hand you five unmarked $100 bills. Buy your lover dinner and throw the homeless Jesus guy a hundred for his trouble. On Saturday, express your personal magnetism by swallowing some actual magnets and standing in the nail aisle at Home Depot.

HISTORY: I was at my favorite Chinese takeout the other day. This is the description of General Tso's Chicken, one of my favorites, verbatim from their menu:

"Chunk's Chicken sauteed in special hot Hunan sauce, our Chef follow General Tso's recipe from Ching Dynasty."

Hey, if its good enough for the Colonel...I mean General... then its good enough for me. "Ching Dynasty" sounds astrological and mystical and is in keeping with my current format of astrological names spelled with two adjacent consonants followed by a vowel, which must have some hidden, cosmic meaning. Also I think Chinese New Year has a Rooster or something so it sort of fits. People who prefer more authentic Chinese dishes, such as "Chop Suey" or "Canned Pineapple With Small Umbrella," might not like this new astrological sign so I suggest you leave me alone because I have heartburn from all the takeout I had to ingest to come up with this bit.

CHARACTERISTICS: Chickens are petty, broad minded and are particularly good with carrots. Chickens on Coastal Long Island should expect some freezing rain, possibly turning to snow by morning. Being born on the cusp of the summer into the party of the New Year makes them susceptible to colds and saying things they don't mean. Chicken's lucky numbers are 8, 7 and 2. The Pick 4 is 5555.

TODAY'S GEOSCOPE FOR CHICKENS: The inversion of Jupiter combined with the impending Ides Of March make it necessary for Chickens to put on clean underwear this morning. Go to the aqueduct to pray for guidance and while you're there play the 6-4 exacta in the 7th race for ten dollars straight. Sunday brings romantic entanglements with a goat; buy the goat a box of candy with some of your exacta winnings (it likes Godiva) and give it a tin can as this is the noble thing to do. Swallow an entire bottle of iron tablets and the go stand next to a cyclotron to express your personal magnetism. Avoid saying the first thing that comes to your head as you will be shot by a midget wearing an eye patch if you do. Also avoid the sushi at that place in Queens, you know the one.

Enjoy the future.

Scent Of The City

I don't know very much about perfume. I know a bit about cologne. For example, I once purchased some "Old Spice" for my Dad at Christmas time. It came in a bottle shaped like Captain Ahab. A couple of years later I was going out on the town and needed some scent to make me palatable to my date. I went in Dad's dresser drawer and there was Captain Ahab, untouched. So much for "its just the thought that counts."

A woman I know used to work for a company that actually makes the scents that bear the names of designers and other celebrities. If I'm to understand correctly, let's say that a designer like Calvin Klein wants to have a scent made that bears his name. He calls several of these companies, tells them what he wants, and they try to make it. Then he picks one. This person used to send me samples so for a while I smelt "real purty." Then she quit and now I'm back to "Brut by Fabergé".

With my lack of knowledge its hard for me to find a scent for myself, let alone my lady when I have one. But after doing some research I found out about a perfume which unfortunately no longer exists but I may have actually purchased for a girlfriend had I the opportunity.

The original press release for "Eau De Bronx" referred to the scent as an "insouciant blend of Baccalà and Prosciutto with just a hint of exhaust fumes, bringing the odor of the borough alive from the armpits, ankles and cheeks of millions of women."

Upon hearing this for the first time, used car salesman and fragrance creator Bob Paramus said pithily to the ad agency copywriter he had hired "What the fuck is in-sauce-ee-ent, you asshole?!!! There ain't no tomatoes in this shit!"

Bob Paramus was affectionately (and also by the use of fear and intimidation) known for years as "The Used Car King Of Gun Hill." He owned several dealerships up and down the block and when the ones he didn't own would sometimes burn down he'd benevolently move in and rebuild them, making sure that the former owners were given jobs as wash boys and parts counter personnel.

He had very little interest in the world of fragrance until one night in 1982 when dining with a girlfriend who was wearing a scent he didn't care for. "What is that shit?" he was heard to remark. "Why can't you smell more like the Bronx? To me, the smell of the Bronx is the smell of Heaven!" Patrons who remember the incident said he then ran outside and started inhaling heavily.

Paramus had a next door neighbor who owned a company that manufactured perfume bottles who he told his idea to get some advice about entering the industry. He also asked the man if he could have some free cases of bottles with which to get started in exchange for a small percentage of the profits. This man refused, calling the idea "asinine at best." The next day, the man mysteriously committed suicide by being pushed in front of a bus and Bob Paramus "bought" his bottle company. Bruckner Fragrances was born.

The concept was simple. In the garage of one of the car dealerships was a refrigerator where Paramus stored various lunch meats. Under this refrigerator was a drip pan that would fill up with liquid from condensation on the refrigerator coils, retaining the lovely smell of the various Italian deli products stored within. This liquid was then allowed to sit out in the garage while the mechanics prepped and repaired cars. Fumes from the vehicles tainted the meat infused liquid giving it a distinct Bronx smell. "Eau De Bronx" was then packed into 3 ounce bottles and sold for $900.

Paramus figured that just like him other men would go wild for the smell of cars and spicy deli wafting from their women. Selling "Eau De Bronx" would prove to be a real problem, however.

From the beginning there were problems marketing the product. For one thing, none of the major department stores would carry it and so you could only get it at subway newsstands where people don't carry around the kind of money that was required to purchase it. Another problem was the French wording on the bottle. Paramus had no idea what it meant and had his ad guy come up with it simply because "chicks love all that French shit, you know, like that thing that cuts peoples' heads off and art." Apparently no one in the Bronx knew what it meant either and most people who saw the product just figured it was a $900 bottle of Turkish soda in an oddly shaped container.

Then Paramus made the mistake of firing the ad agency copywriter to save money and attempted to do the ads himself. He partnered with one of the newsstand owners who was smuggling contraband cigarettes into the United States from Russia. Together they created this ad campaign/promotion which appeared in subway stations and subway cars all over the Bronx:

This failed to draw any buyers as a pack of cigarettes at that time (1982) could be purchased for around 75 cents, though today this offer would be quite attractive given the current cost for a pack. They tried to raise the price of cigarettes at the newsstands to $1000 a pack so that people would want to buy the perfume for $900 but this just caused them to go to other stores to buy cigarettes. When Paramus' partner become annoyed that no one was buying cigarettes or perfume he lowered the price to 5o cents a pack and gave the perfume away with ANY purchase just to get rid of it. Within a week of doing this he died of a sudden illness in which a butcher knife was found sticking out of his left kidney.

Despondent over the lack of sales of "Eau De Bronx," Bob Paramus started grabbing at every conceivable straw to try and sell it, including making it a $900 car fragrance option on any used auto you purchased from him. He referred to this in his lot ads as "An Option You Can't Refuse."

Bob Paramus was killed on August 3, 1983 when one of his employees ran him over with a Chevy. A bon vivant and hopeless romantic until the end, his scent died with him. Whatever bottles remained were mixed with grain alcohol and drunk by his employees at the post funeral party.

Bronxites who remember those days fondly say things such as "Eau De What?" and "Bob Who?" whenever you bring the subject up to them. Its part of the borough's glorious legend.

