Fried & Convicted, page 7
At the start of the boardwalk, with hundreds of two and four-legged parade contestants lining up for the stroll, we realized the daunting nature of our mission. Yes, the participants in this boardwalk empire were all certified pet lovers, but almost everybody already had at least one ridiculously costumed dog, and many had two or three. The throngs of dogless spectators seemed satisfied with their status as well.
“Isn’t she cute!” exclaimed an admirer, “What’s her name?”
“Lady Gaga,” I said, a little too quickly.
“She needs a home,” Sally said. The admirer backed away.
When a young woman stopped to pet Rita Mae, Sally tried again. No sale. Not that we were selling anything. The bright-eyed, affectionate Yoko would certainly be free to a good home.
By this time the parade had stepped off, with dogs dressed as witches, goblins, tacos, and pumpkins. One golden Lab was a prison guard, with his female humans doing a tableau of Orange Is the New Black.
Clever!
Meanwhile, Billie Jean kept attracting oodles of attention.
“Is she housebroken?”
“I think so,” said Sally, “but we’ve only had her two days,” she added, for truth in advertising.
I have to say, the dog was precious in a demure, quiet way. Of course, for all I knew, she could be Lizzie Borden, temporarily silenced by the surrounding stimuli. And there was craziness: Viking babies in strollers with dogs in Wagnerian armor; teacup pooches in bomber jackets; tuxedoed men with bride and groom poodles; pint-sized prisoners and pit bull pirates; retrievers in Dalmation costumes; Dalmations as great white sharks.
All the small dogs in strollers reminded me of comic Karen Williams’s disgust at seeing people pushing pups in carriages along Commercial Street in Provincetown. “People!” she admonished, “What are you doing to them? For pity’s sake, they’re descended from wolves!”
With the Chihuahua still homeless at this point I understood we had to work fast.
“Maybe you’d like to hold Martina,” I offered one onlooker, wondering if we could just hand her off and run.
A float carrying a castle, with a royally dressed Boston terrier mouthing the words to “Let it Go” rolled by and I thought if only we could let it go.
At one point, a family huddling on a white bench looked at Whoopi and said “Awww.” Sally launched into her script. Actually, the family seemed quite interested, with lots of questions, discussion, and an exchange of phone numbers. Promising!
Then we ran into a local animal advocate who suggested we call the shelter the next day, as they might have a home available for Mata Hari. Small dogs were in demand, he told us. Good news indeed.
With the parade having passed by, unsuspecting marks became less ample. It looked like Mariska might be ours for the night. Then, a kind-looking woman and her husband happened by and glanced our way.
“Isn’t she adorable!” the woman exclaimed, “What’s her name?”
(In unison) “Alicia Florrick.” “Olivia Pope.”
As Sally went into her song and dance, the couple became intrigued, noting that their elderly Chihuahua had passed and they were ready for a new family member. Might it be our very own Cagney or Lacey?
After assuring the interested couple that Princess Di may or may not have had her shots but that she was certifiably affectionate, we made sure to ask for their credentials as well. After all, we wanted to be sure Hillary would be going to a responsible, loving home. With all of us satisfied with the answers, we heard the magic words. “We’d love to take her.”
Yes!
And as Meryl or Lady Edith or Sappho herself rode off into the sunset, two adoring parents making a complete fuss over her, we breathed a sigh of happy relief. Let it go, let it go, that perfect girl is gone!
Windsor, intent on sniffing out dropped boardwalk fries, never even noticed we were one Chihuahua down. And frankly, I was impressed that the boardwalk itself was still tidy, no dogs having done their own interpretation of letting it go.
Then Sally got a text from the family who’d been interested in the pup a half hour before. “Sorry,” Sally texted, “we found a home for her.” Wow. We might have been able to adopt her out twice. Maybe more than that. A good day’s work!
As for Windsor, he managed to find a dirty half sandwich on the boards.
“Let it go!” I sang.
