Chick Magnet

My son's best friend is a chick magnet. He's six, but he's been a bonafide chick magnet since he was about four. The girls line up to sit next to him at story time and to chase him on the playground at recess. Some have even gone so far as to do his cutting and gluing for him, much to his mother's horror. He is swathed in girls every moment of the day and has been since they could wobble towards him.

And so it begins.

He is bathed in starlight, has been anointed with pixie dust and blown kisses by angels. His eyes-dimples-smile combo with extra cheese is impossible to resist, by even the most hard hearted crossing guards. He is a child of the Gods, although his parents would say he is the illegitimate child of Gods, neither of them claiming, as children, an iota of their son's irrevocable lustre.

"What the hell are we gonna do with a popular kid?" his mother once asked in all earnestness.
"I dunno," answered her equally flummoxed husband.

Apparently neither of them had darkened the doorstep of apex popularity in school. But had Brad Pitt? When he was little Brad Stinky Peach Pit, did the curtains part on the 2nd grade play to reveal a child of the heavens, so brimming with that certain je ne sais quois, that parents and teachers alike nudged each other in their seats, and whispered over their betamax camcorders, "That kid's gonna go far." I know from personal experience that I stayed strapped to my seat in the theater, after Thelma and Louise took the plunge, to wait through the credits so that I might catch a glimpse of That Cowboy's name.

"Wait, just wait a second longer," I pleaded with my cousin who was more than ready to go.
"I just want to see," and then I saw it, "There! Brad Pitt. Huh. Brad Pitt. OK, we can go now."

The next time I did that consciously was when I happened across the Democratic National Convention on TV a thousand years ago. "Wait just a minute longer," I pleaded with my right hand which was twitching on the remote.
"I just want to know," and then I heard it, Barak Obama. Huh. Barak Obama. OK, we can change channels now.

What do you do when your child always gets an extra loop on the pony ride? How do you explain to your son that it's not like this for all children. That not all little boys and girls get an extra scoop on his or her single serving ice cream cone then get to live out the rest of their childhoods like miniature rock stars. But such is the way the world has always worked since Darwin allowed the first caveman with two distinct eyebrows. The fancier the feathers, the more fawning one elicits, the more action one gets, the more doors that swing open. And if handled properly, like kryptonite or radium, the arrangement of those feathers, as he becomes an adult, may bring the world's oyster right to his feet.

I'll always wonder if the charisma of some of our most exquisitely chiseled celebrities, Paul Newman for example, was fully in play as a child. It would have to be to explain how someone might be so comfortable with their own skin, so supremely confident as a man, as to marry his wise crakin', right-back-atchya banterin' muse until death did he part. Or to run for student council president and then President president without looking back or pausing for a second thought. Sure, it may take cahones to run, but, let's face it, it takes charisma to win.

A teacher of mine once defined charisma as, "Not giving a damn." He kept saying over and over, "The truly successful, the ones with charisma, their secret is that they don't give a damn. Stop caring what anyone thinks, for chrissake!" This would explain, in a nutshell, my meteoric rise to stunning obscurity and Angelina Jolie's to Brad Pitt.

And the lucky ones with looks, brains and charisma? Well, let's just say that I'll be registering my son's pal's name as a web domain just to get a leg up on the competition. And I'll teach myself to say, "I knew him when," in seven different languages. Oh, calm down, I'm not out to profit from this genetic jackpot of a super nice and totally delightful child. I'll leave that to his parents-- (just kidding, they're friends of mine.) And I promise to sell his domain name, licensing rights and registered trade mark back to him when he turns eighteen or when his parents say he's old enough to take the reigns, which ever comes first. He can pay me two dollars. One for each dimple.

Haunted

One bright midday this summer, just before lunchtime, a phalanx of hungry neighborhood kids tromped into our house. There was me and my son, my sister and her three kids, my pal and her son, and a local neighborhood boy. To spare you the trouble, that's twelve for lunch, including my parents. My sister set about making grilled cheese sandwiches like a sergeant in a mess hall but with the finesse and panache of a four star chef. These grilled cheeses had hearty slabs of butter, or as we call it in our house, food of the gods, and ample cheese, browned to perfection. The adult version of said same included a soupcon of honeycup mustard, some mayo (also f.o.t.g.), and thinly sliced ham draped lovingly across the warm bed of cheese like a silk duvet on satin sheets. Ahhhh, yessssss, summertime.