I don't know if the average man would have liked "Eau De Bronx" for his woman but I for one wish they would start making it again. There's nothing like a meaty smelling gal.

But alas, this is just a dream.

Ask Uncle Cooclah No. 4

Dear Uncle Cooclah,

My friends say I'm petulant. This stems from the fact that I never answer their emails or return their phone calls yet I expect my phone calls and emails to be responded to immediately. If they are not I send nasty follow-up emails with huge capital letters and swear words and leave phone messages loaded with vitriol where the party on the receiving end can actually feel the saliva gushing through the earpiece. The reason that I'm this way and feel I'm justified in being so is that I'm a "Producer®" and have a large "type-A®" personality. A "Producer®" is someone who has no discernible talent of their own but an uncanny ability to appropriate and take credit for the work of others and then deny that these others had anything to do with it (sometimes referred to as "collaboration").

Currently I'm working with actors, but have also fuck...I mean dealt with composers. I once even convinced someone I was Clint Eastwood, until he had the judge issue a "cease and desist" order.

Its quite hard to be a "Producer®" and also hold down a full time job selling tires so I'm under a great deal of pressure and do not think my behavior is unwarranted. Still, my friends suggested I see a "Psychiatrist®." I agreed because they all promised that if I did they would not only pay for it BUT would also pay my rent this month and I don't function well as a "Producer®" while living under a cloud of impending eviction so I thought this was a great deal (we "Producers®" are great at negotiating deals) .

The first "Psychiatrist®" I went to see was part of a clinic and only charged me $10 for an hour session. He told me that I was a megalomaniac and ought to grow up or risk losing my friends. I told him that as a "Producer®" I did not like to be condescended to and I didn't think as a "Psychiatrist®" he was really understanding my deep inner self and need for love and acceptance so I threw the $10 at him and left. I didn't tell my friends what he said for fear that they might agree and besides it was around 6pm when I left and they were probably all eating dinner.

The second "Psychiatrist®" I went to see was recommended by a friend who she had cured of smoking. This woman charged me $50 for an hour session and told me I was a narcissist with some sort of vague talent. I loved the part about the talent but don't know what a narcissist is and at that precise moment I saw myself in this big mirror she had on the wall and thought, "I'm way too cool and good looking to deal with these big words from this pseudo-intellectual," and so I politely settled up and left, combing my lovely "Producer®" hair as I flounced out of the room secretly playing with myself through my pocket since I'm so gorgeous and hip.

Finally, I went to a "Psychiatrist®" who my cousin uses to discuss his cross-dressing issues. For an hour session at $70 he told me that I have a lovely soul and am extraordinarily misunderstood by my so-called friends. He told me that my inability to respond to the communications of others shouldn't mean that I have to be understanding and non-hypocritical when it comes time for them to answer mine since that's just the "way I am, and the way you are is what makes you what you are," and these dimwits ought to understand that. I must say, I loved this "Psychiatrist®" and would also like to add that he had a very hot secretary.

Out of all three "Psychiatric Opinions®" which one do you think I should go with? I'm leaning towards number three because of its great depth of understanding although number two is kind of cool because it indicates I'm talented and I want everyone to know that this has been verified by the "Medical Community®," if not necessarily the artistic one. As I've mentioned, I don't care for number one at all.

What to do, Uncle Coolcah?

Just sign me,
Producer From Park Avenue (the one in Flushing)

Dear Park "Producer®,"

I'll send you the number for my "Psychiatrist®." For $100 he'll tell you you're an elephant and then you can go join a fucking circus.

Fran Cooclahlee (affectionately known as "Uncle Cooclah") is a well known syndicated advice columnist and pundit who appears on talk shows and news channels to discuss and analyze minutiae for hours on end. Please feel free to post your questions to him here. While he can't get to everyone he promises not to come to the homes of those he can get to.

Telly Savalas: The Original Britney

Its been all over the news that Britney Spears has shaved her head bald. As a general rule a person will only shave their head for one of three reasons:

1. They're going to a costume party as Mr. Clean.
2. They have head lice.
3. They're going to the chair (and in that case you have no choice).

People all over the world are in shock over her actions because in today's world you just don't touch your "do". Everyone today has hair. Real hair, fake hair, all kinds of hair. And let's face it, Britney Spears is one of the most important and talented people EVER and so much of that talent is comprised of her hair. The billions of people around the world who look to her for intellectual and spiritual guidance are confused. Should they shave their heads? The cosmos is in an uproar! She is their guru!

In the world of the 1970s things were different. Everyone was shaving their heads because there was a different guru to look up to who shaved his. He was a talented actor and FANTASTIC singer, maybe even better than Britney. His name was Telly Savalas and he starred in a show called "Kojak."

Telly was always the rebellious iconoclast, daring to be different from even his hirsute brothers as seen in this 1935 photo from their grammar school yearbook:

From the time he was five years old Telly had shaved his head bald. Society didn't understand and sometimes even his family gave him grief. Brother Gus recalls that when Telly was twelve years old their brother George asked him during Christmas dinner "What's up with the no hair deal chickie?," to which Telly responded "Hey, baby, you're crampin' my vibe and my lady friend don't like it neither, you dig?" at which point the young Telly and his 25 year old girlfriend stormed away from the table.

Yet fame as detective Theo Kojak starting in 1973 would change all of the hate and ostracizing. People started realizing that "bald was beautiful." Kids all over the country started walking around hairless and shaving their pets as well. Barbers everywhere were throwing out their shears and buying shammy cloths to give "scalp shines." A young unknown Russian actor named Yul Brynner cleaned off his pate and started getting intimidating roles playing Asians and cowboys. All because they idolized the bald cop with the lollipop and the "Who Loves Ya Baby?" smile.

But what really got the kids into the bald look was the music. In 1974 with the release of the self-titled "Telly" it was clear that the music industry and fashion would be changed forever in a way that it hadn't been since The Beatles and before that, Ish Kabibble.

The record featured Telly singing such standards as George Harrison's "Something" and Helen Reddy's "You And Me Against The World" in a manly yet dulcet and atonal type of croak. The kids went nuts. It was a defining moment for the generation, a zeitgeist of unbelievable proportions. Frank Sinatra said it best when he opened for Telly at the Sands back in 1975; "This cat is swingin, baby, and he really knows how to wear a suit."

Things only got better in 1975 with release of "Who Loves Ya Baby?," and the absolutely amazing "This Is Telly Savalas," featuring a cover shot of Telly romantically singing "Try To Remember" from the Fantasticks (track 2 on the record) wearing a fur coat, brandishing a Luger and smoking a Tiparillo. He was the O.G., the very first "playah," and the crowds went wild. Then as quickly as it had started, that's how quickly it came crashing down.

Bald Greek TV detectives singing light jazz and pop standards were being replaced by groups like Pink Floyd and The Captain And Tenille. Even though Telly was still popular two big outdoor concerts his manager set up, "Lollipop-a-Palooza" and "Telly-Palooza," did less than stellar ticket sales. He had married a woman whose name he couldn't even remember and who had been the coat check girl at the Sands. Riding on his coattails she released the highly forgettable album, "That Coat Check Girl Who's Married To Telly Sings The Best Of The Strawberry Alarm Clock." This embarrassed him greatly and compounded his ever mounting woes. Then he did something that the world will never forget and many considered a drastic cry for help.