January 2015
LIKE PEAS IN A PODCAST
In case you’ve been under a rock like me, a podcast is a 21st century radio show. But unlike a Norman Rockwell painting of a family gathered around the radio cabinet for a 1943 episode of The Lone Ranger, a podcast is downloaded to your computer, MP3 player, or iPhone for personal listening.
Oddly, podcasts are the rage for everyone from twenty-somethings to computer geeks to old farts like me who have been painstakingly instructed on getting and retrieving podcasts on our smarter-than-us phones or other devices.
Oddly still, the whole thing is not so different from those 1960s transistor radios we listened to in the dark ages, for music now labeled golden oldies. My 12-year-old self had a tiny earphone with a wire dangling to the plastic mini-radio in my pocket as I listened to hottie (not that the term was invented yet) Bobby Rydell. Today, it’s exactly the same, except we have earphones on both sides of our heads.
Most odd of all is that a particular National Public Radio podcast, called Serial, has been holding an entire nation’s ears hostage for months now. If you haven’t listened to this wildly popular series yet, you are not as au courant as you think. Turn off your Walkman and get down with this podcast.
Serial is composed of a dozen installments by reporter Sarah Koenig, telling us about a 15-year-old Baltimore murder. And how she may or may not think the teenager convicted and incarcerated for the crime did it.
With cool sound effects, interviews, and the reporter’s tortured flip-flopping on the jailbird’s guilt or innocence, this tale volleys back and forth between did-he-or-didn’t-he so many times Dramamine should sponsor this drama. The convicted murderer is now in his 30s, still maintains his innocence, and, frankly, may get another look at his case by the courts because of the fuss Serial caused.
How much fuss? There are hundreds of blogs, tweets, and Facebook pages plus numerous dueling podcasts devoted to listener comments and theories. Amateur detectives nationwide are now working the case. Serial has eclipsed the Kardashians on the blogosphere. Radio, for heaven’s sake.
But as fascinating as the case is, the really fascinating thing is that people are all sitting around, not just in cars, but in living rooms and at computers, listening to that wireless thingy Marconi invented in 1897. Although it is true that you need the latter-day inventions of computers, iPads, iPhones, and iSpeakers to listen to it. It may be radio, but it doesn’t come out of one.
So here I am in the car, driving to Florida, my spouse at the wheel. I’m holding the iPad between us, listening to the episode “The Alibi,” with each of us craning our necks and ears trying to hear the not-quite-loud-enough iPad speaker.
It’s Best Buy to the rescue with an external iSpeaker . . . much better. But the car’s gearshift looks like a snake pit with coiled black cords everywhere. Wireless? Not so much. The iPad’s connected to the cigarette lighter, the speaker’s connected to the iPad, the iPhone’s connected to the auxiliary cigarette lighter, and my shin bone’s connected to my knee bone.
And, absolutely nothing is connected to the car’s in-dash radio. Pretty soon cars will come without radios but with 16 cigarette lighters. Even though nobody smokes anymore.
Frankly, my mate and I found Serial so gripping we wound up just off I-95, in the parking lot of a South Carolina Best Western listening, transfixed, for an added half-hour before heading into the motel for the night. The last time I spent an extra half-hour in the car before going into the house it was the backseat of a ’65 GTO with a prom date during the Bobby Rydell era. And for me, this time was much more interesting.
So now we are all Pod People like the characters from Invasion of the Body Snatchers. I just learned that this podcast revolution has been going on for a decade without me, and there are thousands of episodes for me to download at will.
It’s all a product of our new on-demand world. I can watch my favorite TV shows one week at a time on TV or on demand, all at once, on my iPad; I can listen to Serial one week at a time on NPR or download the dozen podcasts to gorge on it hour after hour, on demand, on my iPhone. If I go for my morning walk, I can demand more stories on my little tiny iPod. This on-demand business is pretty convenient.
Well, it may be an on-demand era, but one thing they haven’t invented yet is a way for my columns to write themselves on demand. iWish.
February 2015
LIQUID DIET
It’s great to be back in print after the winter hiatus. Especially so I can share some things I’ve learned over these chilly winter months.