As the sandwiches were placed on the kitchen table the troops were called in to lunch. They descended, swarm-like, on the kid's platter with knuckles knocking. Their allotment was signalled by the two perpendicular cuts quartering the sandwiches into the hors d'hoeuvre-like morsels so popular among the under four feet set. The more mature diagonal cuts halved the grown-ups' fare. The air above the stove top waltzed with the heavenly aroma of toasted bread, cheese and butter. There was a brief moment of calm as everyone savored. Yummmmmmy.

It was then that my mother noticed that the neighbor child wasn't eating, but standing quietly on the fringes of our noontime feast. I thought perhaps he was withholding because he did live down the street, after all. His kitchen was a mere stone's throw away-- if you had a good arm-- and perhaps he was considering zipping home for a quick bite then joining us after. And why not? He may have more refined tastes that we can't cater to. There's no reason we can't eat what our individual desires dictate and still be chums, right? But he didn't leave. He just stood there. My mother pointed to the platter of hallowed Americana and said, "Go ahead, dear, there's enough grilled cheese for everyone."

To which our ten year old guest replied, "Cheese haunts me."

I'll wait while you re-read that last sentence. And keep in mind, I'm not making this up. And he wasn't being funny. His face didn't change. There was no grin to come.

Huh, I thought. Really? Haunts you? Like in Poltergeist? Do you open the fridge and snatching your tender arm back from Satin's grip, announce eerily, "They're heee-re," at the sight of the individually vacuum packed mozzarella sticks in the cheese drawer?

Or is it a more aggressive haunting like in the Exorcist. Will you begin talking like a sinister Lou Rawls? Will we end up strapping you to your bedposts and pelting you with fist fulls of lactose pills? Will your head spin fully around on your delicate shoulders and then will you open your mouth and spew cheeze whiz all over the flocked wallpaper?

Actually, this is starting to sound good. I'm due for a little cheese haunting. It's been a while. The last time a kid in my neighborhood was haunted it was by capers and what's the fun in that? Bring it on, I say. Let 'er rip. Feed that local boy a grilled cheese sandwich and let the games begin.

But, no. My mom offered to make him a different sandwich, one tailor-made to his liking. I cracked, "He is ten, Mom, he could make his own sandwich." But that wasn't very nice of me. I guess I just didn't want my mom to put down her sandwich and go to all the trouble of making a custom ordered sandwich for Beelzebub's nephew when he might just as likely throw that one up as well. I mean, who knows what caprice of haunting he may find himself under next? I was perfectly willing to sponge off the wallpaper if need be. Just as soon as Mom and I finished lunch.

Bed Rest

Things I would do if quarantined and confined to my bed for a year :

Learn the ukulele.
Brush up on my French. (For what reason, I can't fathom.)
Learn Spanish.
Learn Chinese.
Learn Morse code.
Finish putting together eight years worth of photo albums.
Re-read all of the saved notes I passed, or was passed, from 6th until 11th grade.
Re-read all my old saved letters. (On actual paper, with envelopes and stamps.)
Read all the classics I'm too embarrassed to tell anyone that I never read.
Memorize all the correct words to The Star Spangled Banner, America the Beautiful, America (My Country Tis of Thee), This Land is Your Land and Yankee Doodle.
Memorize at least three verses of Silent Night, Deck the Halls and all of Frosty the Snowman.
Quilt something big.
Knit something wearable.
Make a crochet square blanket then give it away to someone I don't necessarily like, but who would certainly appreciate it.
Needlepoint a pillow commemorating the dates of and reason for my confinement with a pithy phrase quoted along the bottom.
Hook a rug.
Quill.
Recite the names of every guy I've ever gone out with starting in 3rd grade and classify into various colorful subsets.
Google every one I ever dated or had a crush on since high school.
Google all the geeks from high school. (I know, can you believe I haven't already done that? I'm saving it.)
Attempt to sing and catalogue every song I've ever known in my entire life, including all WPLJ radio sing-a-long faves, in chronological order.
Write a hit pop song.
Write a schmaltzy ballad.
Write my obituary.
Sleep. Alot.
Get depressed.
Think of all the clever and creative ways I might kill myself without getting out of bed.
Write upbeat letters to the editors of all my favorite magazines.
Write the great American novel.
Learn to play bridge.
Learn the rules of cricket.
Learn to identify the calls of all the birds indigenous to my back yard.
Take another nap.
Wake up feeling refreshed and a little less depressed.
Practice my ukulele.