I'll never forget the date, June 26, 1975, nor will I forget the blood curdling scream I heard when the paperboy delivered the "Daily News" and my mother saw this headline:

People fainted dead on the streets. It was discussed and analyzed on the news for days. Walter Cronkite said it was "more important to society than the end of World War Two."

What was he thinking anyway? While it was true that bald was out and hair was in, there was no way that people were going to accept Telly with hair. It wasn't going to make his music popular again. The times they were "a changin" and it was simply time for him to move on. He checked into a rehab program, divorced the coat check girl and put his beloved cat Aristophanes up for adoption.

When he got out his manager tried to initiate a musical comeback of sorts by getting Telly a track on the compilation album "Truckstar Music Volume 2," which was attempting to capitalize on all the hoopla over convoys and CB Radios popularized by movies like "Smokey And The Bandit." He gave his all to the children's song "John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt," but alas it was too little too late. The song failed to chart and his music career ended. Even the fact that he shaved his head bald again for the album hadn't helped.

Yet Telly, always the icon, always the rebel, always the fighter, came back with a vengeance. He left his head bald, continued to play "Kojak" in a variety of "made for TV movies," and even sang now and again at parties and show business functions the most famous being the "Morey Amsterdam Telethon To Raise Money For Shingles Awareness," at which he sang a medley of hits by Bachman Turner Overdrive.

You too can come back, Britney. Its all there for you. Just like it was for Telly.

Grow your talented locks back. Your minions fervently await your return to glory.

A Model Of Restraint

While visiting a casting board for actors and models this morning, I came across the following ad, verbatim:

modeling print work in marcho7spring/ summer

we are know in need of high fashsion females and male models for catloges posters postcards packageing paying jobs in march 07 wear for spring summer shoots in there showroom in the garmet districk female models must wear a 4 to 10 57 to 510 hight all types need as well as showroom and fit modeling paying gigs with my designers that carrys largrie/ knitwear/ outerwear/ sportsware/ tea shirts jeans age from 21 older can apply please leave a call back number and stas and one fill body shot please work is for spring summer wear 07 like jeans tea shirt sets sportswear dresses knitwear daywear/sleepwear largie packageing male models must be 25 to 30 like a cabin out door image look 57 to 510 all modeling rates $150 to $200 per day male models must send a fill body shot and stas and a call back number for a casting call in nyc, pay is immed in your hands please reply back asap. for work. and female models can be used for showroom modeling and fit modeling work as well

The moment I saw this I said "Wow, the ship of some poor out of work print models has finally come in!" This casting has so much to recommend it to corn-fed kids just off the bus from Oklahoma and hell bent on stardom, not the least of which is the lack of any discernible punctuation or capitalization of proper nouns.

Allow me to break it down for you:

"modeling print work in marcho7spring/ summer"

The banner for this casting says so much yet at the same time, so little. I'm happy for all the models that the client has scheduled the work for "marcho7spring." Were it being held around the time of "Cinco De Mayo," the models would all be partying with the beautiful people and unable to accept the offer. "Marcho" is a couple of months before "Mayo," so it all works out.

"we are know in need of high fashsion females and male models for catloges posters postcards packageing paying jobs in march 07 wear for spring summer shoots in there showroom in the garmet districk"

I know what you're in need of! A member of your staff who understands spelling and grammar! I can provide this service and I'm also available to help all the high "fashsion" people stock the shelves with your "catloges," which if I'm not mistaken is an olympic event for cats. I'm a stones throw away from "that there showroom of theirs" in the "garmet districk" which I believe is east of the "ruby districk," west of the "garnet districk" and south of the "emerald districk." I work cheap and can bring along a box of commas with me if you like, along with a book on the proper use of pronouns.

female models must wear a 4 to 10 57 to 510 hight all types need as well as showroom and fit modeling paying gigs with my designers that carrys largrie/ knitwear/ outerwear/ sportsware/ tea shirts jeans

4 to 10 and 57 to 510? Aren't those the minimum and maximum times one gets in Sing Sing for perpetrating modeling scams? I'm glad you're (OOPS, I MEANT "YOUR") designers carry "largrie" (SEE FIG. 1). I was worried that they might not and so were the models. And, if you need any more "tea shirts," I'm your man. My shirts not only have tea all over their (CORRECT USAGE OF THE WORD "THEIR," YOU'LL NOTICE) fronts, but coffee, ice cream and pizza sauce. I'll bring along some "Tupperware" to compliment your collection of "sportsware." Where's "hight" by the way? Is that Washington Hights, that your (OOPS I MEANT "YOU'RE") referring to? I thought this was being held in the garmet districk?!! Now if I come down I want carfare. You people need to control "you're-selves" and stop being so fickle. Models are very stable people and don't cotton to casting people who constantly change the venue.

"age from 21 older can apply please leave a call back number and stas and one fill body shot please work is for spring summer wear 07 like jeans tea shirt sets sportswear dresses knitwear daywear/sleepwear largie packageing male models must be 25 to 30 like a cabin out door image look 57 to 510 "

I know that all models reading this will be happy that they only want folks "21 older." Does that mean an "older looking 21," meaning someone who is in their early twenties but can play forty, for example? I was very surprised to see that they want the models to leave their "stas." What they obviously meant was leave your "SATS." You'll notice that "stas" is "sats" spelled backwards, so its apparent to me that they have a dyslexic staff member, which you couldn't tell from reading the rest of this casting. Its always important for models to give their SAT scores to casting people since a lot of physics are involved in modeling. Mine were an OK 1190: 540 in verbal and 650 in math so I guess if I were better looking I'd be in as a high paid "fashsion" model. The person who wrote this casting received a total score of three if I'm not mistaken.

Good luck finding male models who are 25 to 30 and look like cabins. You mean like a log cabin? A guy who lives in a cabin? I know a guy who lived in a cabin but doesn't really look like one; he's not built like a cabin but he built a cabin. I have an "outdoor image" of him camping with his pals. I'll post it here and you can consider it his submission. Just contact me if you're interested, as I get ten percent (SEE FIG. 2, HE'S THE ONE IN THE MIDDLE).

"all modeling rates $150 to $200 per day male models must send a fill body shot and stas and a call back number for a casting call in nyc, pay is immed in your hands please reply back asap. for work. and female models can be used for showroom modeling and fit modeling work as well"

I'm glad to hear that the pay is "immed" in the models hands. That sounds kinky. Does it involve K-Y or Vaseline? If so, I'll be there! Is the body shot I posted of my friend "fill" enough for you guys? I sure hope so. I remember that when he built his cabin he had to use wood fill to cover some holes in the wall. If need be, I'll drive upstate and take a photo for you. I love you're sentence (OOPS, ONCE AGAIN I MEAN YOUR) "For work." Its such a minimalist approach to the art of sentence structure. Hey, is it true that the models get $150 just to do the gig but $200 if they bring whips and chains? Let me know and I'll let them know.

Be very afraid models! Kick off your high heels and run like the wind, back to the corn silos of Oklahoma!