First, I learned we really do get by with a little help from our friends. The number of folks asking after my wife’s health both warmed and invigorated us. And we’re thrilled and thankful to report that after months of treatment, Bonnie has been declared cancer-free. Whew! And thank you all for your healing thoughts and concern. We love you.
Secondly . . . I learned that while I drink socially and love my Cosmos, I am not an alcoholic.
How? Because on our celebratory cruise out of Port Baltimore we bought the all-inclusive Royal Caribbean drink package, which cost almost as much as the cruise itself. We rationalized it would be easier to pay up front, order cocktails without thought to wallet, and avoid being staggering drunks with a staggering bill at the end.
Well, it worked precisely as planned. The second we boarded the ship with our traveling companions, the four of us ordered the Drink of the Day in a souvenir glass, festooned with little umbrellas and an aquamarine liqueur that turned my tongue blue.
From there we enjoyed Bahama Mamas at the welcome party, top-shelf martinis before dinner, wine with our food, and more booze at the trivia contest. Nightcap anyone? Why not? It’s “free.”
By morning, there were breakfast Bloody Marys, then a second Bloody at the pool, an afternoon beer at the art auction, and a magical cocktail convoy from drink to drink to drink through dinner, a show, and music in the lounge.
“Well, we’re certainly getting our money’s worth,” we joked, as we carried on, well-oiled and having a blast. As the casino slot machines consumed our quarters we consumed innumerable beverages and lurched off to our cabins—whether the ship itself was doing any lurching or not.
With our little all-inclusive EZ-Passes dangling from lanyards around our necks, we could belly up to the bar day or night with impunity. Which we did, savoring mimosas, martinis, Cosmos, 12-year-old Scotch, mojitos, a rum swizzle, the occasional gimlet, and a random chocolate martini or two. This march of the mixed drinks went on for four decadent days.
By day five I whispered to the waiter to hold the champagne and serve just the orange juice. A Diet Coke with lunch tasted amazing. Come happy hour we were back to ordering a round of vodka shots. It’s 5 p.m., do you know where your liver is?
In unspoken accord, we all cut back, having just one drink prior to dinner and just one glass of wine with the meal. While we played trivia in the lounge that night, no further alcohol touched our lips.
Now I’m not saying we became members of the Temperance Union. However, over the next two days we paced ourselves, not letting the urge to score a financial coup on the drink package overtake our good sense. The ship’s special farewell drink was three ounces of no-name rum with two scoops of raspberry sherbet in a sippy cup. We just said no to that drug.
It was all oodles of fun, we got our money’s worth, and I thank Royal Caribbean for conclusively proving that while I do not have a problem drinking, I do not have a drinking problem.
I also learned that booking an inside cabin can save money but not your sanity. Traveling overnight, from the Port of Baltimore to Cape Canaveral, I set the iPhone alarm clock for 7:30 a.m. and hunkered down for a night’s sleep at sea.
Windowless, we were in a quintessential black hole when the alarm rang. Bonnie and I popped up, turned on a light, and dressed to hit the deck, all set to knock on our companions’ cabin door and head for breakfast. I put my watch on. It had stopped at 3:40. Ugh, damn batteries. I grabbed Bonnie’s Swatch. It said 3:41. And the second hand was still sweeping. What the hell?
“Um, Bonnie, there’s a problem. The alarm went off, but I don’t think it’s morning.”
“How would we know in here? It’s like being in a dungeon,” she said.
I checked the phone. It read 7:42 a.m., GMT. It was morning alright, IN LONDON, at Piccadilly Circus. In our sea cave it was still 3:42 a.m.
Apparently, even though we were cruising from Baltimore, USA, to Florida, USA, we’d crossed into international waters and my too-smartphone changed to Greenwich Mean Time. Very mean. So, all dressed up with nowhere to go for five hours, we got back into bed in our clothes. Next time, at least a porthole.
And finally, I learned that somebody my age who parties like a twenty-something, drinks like a fish, and gluttons out on all that rich cruise ship food, comes home with gastritis. I’m lucky it wasn’t gout.