Brandi, You're a Fine Girl

Honestly, I couldn't have written it better.

My husband moved out in May. Mother's Day Weekend to be exact. And it's been going well and it's all for the best, and when a door closes a window opens and all that malarkey. But the other day he said casually, something-something, "...when I go back home." And he didn't mean our house in the suburbs, the one we bought and fixed-up together with his stripped and re-varnished windowsills, his re-built garbage hutch and the living room screens he made me for Valentine's Day way back when. Nor did he mean the home that contains his son's bedroom with his beautiful son sleeping soundly in it, an exquisite angel with his legs bent at the knees and feet crossed at the ankles, oblivious to the malestrom of our marriage.

He meant his sublet on the Upper West Side.

And I thought, well, there you have it, what's done is done, the transformation has been completed. He now thinks of his bare room in a three bedroom share on 109th street as his home. And who does he go home to? None other than, Brandi.

How friggin' perfect is that. My marriage falls to pieces in part over my husband's textbook mid-life crisis and he rents a room in an apartment with a female roommate named, I kid you not, Brandi.

Now it takes two to tango and two to admit accountability for the dissolution of a marriage. A large part of what I've been trying to change in my basic personality pie chart is the part that gives a hoot about what the folks in my life are up to. That's gotta go. So to be given the gift of Brandi "But-she's-engaged", the actress, was pretty perfect as far as being tested by God and the cosmos goes.

So, what does a guy who's left his wife and son to follow his New York City bachelor dreams do with a roommate named, Brandi? I'll never know. And I'll never ask. But more importantly, I don't care.

Pool Shark

"Where do you live?" asked the beguiling nine-year-old girl from the shallow end of her vast swimming pool. I'd grown up with her father and the pool, and my young son and I had dropped in unannounced for a late afternoon dip. The babysitter asked if I could keep an eye on her while she ran inside for a sec and I agreed.

It was a simple enough question so I answered it, telling her the name of our town. We weren't from around here.
"Oh," she said, "That's not too bad."
"Not too bad?" I'm thinking, "I beg your pardon, Missy, I happen to like--" and before I could reply, she went on to say that our town, wherein I'd chosen to raise my son, was "full of bandits."

At first I found it endearing that a young girl would use the term "bandits" and wondered if she also pointed out "hobos" slouched on the sidewalks of Newark. I countered that she must be referring to another town with a similar sounding name that was a notorious hotbed of bandits and she bought it. My mind relaxed and leaned back on it's elbow. My son, age nearly five, is keenly aware of bandits and robbers, as he calls them, and I didn't want to add further angst to his already piqued awareness of such evil-doers in the world, much less draw his attention to their proximity to our back yard.

Then she perked up and said, "Ooh, there is one story about bandits that happened in that town. Do you want to hear it?" I looked at her squarely in the eyes and calmly but pointedly said, "No. Let's not tell that story," then glanced at Jimmy, who was doing his best impersonation of an inattentive child. I thought that that would do the trick, using what I would call my ace reverse tone shtick to let her know I meant business, well aware that hers is an existence of crashing crescendos and audible exclamations points. She said, "O.K., I understand," and smiled demurely, proud of herself for her maturity. Just as I was mentally wiping my hands of the whole matter and about to light my brain's corncob pipe, she continued, "This lady, in the supermarket in your town, had all her money stolen right out of her purse."

I looked at Jimmy who was underwater for half of it and then looked back at her.
"I asked you not to tell him," I said quietly and evenly.
"Oh, yeah. Sorry," she smiled, resting a wet chin on a tan, glistening forearm. She was beautiful now and would be spectacular in about ten years. Her long legs supported a lithe torso that already nipped in at the waist, hinting at the classic shape she would take in the coming years, like her mother, aunts and grandmothers before her.

"You know what else?" she said.
"Good Lord, now what?" I thought.
"Some bandits even come to your house," she crackled.
And I thought, "O.K., that's it, we're outta here." What's next? How easy it is to pick a lock? How anyone can break into your house if they really want to? Recent kidnapping trends in the tri-state area?