Sunday Pizza

I already posted today, but every Sunday I make a pizza and figured I would post here to share it with all of you. I just took it out of the oven:


The dough is homemade. The mozzarella is Polly-O Whole Milk, because the deli I would normally buy fresh cheese in was closed. I only had half a container of homemade sauce left and knowing that it wouldn't be enough I went to the store and purchased a container of "Francesco Rinaldi Tomato, Garlic and Onion." Not the thing that my Sicilian heritage would normally permit, but hey, drastic situations call for drastic measures. I want you to know that I spent TWENTY MINUTES staring at various jarred sauces (and some in cans) before choosing this one. It's not terrible, though it does contain an extremely non-Italian ingredient, "Soybean Oil." I don't recall my nonna (grandma) ever using this in her well stocked Bronx kitchen. The only reason I didn't buy a couple of cans of Tuttorosa Crushed Tomatoes and make some more sauce is that I'm tired and didn't feel like chopping onions. There's also pepperoni on this pie, which of course is a must. And, before I put it in the oven, I sprinkled Parmesan cheese on the sauce.

OK. Time to go eat.

Have Pen Will Travel: Wire Geomop NYC

I was on the writing staff for a dinner theater a number of years ago although the use of the word "theater" to describe what we were forced to write is stretching the point considerably. Let us just say that this "theater" was of the interactive comedy variety and the shows were performed at such noted venues as the "Harry S Truman Rococo Room" at the Teaneck Holiday Inn and the basement of the Elks Club of Lodi, New Jersey.

We would all have to attend staff meetings where the "producer" would vaingloriously toss us his latest "script" which was usually devoid of any of the usual elements of a good one, such as plot development or character arc. In his defense I will say that all the scripts were constructed from high quality bond paper and easy to read ink; not the usual crappy ink jet printouts from a PC. In fact they looked so neat that I was convinced he paid a monk to transcribe his meanderings from the yellow legal pad he always carried under his arm.

During the meetings we would read through the "script" and search with an electron microscope for any signs of humor or actual jokes. The "producer" would then tell us that he thought the script was "good" but that it needed "punching up" and could we "add some dick and tit jokes on page 47." Noel Coward would have been proud to know us as we were the epitome of sophistication.

I'm generally the type of person who tries to be kind about scripts I'm asked to work on but even I can only take so much. One day, after laboring over one of these things and attempting to write inside what I call a "constricted dick and tit box" and being told time and time again by the "producer" that he "didn't think it was working" and we all should "stick closer to his original idea," I'd decided I'd had enough.

"Let me tell you something." I said. "I'm going to go to Staples and buy a ream of paper. Then I'm going to eat it. When I finally take a shit, a better script is going to drop out of my ass than this piece of shit you wrote."

I don't remember exactly what was said after this but it involved some Yiddish curse words.

The funniest comment ever made to the producer at a meeting was from another staff member and close friend of mine. Upon reading one of his latest theatrical attempts he turned to the man and said, "You know, if this script were any better it would SUCK." Brilliant.

In the end, it all worked out. These were "works for hire" so we never got any credit anyway. And even when we managed to sneak a good joke in, one with a solid set-up and punchline, it would be altered in a way that rendered it about as funny as a children's cancer ward.

You've got to love writers. Well, not necessarily.

Saturday Rant

I have no particular theme today.

A friend who NEVER talks about anything but politics called me the other day. He said he was going to tell me the "truth" about Barack Obama. The first thing he mentioned from his list of "truths" was that the man's middle name is Hussein so therefore he could have (I kid you not) been related to Saddam. I asked him does the fact that my middle name is Joseph make me related to Stalin or Mengele? He told me to "go fuck myself" and hung up, "go fuck myself" being a euphemism for what he ACTUALLY said.

I love jazz. I play jazz on guitar. Right now, I'm sitting here listening to a double album (I call them albums because in 1958-1959 when they were recorded, that's what they were called) titled Gongs East / Three Faces Of Chico by the world famous drummer Chico Hamilton. There's a cool LA based jazz guitarist on the recording named Dennis Budimir, which is one of the reasons I dig it. Eric Dolphy also plays on these recordings which makes them even better. Some parts are straight ahead, some a bit more free jazz, but they all have structure. Some of the tunes have the feel of a rumba. I figure its better to listen to professionals play a rumba while I write as opposed to hearing my upstairs "no carpeting" neighbor do one across her hardwood floors.


The thing that annoys me most about guitar players is that everyone who purchases the instrument thinks they are one, simply by merit of the fact that they learned to play a couple of chords on it in a half-assed fashion. It can be such a poser instrument sometimes. I've told students that the best way to become a good guitar player is to start out as a tuba player. Why? Because no one ever poses with a tuba. When was the last time you saw a tuba player on a poster for a rock band? You actually have to learn to play the thing. Some people use the guitar as more of an appendage than an actual instrument.

I'm reading a biography right now about jazz bassist Charles Mingus. Its called "Myself When I Am Real" and its by music critic Gene Santoro. Mingus was a complex man and a genius as far as I'm concerned. The book is well worth your time. Mingus' autobiography "Beneath The Underdog: His World As Composed By Mingus" is also worth reading, though its this stream of consciousness type of thing so I'd suggest you read the straight bio first to have a better understanding of the man. You can also visit his official site to learn more about him. Mingus could play straight ahead, abstract, anything man. He was one of the greatest composers who ever lived. He was volatile. Learn about him.

Last night I polished off a pint of Ben & Jerry's "Black & Tan" Ice Cream, which is based on the famous beer mixture of the same name (the site describes it as an "incredibly heady blend of real cream stout and chocolate ice creams"). Ben & Jerry claim on every pint of every flavor that they don't feed their cows "Recombinant Bovine Growth Hormone" or some such thing, or that they don't deal with farmers who do. Cool. What they ought to do, however, is feed the cows Amyl Nitrate so that when I drop dead of a massive heart attack from polishing off an entire pint of alcohol flavored ice cream with heavy cream and egg yolks in it I'll be automatically resuscitated.

My sister has to take a flight on Jet Blue tomorrow. It ought to be fun given the current problems they've been having with flight cancellations due to the weather. There's nothing like sitting on a tarmac for five hours between a heavy set man from Pittsburgh with bad breath and a kid with a cold playing a Game Boy that utters incessant video game music while he coughs and sneezes and doesn't cover his mouth. And let's not forget that you can't go to the toilet due to "security reasons." I'd sooner walk to Florida than put up with that shit.

Eric Dolphy just launched into a really great solo I want to concentrate on. Time to go for today.

Poetry By Avoir Dupois

The well known angst riddled poet, Avoir Dupois, has decided to share some of his poetry with us in an attempt (we hope not in vain) to give this site some more sophistication.

I caught his act recently at the "Dimdank Poetry Cellar" in the East Village, where I had been hired to play rhythm changes in a jazz/klezmer trio, consisting of myself on guitar, a guy playing violin, and a goat who had been trained to play the ocarina (He was quite good actually).

The gig paid 75 bucks plus a stale club sandwich, AND, I got to hear this great poetry during the break. We chatted a bit, and Avoir agreed to let me post some of it here in exchange for a piece of the lettuce on my sandwich as he's a vegetarian and was "working" for free.