So now I’m on another kind of liquid diet, prepping for an endoscopy and colonoscopy. I have to say “cheers!” with that disgusting procedure prep beverage. It sure could use a shot of no-name rum and a dollop of sherbet. Bottoms up!
February 2015
NOUNS GONE AWOL
Just yesterday, after the gym, I couldn’t think of the word for the angle you boost the treadmill for increased huffing and puffing. You know, the hill thingy, the degrees up, the doohickey button . . . I didn’t know if my cold sweat was from the exercise or the fact that my brain had logged off.
A half-hour later the word incline popped into my head, the antithesis of the decline in my cognitive function.
I thought it was just me, but every Baby Boomer I know is losing their nouns. And there’s only so many times you can use “the whatchamacallit” in a conversation. It’s hell waiting around for the disappeared.
According to WebMD (and we all know to trust the Internet!), normal age-related forgetfulness starts to happen after age 50 and it’s nothing to worry about. But it’s no picnic, either. It’s like my brain goes on hiatus mid-sentence and I have to wait for Lassie to come home.
And proper nouns are the worst. I just saw a wonderful movie with John Lithgow and, you know, what’s-his-name, the actor from, oh crap, what was that movie, the one where he was the painter Diego Rivera married to Frida Kahlo, that’s it, Frida! But I still couldn’t horkle up the actor’s name. In case you care, I looked it up, and it was Alfred Molina.
Sometimes I can see an actor’s face before me, recite his entire resume, tell you more about him than his agent can and the name is still MIA. You know, Silver Linings guy, he was in that movie about the congressman taking a bribe and he had a perm, and now he’s in the biggest first-weekend grossing movie ever, and holy moly, what’s his damn name? I give up. It will probably come to me at three in the morning, after deadline on this column.
It’s not just famous people. I hesitate to spill my dirty little secret here, but I’ve had trouble remembering people’s names for years.
In fact, my problem with names may be compounded by all the same-gender couples I know. It’s a heck of a lot easier knowing that one part of a straight couple is Teddy and the other is Alice, than remembering who’s Ben and who’s Jerry. See my problem? I call it “Gaylexia.”
I can get by with the generic “Hi there!” only so many times, deceitfully appearing to know everyone. I cover my disability in various ways—eavesdropping until a name comes up; enlisting trusted friends to whisper names in my ear; or proclaiming, “Well, if it isn’t Trouble” when confronted with a couple whose names have gone missing.
This afternoon I had to go to the grocery for a whatchahoozie, that green thing, not an artichoke, aw c’mon Fay, it’s round, well sort of round, and all I could think of was artichoke, and I started sweating and stuttering, with the word on the tip of my tongue. I know the size, texture, and city of origin of the damned thing but not its name. The people at Super G thought I was completely nuts standing in the produce section, doing a happy dance and hollering “Avocado!”
So goes my life without nouns, my daily game of fill in the blanks. Frankly, I think it’s worse than it used to be because our brains are packed with a zillion passwords, plus cholesterol numbers, security codes and, around here, thanks to the new 911 system, five-numeral house addresses. Our hard drives are full. It would be nice if we could go to Staples for added memory.
I also blame memory lapses on the coma-inducing music on hold, on the phone. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve zoned out and completely forgotten who I’m waiting for. When they come back on the line I pray for a clue in the first sentence. It’s hell wondering if it’s the plumber or the gynecologist.
Hold on, I’m getting a reboot here, a news flash, here it comes, total recall, it’s Bradley Cooper!!!! Of course, American Sniper! That was quicker than usual. But still stressful, and of course, they say stress adds to your forgetting your words so this is just one vicious, um, round thing, hoo-hah, thingamajig, circle!!!!
And as I was hemming and hawing, fishing for that vanished noun, I flashed onto, oh you know, the great actor from Gump, married to Rita Wilson, c’mon Fay, for pity’s sake, um, Kennedy Center honoree, ummmm . . . Tom Hanks, that’s it! I saw him in an eminently forgettable film once (so bad I never tried to remember the name) where he was a premed student and he flunked a test because he couldn’t remember the name of a particular body part in the alimentary canal. Try as he might, Tom couldn’t come up with it.