I had visions of hustling Jimmy out of the pool and back down the driveway the way one might escape a sudden torrential rain or a surprise onslaught of locusts. Except in my vision of the two of us running hunched under a damp towel, I have my fingers in his ears. "Two minute warning," is what I said, "Jimmy, we've got to get going in two minutes." And then I expertly re-directed the conversation away from the looming train wreck it could only become.

Yes, I was being overprotective, paranoid and controlling the way a mother of one child is convinced she can be, but jeeze, Jimmy is at That Age. He is consumed with bad guys, robbers and the safety and the sanctity of our home and his room. He counted the days until his Kung-Fu Panda headband arrived from the cereal manufacturer, finally giving him the superpowers he had gone six to eight long weeks without. And if there was one thing I knew I couldn't control in this scenario, it was that girl. She had an evil mind and she was going to use it for destruction, to remind everyone who's boss, and to maintain total pool-wide domination.

If only we'd brought the Kung-Fu panda headband to the pool. It's made with velcro and might fit me. Wearing it, I could keep him safe from bandits and nine-year-old girls until he was old enough to not need me or it. Then he could keep me safe from bandits and nine-year-old girls and from my evil-doer thoughts regarding what I might do to a bandit or a certain nine-year-old girl if I ever got my hands on her or him in a dark alley.

Next time, I'll call first before dropping by unannounced.

Dawn, of Mankind

Years ago my friend was making an independent film-- a deft comedy romp starring some up and coming comics and their friends. I asked if there was anything I could do for him, anything at all. My early career in indy film and cable TV production had made me well versed in sound recording and Costo runs and I knew he was doing this on a shoestring.
"Well, there is one thing," my friend, Harry, the director, said.
"You got it. Name it," I said, gamely.
"I need someone to play a stripper and no one will do it." he said.
Harry was a well known yuckster and pretty pervy in his own way and I thought for sure he was kidding.
"I'm not kidding," he said.
“Oh.”
I thought a moment then said, "Let me talk it over with my husband."

Who was I kidding; my husband was thrilled. I told Harry I would do it but only if I was made up beyond recognition; wigs, prosthetics, the whole nine yards. And I would only strip down to a bathing suit. (I had some dignity, however scant.)

I showed up on set somewhere in Queens or Brooklyn at an ungodly hour.
"Morning!" I chirped.
"Yeah," Harry grumbled. The set was already abuzz; coffee cups, cables and crew everywhere.
"So, what do you need?" I asked, helpfully, as if I were showing up to do lawn chores. What a girl scout. I was no doubt trying to assuage my guilt for playing an agent of desire in the carnal commercial industry. A strippa.
Harry said, "You'll be dancing to this," and he handed me a CD. It read, 2001 A Space Odyssey.
I looked at him quizzically, "You want me to strip to the theme from 2001 Space Odyssey?"
"Yes," he smirked.
I was confused, but then I perked up, "The disco version, right?"
"No, the Richard Strauss version," he smiled, "It's funnier."
"The one with horns and timpani drums?" I said with my eyebrows.
"That’s the one."
He was right. It was funnier. Harry pointed, "In that door is a gym where they'll get you into hair and make-up. There's also a boom-box and some room to choreograph your routine."
"Choreograph my routine?" my eyebrows continued.
"You're gonna have to do it like twenty times and it's gonna have to be the same every time for continuity right?" Right again.
"OK," I said, "Anything else?"
"Yeah," he said before walking away, "be funny."

Okey-dokey. Be a funny stripper. No dialogue, just dancing. Because if there's one thing that's hilariously knee-slappingly funny, it's a stripper.
I crossed the cruddy linoleum gymnasium floor to the corner of the room and plugged the boom box in behind a stack of metal folding chairs. Immediately, all my years of dancing in high school musicals came flooding back to me. I figured my character must be third rate, which means her junior high school musical, circa 1980, is probably the last time she "trained." So, grape vine, kick-ball-change, glissade and pas de bourree, they all went into my routine. I played the song over and over and each time added a few more steps. Flashdance came to mind so I included the running-in-place-in-a-circle bit while gliding my hands up and down my thighs. I also included the infamous shimmy from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, a cartwheel, and ended with the dying swan move from Swan Lake. It was the worst made up dance routine I could imagine and hopefully, funny. I worked on it for four and a half hours, committed it to memory, and then headed off to wardrobe.