Here we go:

THE AZURE SKY

The M & Ms skittle across the azure blue

Yet I sit here alone, diddling

Where are you, where are you?

Where the hell is my dry cleaning?

The guy said Tuesday yet it is already Wednesday and I know not

What is time, spare a dime

Life is a crime, brother spare a dime

The bell will chime, Corona with Lime
Punishment and crime,

Dostoevsky

MY CAT

My cat is an idiot

Yet I feel he possesses an intellect greater than mine

The way he twiddles his claws and poops in a box

Yet appears aloof and urbane

He mocks me with his mockery

And allows the mice to live

So that I must spend extra money

For steel wool to stuff in the radiator

He reads Keats but cannot paint

He eats lint yet won't go near capers

He can speak French yet gets lost in Jersey

He is all yet he is none

He is my cat

LES PATRONS DANS CETTE DÉCHARGE

The people in this place smell vaguely of Scarsdale

After a late March Bar Mitzvah

Uncle Abe has fallen asleep

And the DJ is snorting something vile

In the gents room

Why does that woman keep yammering on her cell?

Perhaps she has the gout and is calling her doctor

Or is calling a neighbor to turn off the gas

But methinks she is just a rude asshole

Look! The piano player just threw up

On the drunk man from the financial district

Who sits coitally in the front row

Playing with himself and teasing others

Next time I shall pay the trumpet player

To fart on him as a joke

I shall laugh loudly then

I walk out the door my confidence shattered

I walk east of the sun, there is nothing

I walk west of the moon, there is less

I run south of 53rd street and get arrested for vagrancy

My foreskin flopping in the wind

The gendarme offers me an Altoid

But I don't smoke so I ignore him

He looks at me strangely and bats an eyelash

I find this strange but say nothing

As I fear jail and nightsticks in dark places

Oh somewhere in this dingy club a bulb is burning bright

The band is playing flatly and are drunk for half the night

And somewhere patrons vomit while the owner gives a shout

But there is no joy in Scarsdale

Uncle Abe just swallowed a trout

A Valentines Classic!

First, allow me to start off with a fanciful holiday greeting:

I hate to be a killjoy, but I put it on about the same level as "Grandparents Day" and "Children's Day."

There actually is a "Children's Day." In most places its celebrated on June 1st, but that date can vary depending on your location in the world. I remember when I first mentioned it to my Dad and asked what my sister and I would be getting his response was "Oo-gots." This is the phonetic spelling for a Sicilian word which loosely translated means "Dick." When I asked why he simply said "Because every day is Children's Day."

My Dad was classic. My definition of someone being "classic" is that they do things that:

1. I never saw anyone do before.
2. I have not seen anyone do since.

Until the very day he died in December of 1993, if he wanted you to take his car and buy gas for it he would say, "Go to the ESSO station and have them fill it up with Hi-Test."

He absolutely refused to acknowledge the name change in the United States to EXXON or the fact that "Hi-Test" had been replaced with "Super Unleaded."

CLASSIC!

Whenever he would ask me to do this for him I would respond that I couldn't because I didn't have a time machine in which to transport myself and the car back to 1958.

He would always say "Just go please," and walk away scowling.

When I first started driving I would go to the post office just to find
out the price of a stamp. Of course I now hate driving with a passion.

At age 17, though, my Dad knew that I loved to drive. So he would send me on errands to the store. "Go to The First National and pick up half a pound of ground chuck."

What's "The First National?" You may remember it as FINAST, the now defunct grocery store chain. Its original name was First National Stores and they got FINAST by combining of the first two letters of each of those words. It hadn't been called First National since the 1950s but my Dad's response to not using the new name was "That's what they called it in the Bronx and that's what I call it now." I didn't use the time machine line this time, I just went and picked up the meat.

CLASSIC!

My Dad did not care for grocery shopping. He was the type that knew what he wanted to buy and would just go get it; definitely not a SHOPPER like my Mom. You need underwear, you go buy underwear and come home; you don't stop to look at canoes or perhaps sofas.

Once when my Mom was sick and he had to go buy the groceries he took me along. While on the checkout line he realized he had forgotten something on the list. "Do me a favor, go back there and grab a roll of toothpaste." My response was to ask if he'd also like me to grab a "tube of toilet paper" while I was back there. I got a swift kick in the pants.

Another time when my Mom was sick he went to the store by himself. He asked me if I needed cereal. I told him to pick up some "Franken Berry", which is that awful pink cereal with the pink marshmallows and the pink cartoon Frankenstein on the box. I also mentioned the pressing need for "Oreos." "OK, I'll have to see if I can find them," was all he said. He returned home with a box of Cherrios and "A&P Lorna Doones," which are crappy shortbread type cookies with a fake Maraschino cherry on top.

"Why didn't you get the "Franken Berry?" I asked.

"They didn't have any." he said.

"How could they not have any?" I retorted.

"Look," he said, "I wasn't about to buy that crap. Its pure sugar and water. These are better for you."

"Yes, but the Oreos...," said I.

"Cookies are cookies." he replied.

My Dad thought everything was everything else. For example, the word "ESSO" was really just a generic term for "gas station." The phrase "First National Stores" was really just a generic term for "grocery store."

Everything was given a generic term. Any sort of snack food in a large cellophane bag was referred to as either "chips" or "pretzels." If I was eating a huge bag of Doritos five minutes before dinner my Dad might say "Put those pretzels down please." Sweet things with icing were called "cakes" or "cookies." My Dad's system worked very well for him and I always thought he should have marketed it for use by the farsighted or those with memory issues.

I use Alberto VO5 to wash my hair, mainly because its a brand with which I'm familiar and I can pick it up for around a dollar a bottle. A friend of mine, one of these organic types, started to explain that this VO5 "is very bad for your hair, you ought to use Apricot Paba Patchouli Coconut Organic, some shit, who knows what, 8 DOLLARS FOR A SIX OUNCE BOTTLE," at which point I glazed over and started humming. I told her my hair certainly wasn't worth that much.

Once I saw my Dad washing his hair in a large utility sink which we had in our laundry room. He was a musician and was getting ready to go out on a job. He was using Ivory Soap to do the job. I asked him why.

"Because all soap is the same shit made by the same two companies and given different names." he said.

CLASSIC!

We both loved baseball. I still do. Dad was a die hard Yankee fan and so am I, to this day. If the Yankees would play the Minnesota Twins or the Texas Rangers, and you asked my Dad who they were playing, he would always say the Senators. The Baltimore Orioles were always the Saint Louis Browns, even though they had moved to Baltimore in 1953.

Once around 1988 he had to take a business trip to San Francisco. He called home when he arrived. Remember, this was before the days of interleague play.

"I'm going to an exhibition game tonight," he said, "New York is playing Philadelphia."

"Why would the Phillies and the Yankees be playing an exhibition game in San Francisco?"

"No," he replied, "its the Athletics and the Giants."

Of course. I should have known. The Oakland Athletics were the Philadelphia Athletics when my father was a kid. The San Francisco Giants used to be the New York Giants. What I found really "classic" about this was the fact that between Philadelphia and Oakland the Athletics were in Kansas City for twelve years, from 1955 through 1967. My Dad skipped this city and just went all the way back to the beginning.

Yes, he was a "classic." And I miss him more than anybody.

Happy Fathers / Valentines Day.

Le Grand Le Mans

I had a car once. I have a car now.

I've had a lot of cars, actually. One was a 1979 Pontiac Grand Le Mans which I got from a good friend of mine, when my previous car, a 1986 Honda Civic with 167,000 miles on it died after I'd only had it for about three months.

When I got the Le Mans, I asked my friend if it had air conditioning. He said, "Yes, it has a 260 air conditioning system." When I asked how that particular system works his response was "You roll down two windows and drive at 60 miles an hour."

My Dad spoke Sicilian and used to refer to old jalopies as "Ska-sha-bons," which is a phonetic spelling. The term basically translates to "Break The Bank," which is what you had to do to get money to fix the old cars. If he was on the phone with a friend who spoke the language (which was often) and they asked him what kind of car he was driving these days he'd say "I have the Italian Buick, you know, the Ska-sha-bon." Ostensibly my Le Mans would have fit into that category.

But actually the car was great. It had a rebuilt engine AND a rebuilt transmission. It ran great. It NEVER had a breakdown, but for one time and that wasn't even really a breakdown. I was driving home and all of a sudden it stopped running. The engine had sputtered out and it dropped dead and I figured it was the fuel pump. I called my mechanic and he came to tow it.

I got back to my apartment and within two hours received a phone call. (Please picture my mechanic as you read this next line, he's one of those old salty dudes with a cigarette perpetually hanging out of his mouth, even around the flammable liquids that one always finds in a garage) "You need to put gas in your car if you want it to run. That'll be $25 for the tow and $25 for the gas. Come get it. CLICK." Oops. I had forgotten. Still, one $50 non-repair in two years is better than most cars, even new ones. The only other time I had to do work on it was when the muffler fell off. A friend of mine who is very handy with car repairs repaired it for me with an old washing machine exhaust pipe and some muffler putty. That held up better than what most muffler shops would have done for $350.

Let's take a look at the Le Mans and break down its most important parts.



1. The cool 1970's style "Three-Prong" steering wheel.

2. The jet plane style dashboard with many informative gauges.

3. The Art Deco Pontiac Emblem.

4. The name of the car in script right above the taillight held together with "taillight adhesive."

5. The cool vinyl roof just like Dad used to have on his car!

6. The clean new engine, used in the original Ford Model-T and rebuilt just for me.

7. A hood so wide you could drive the car to the beach and get laid on it (leave the engine running so that you and your lovers' asses will stay warm).

I have to admit that I loved this car, even though I had to put up with a lot of stupid comments about it from idiots who drive cars that talk to you, tell you what street you're on, and have someones voice coming out of the sun visor if you breakdown or lock your keys in them (you could still get the keys out of this one with the old fashioned "hangar method").

Once a neighbor who lives in my apartment complex asked me if "that car is from the 50's?" He was dead serious. I told him it was the car that FDR used at his third inauguration in 1941 and apparently he bought it. Another neighbor sarcastically mentioned that it probably cost me more in gas per week to run it than the car cost me to begin with. I told him that I bought the car from a homeless pimp for five bucks and that as part of the deal he taught me how to syphon gas so that wouldn't be a problem. He walked off in a huff. When he wasn't looking I kicked his Escalade and that tripped a mechanism that caused the OnStar to come on. I asked the customer service person if he could send someone over with a hangar since the keys were locked in it.

Eventually I had to get rid of that Grand Old Le Mans. Another friend offered me a 1994 Buick Skylark (my current car) and since I didn't think the Le Mans was going to pass inspection with out expensive repairs to the emmissions system, I decided to give it up. My eyes were tearing when the junk man towed it away, mainly because his truck blew exhaust in my eyes.

My '94 Skylark is at least from the latter part of the 20th century so it sort of fits in with all the cars driving around today. I'm grateful to the friend who I got it from and its been pretty worry free, though now for some reason its running hot. Not to hard to fix though.

If I pass you in one of my old clunkers while your nice new $50,000 Hummer is broken down on the side of the road, I'll wave to you and give a shout out to the guy from OnStar. I may even offer you a ride in my car's rumble seat.

A Cop's Hot Cup Of Suburban Joe

It is the God Given right of every adult suburbanite to enjoy the azure sky on a crisp Saturday morning, to drop some pants at the dry cleaner on that same morning, and to enjoy the hubbub of rushing around to various retail outlets in slow moving traffic.

This continual weekend turmoil takes its toll however, and the adult suburbanite can often be seen scurrying around looking for some sort of panacea to relieve his or her "screaming child-too much traffic-I ought to have stayed at home-induced migraine." Fortunately for this tortured soul, such a cure-all exists. It is the bagel. It is the coffee. It is there for you, tortured soul.

Suburbia has much bagel and coffee inventory to sooth and calm its inhabitants. We are absolutely loaded with it, I must say. All kinds. "Sumatra Blend," "Welsh Blend," "Colombian Roast," "Secaucus Blend," "Maui-Light-Macadamia Vanilla-Raspberry Blend," "This," "That" and "The Other Blend." Lovingly procured and roasted by specially trained Java professionals wearing lime green visors and brown coveralls to hide the inevitable coffee stains. There are brand names for the blends like "High Mountain," "Mountain High," "Bali Low," "East of West Vermont," Green-Green Beans," "Mr. Green Beans," "Brother, Can You Spare Some Beans" and "Kansas Prairie Fresh Roast." All of them wonderful. All of them flavorful. All of them aromatic. And all of them a lot harder to remember than plain old "Chock Full Of Nuts."

Former stockbrokers, laborers, housewives and "you-name-its," all so "jiggy" with caffeine and tired of their regular jobs that they figured it was time to find new professions, decided collectively to jump on the Starbucks bandwagon and open their own coffee shops. "Heck, I make coffee every morning," they collectively shouted,"why not quit my mundane stockbroker/laborer/housewife gig and serve up some coffee for a living?" And so they did.

But of course, tortured souls, gals and guys do not live by coffee alone. Thou must have thy bagels or other sorts of pastry. And what a selection of bagels the suburbanite has!

"Plain," "Wheat," "Sesame," "Garlic," "Salt," "Cinnamon Raisin," "Egg," "Sun Dried Tomato," "Rain Wet Arugula" and that old stand-by "Just Like Uncle Sidney Used To Make," which has vague hints of thyme with a kind of camphor aroma. Might I suggest that when you are out for your weekend jaunt around town that if you have some spare time you look for the very rare "Bittersweet Chocolate-Broccoli" bagel and have it with some "Sing-Sing Big House Roast," which is a quite tasty combination and a favorite of the incarcerated. Be forewarned, however, that few coffee/bagel establishments feature this regularly, as quality broccoli is many times out of season and the coffee beans are very rare as they can only be grown organically by a Tibetan Monk in a small New Hampshire town that features the one acceptable climate for their development. And this is only in May of odd numbered years.

It should be noted that if you don’t’ care for bagels there is a wide selection of other types of pastries you can purchase at these establishments, most homemade or by some local bakery, most with the word "Berry" in their names, most costing at least $3.75 or more, and most only visible by means of an electron microscope. Which brings me to the story of my Uncle John.

On one particular suburban Saturday morning not too long ago I was the "screaming child-too much traffic-I ought to have stayed at home-induced migraine-tortured soul" who I mentioned previously. There I was, searching for a Suburban Coffee Bagel Place that featured the tonic I so desperately needed to sooth my pains. Although my headache was induced not by a screaming tot but rather by my cantankerous Uncle John who was visiting from Arizona, where he spends his days eating grapefruits from his own tree and palling around with Wyatt Earp, which is appropriate because my Uncle John is a retired member of New York’s Finest. He did his time for twenty-five years at a precinct in the Bronx (or as it is more commonly referred to by him "Da Bronx"), where he grew up, and he has one of those gravelly, gruff voices that sounds as if it was induced by decades of Chesterfields. And he never even smoked.

Uncle John complained about everything while he was here in lovely suburbia. "Its too cold in New York!," he grunted. "Its too hot in this apartment!," he yelled. "When the heck are they going to paint Sing-Sing?," he asked. And the most cutting to my ego, "Your coffee stinks!" I am not known for my wonderful coffee. As a general rule I go to a price warehouse type of place and buy a ninety gallon can of no-name ground beans for $1.50 and leave it in my refrigerator until it turns to concrete, at which point I use it to fill the potholes in my parking lot.

So I figured I would save Uncle John from the fate of my bad Java and take him to a Lovely Suburban Coffee/Bagel Establishment. One of my favorites as a matter of fact.

We entered the coffee/bagel enclave. It was a beautiful, wood paneled room with dark brown tones and various pieces of fine literature and newspapers strewn about. There were quaint little tables with chairs, some of them featuring various inlaid game boards. If you are someone who is able to affect an English accent, you can actually go there and pretend that you are in Sherlock Holmes’ study. Uncle John looked about warily, as if he were in a Bronx Warehouse about to uncover an illegal contraband ring.

"Is this Howard Johnson’s?," he asked suspiciously.

"No, its a Lovely Suburban Coffee/Bagel Establishment.," I responded.

"Ahhhhh…let’s go to Howard Johnson’s.," he mumbled. The jazz music playing over the strategically placed speakers seemed to calm him a bit.

"Is this Jerry Vale?," he inquired.

"No," said I. "It sounds like Thelonious Monk." The teenager working behind the counter quickly chimed in.

"It’s Thelonious Monk. He’s some sort of a piano player or something."

"He certainly was." I responded. I started my career as a struggling jazz musician before I became a struggling writer. Statements like this always floor me.

I continued. "I wonder if he is the same Monk who grows the beans in New Hampshire?"

The teenager looked at me with quite a serious expression. "I’m not sure. But I don’t think so." A lifetime of listening to Brittany Spears and two weeks of working in a coffee shop and the teenager was a jazz expert.

"Would you gentlemen like something?," the teenager asked.

"Yes, we certainly would," I said. "I’d like an El Grande size ‘Western Allegheny French Roast’ and a ‘Toasted Mozzarella and Gefilte Bagel with Aged Pine Nuts.’ Not too heavy on the pine nuts and not too aged, please. How about you Uncle John?"

"Huh?" he asked.

"WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE?" I asked a little louder. He’s a bit hard of hearing. Actually, he couldn't hear an earthquake if he was lying down on the fault line.

"Oh. Gimme a regular coffee and a plain toasted bagel with some butter," Uncle John answered.

A deadly silence enveloped the Lovely Suburban Coffee/Bagel establishment and all eyes turned to Uncle John as if he had said "E.F. Hutton." The teenager behind the counter expressed a look of complete and utter horror. I was obviously embarrassed, turning various shades of crimson and chartreuse, all in a matter of a milliseconds. No one EVER just orders a plain toasted bagel with butter and a regular coffee in a Lovely Suburban Coffee/Bagel establishment. Its gauche. Its common. Its pedestrian and provincial. It does nothing to contribute to my town's growing reputation as the "Town With The Most Lovely Coffee/ Bagel Establishments East of Dodge City." It doesn't help the owner to pay the lease. Uncle John had done the unfathomable.

"And, I don’t care for this music.," Uncle John said gruffly.

"I can put on some Dorothy Parker if you like." the teenager said, swallowing the words, still horrified beyond recall.

Even in my mortified, humiliated state I had enough musical integrity to correct the teenager.

"That’s Charlie Parker.," I admonished.

"Whatever.," said the teenager, walking away disgustedly to get our order.

All the Suburbanites slowly regained their composure (yet they still flashed us dirty looks) and went back to the activities that Suburbanites in Lovely Suburban Coffee/Bagel Establishments engage in, such as screaming at children to sit down, playing Chess and discussing socially relevant topics such as whether or not Stalin wore a rug. But we were both ostracized from the fun, lepers on the face of Suburban Coffee Society as a result of Uncle John’s faux pas. Fairly soon, about an hour and half later, the teenager returned with our order.

"One El Grande size ‘Eastern Allegheny French Roast’ and a ‘Toasted Mozzarella and Gefilte Bagel with Aged Pine Nuts.,’" said the teenager morosely, and then pausing to create some Vincent Price-like melodrama added, "AND… a regular coffee and plain toasted bagel with some butter."

At least the teenager had gotten Uncle John’s order right. I had ordered the "Western Allegheny French Roast," not the "Eastern Allegheny French Roast"(The Eastern is slightly more piquant than the Western, and has sort of a nutty aftertaste). But given the gravity of all that had transpired I was not about to complain.

"That’ll be $14.95.," the teenager emphatically stated.

"$14.95!," Uncle John shouted. He can’t hear anything well except for cashiers saying prices. He continued.

"What the…! You can get a cup of coffee and a bagel in the Howard Johnson’s on Fordham Road in the Bronx for 45 cents!" Leave it to Uncle John to mention a restaurant that hasn't existed since the ice age. But he was on a roll. I couldn't stop him.

And its so dark in this place I can’t see anything! And I still don’t like the music!"

"I can put on some Miles Standish if you’d like.," replied the teenager.

"That’s Miles Davis.," I corrected.

"And why the heck is everyone playing checkers!," Uncle John shouted to all the Suburbanites in the place.

"You’re disturbing our socially relevant conversation about Stalin’s Toupee!," an upset Suburbanite yelled.

"And ruining our chess game!" another two Suburbanites chimed in.

"And infringing on the bonding I do with my children by screaming at them to sit down in Lovely Suburban Coffee/Bagel Establishments!," still a third added.

"You go Dad!!," shouted the children in unison.

"Pay your bill and get out!," screamed the teenager.

This time around I simply settled on one shade of Chartreuse-ish-Crimson, turned that color, and stayed that way. The owner, who had been in the back obliviously roasting beans, decided to come out. He must have heard everything from the back, because he just glared at Uncle John and I. He was a pasty man who wore black jodhpurs and a white Stetson, in an attempt I believe to look like Juan Valdez from those old coffee commercials. He didn't quite pull it off, however, and looked more like Ichabod Crane about to go out on a Fox Hunt. I didn't find him intimidating, but his constant glare was unnerving. I paid the bill and started to leave. On the way out the teenager threw a CD at the back of my head, and it hit the wall by the door, narrowly missing me. I would have picked it up but had it actually been by Dorothy Parker or Miles Standish I wouldn't have been able to bear the strain.

Uncle John and I drove back to my apartment in silence. I was upset. Here I was trying to introduce my Uncle to the wide variety of coffee, pastry and bagels in suburbia and all he could think about was some old Howard Johnson’s in the Bronx. Actually this shouldn't have bothered me too much, as Uncle John called every restaurant Howard Johnson’s. Soon he’d be going back to Arizona to eat oranges from his own tree and pal around with Bat Masterson. Soon I would be in peace, able to spend Saturdays frantically running errands under the azure blue sky, stopping to cure my headache by entering a Lovely Suburban Coffee/Bagel Establishment. Soon I would be free.

We entered my apartment. Still not speaking, we sat down at the table and I arranged all the items we had ordered, ready for consumption and still hot thanks to some insulated bag they packed the stuff in. I started in on my “El Grande size “Eastern Allegheny French Roast” and “Toasted Mozzarella and Gefilte Bagel with Aged Pine Nuts.” Except for the coffee’s nutty aftertaste and the fact that the pine nuts were a little too aged, everything was fine. I avoided looking at Uncle John, but when I did I noticed that he was voraciously devouring his (God Forgive Me) “regular coffee and plain bagel with butter.”

“Almost as good as Howard Johnson’s. The coffee’s a little cold though.,” he said.

Some folks just never appreciate anything.

Laundromat Review

Bringing high culture to the masses is one of the main reasons this blog exists. And what, might I ask, is more highly cultured than a laundromat?

The famous travel author Hallie Loboskovitz has just finished a book entitled "The Fifty Greatest Laundromats On The Eastern Seaboard," scheduled to be released on May 1st, 2007. Ms. Loboskovitz's two previous travel books, "The Best Rest Stops In Saskatchewan" and "Where To Find Knishes in Tennessee," have garnered much critical acclaim and are still best sellers. This latest tome promises to be just as great as the previous two.

Ms. Loboskovitz was kind enough to allow us to publish a review from the book as a preview to what we can expect. The establishment which being reviewed here is the only one she gave five stars to, which is the highest rating. Read on:

When looking for the ultimate laundromat for washing clothes while in New England, one need look no further than "Uncle Monk's Wash 'N' Pop" in Poonsockets, Rhode Island, about ten miles east of Providence. The "Wash 'N' Pop," as its affectionately known by the locals, is considered the pièce de résistance of wash spots for the weary traveler. Folks have been known to drive from as far away as Florida just to knock off a couple of loads of dirty shirts, and there's a man from Baltimore who drives up once a week just to bleach his dirty underwear and socks.

Proprietor Louis "Monk" Hargrove, an interesting and colorful man also known as "Uncle Monk," opened the "Wash 'N' Pop" in 1979 in a building which used to be the patient restraint room of "The Dwight D. Eisenhower Home For The Criminally Insane." He fondly remembers opening the place:

"Dey let me out and den da state clothes (sic) da hopital (sic). I don't ever touch dat lady, I no belonged dere. Dey clothes (sic) da hopital (sic) and let mee go. Dey give mee monies 'cuz my lawyer sues dem for locking me up. I say give me da washers and dryers and da building and I open da bizness (sic)."

When one first enters the place, an odor of clinical depression permeates the air, probably a lingering memory from the building's days as a loony bin. This feeling is quickly dispelled, however, by the sight of "The Soap Stop" franchise located near the front door next to one of TWO (that's right TWO) change machines. "The Soap Stop" is the most famous and the classiest laundry detergent dispensing franchise in the country and this particular one is the best I've seen to date. It's worth it to come here just to see this, even if you have no laundry to do (In fact, given the location's proximity to Providence, you can see both on the same day).

The machine itself is a staggering work of beauty and the way it sits against the change machine helps to highlight its grandeur. Bertha Renfru, the lady who cleans the "Wash 'N' Pop," said that "it's the main reason people brag about living in Poonsockets, especially since they tore down the 'Route 723A Drive-In'."

But alas, as grand as it may be, the launderer cannot live by "The Soap Stop" alone. And thankfully, visitors to the "Wash 'N' Pop" don't have to.

Beautiful Double Load Washers, reasonably priced at $2.50 (quarters only please!) line the far wall. Above them are handsomely lettered Art-Deco style signs exclaiming "Laundromat" and "Not Responsible for Articles Left In Washers." There are also Senior Load Washers For $4.50 and Triple Load Washers for $5.25. Says Monk Hargrove, "Da Triple Loads is great to get rid of da DNA 'cuz dey use lots of water."

The dryer used at the "Wash 'N' Pop," which is the "Corley 1000-XB Industrial," is the best in the business. There are thirty of them here. Unfortunately I was unable to photograph them because a woman was hogging twenty with various comforters she was drying and another woman was beating her up so it was impossible to get near the area. "Dat don't happen too much," says Monk, "pretty much only when dat bitch come in here." As far as I was concerned, however, it just added to the colloquial charm of the place.

Another nice touch are the chairs located against the wall by the entrance. Made out of excruciatingly comfortable hard plastic, they have chains attached to them so you can keep the kids from running rampant through the place. "I kept dem chairs from da old days. I was chained in dem once for killing a guard. Dey used to be electrocal (sic) but I took dat out.," Monk remembered.

So where does the word "Pop" in "Wash 'N' Pop" come from? "Sodee Pop" is a New Englander's term for soda and of course, every great laundromat has a soda machine. But what they don't have is Monk Hargrove, who is somewhat of a soda sommelier. The Pepsi machine at the "Wash 'N' Pop" features vintage sodas, some of which are at least twenty five years old. Lovers of Tab and Fresca in the twelve ounce cans with the flip-top opening will be absolutely thrilled. Said Monk: "When dey clothes da hopital (sic) dey lefts a lot of sodee pop in da basement. Dere was hundreds of cases in dere and so I ain't need to never buy any new sodee pops. Da health department made me get a new machine tho' (sic), so I stoled (sic) one from der bowling alley. Don't tell nobody." A local fisherman by the name of Barnaby Williams said that he "uses the Orange Crush from that damn machine to take the barnacles off my boat. I asked Monk to sell me a case but he wanted more than what it costs for me to just go in and buy cans. What an asshole."

I tried a can of the 1977 Fresca and I must say that I was pleasantly surprised by how well it had aged. It had a nice bouquet and an acidic aftertaste, sort of a cross between carburetor fluid and bleach. The soda prices vary between seventy-five cents and a dollar-twenty five, depending on the vintage.

"Uncle Monk's Wash 'N' Pop is easy to get to; just take I-95 Northbound to exit 168B, which is the exit for Old Route 723A West. Drive five miles and look for the Chuck E. Cheese on your right. The laundromat is in the next strip mall on the left, right next to the post office.

This was by far the most pleasant day I spent reviewing laundromats for this book. And it seems that Uncle Monk thought so too: "You ain't a bad lookin' broad. Could I wash your underwears (sic) for you?"

We'll let you know as the book gets closer to release date.