Sitting in the make-up chair I couldn't help but think that Harry was pretty damn lucky that I had said yes. How many of his friends were dance minors in college and could fit into Amy Poehler's silver lamé bikini? Precious few. They put me in a Cleopatra wig; dark, wet lipstick; and heavy blue eye shadow. Amy, who had a legit role in the film, was sitting in the make-up chair next to me. I mentioned to her that I was wearing her silver lamé bikini from The Upright Citizens Brigade TV show and she nodded and smiled. She didn't say much-- kept her cards pretty close to her chest-- so I decided to do that, too.
They stuffed my bikini top to a full C cup and then put me in Amy's fishbowl helmet, white puffy zip-up suit and moon boots, because if you're a lushy perv in a dank, dark strip club, you're going to need a little visual aid to drive the point home. I was an astronaut, dammit, not some derivative or homage, but the real deal. I went back to my corner of the gym and muddled through the entire routine again in costume. The boots held me back a bit, I had to admit, but the rest seemed to really hum. I was clearly starting to take my role very seriously.

Two hours later, it was show time. I was led onto the “bar” set where the usual motley crew of hardened film industry carnies and disillusioned extras stood waiting for me to get into position. Harry asked if I was ready and then cued the dry ice. All I had to do was to walk out onto the tiny stage, strip out of an astronaut suit in front of a room full of strangers and dance my lousy routine badly without messing up or laughing, over and over and over again.
A weary male voice with a Long Island accent introduced me, “And now, Dawn of Mankind.” I shuffled out slowly, a tarted-up, zombie-like cosmonaut, from behind a smoky haze. As the horn music swelled with that first painstaking note, I removed my large, round, glass helmet; flicked off my heavy, Kevlar gloves; and started to dance. The arms of the space suit were attached at the shoulders with Velcro so that when I swung them into a Y, then stopped them abruptly, the sleeves flew off and up into the ether. Then I unzipped the suit and twirled it over my head a few times like Annie Oakley before tossing it into the crowd. I was in the zone. The rest of my dance fell seamlessly into place as Richard Strauss' hit crescendoed to an electrifying conclusion with me, in bikini, wig, and moon boots, fluttering on the floor as the dying swan-- timpani drums beating wildly. Bravo!

I did it again and again until I became sweaty and finally they told me I was done. Cameras, cables and coffee cups shifted as I gathered my stuff-- I had no handlers-- and headed for the door. Harry called me over to say thanks and good job. Then he told me it was funny.
"Really?" I said, looking longingly for a pat.
"Yeah," he said, already thinking about the next scene. But he was genuine and I glanced over at the DP, his assistant, and the camera loader and they all nodded, grunted and half-smiled. The cameraman even said, out loud right to my face, "You were very funny,” and I just about fell over. When the cameraman says you're funny, you've really accomplished something. I beamed.
I washed my face and returned everything to wardrobe, even the moon boots. Amy Poehler told me that I was funny then tootled off. I poked my head in to say goodbye to Harry and he sneaked out to give me a proper farewell. I thanked him for the good time and he thanked me for saving his ass. “Damn right I did,” I said. Then he told me that if I wanted to get paid, I should talk to that guy over there. Paid? Heck, yeah, I'll get paid! So he kissed me on the cheek, I wished him good luck and took off, musing over what I might buy with my unexpected windfall. A few weeks later I got a check in the mail for forty bucks.

The film enjoyed a nice run at a smattering of art theaters and college campuses but never got the wide screen release Harry was hoping for. All that hard work, however, was not in vain. Currently, the movie is enjoying a pleasant second wind as early morning programming on a comedy cable television channel. I sleep in soundly, knowing that I did my part for the cinematic arts and funny strippers everywhere and my friends, as they slurp their morning coffee, can glimpse my pale, half-nekkid body flailing around in the background during a scene of dialogue between the two main characters, who, by the way, are not paying an ounce of attention to the ridiculous astronaut dancing really poorly on the tiny stage behind them.

Drive-Thru

I keep writing new pieces then spend weeks revising them then send them off to publishing concerns which prohibits me from posting them here. And so you think I've died.

Well, close. But not quite. I wish I'd died, most days, but not the permanent kind, more of the Walt-Disney-cryogenic semi-permanent kind. I envision me and my son going to sleep and waking up a year from now in our wonderful, cozy home with pancake batter already mixed and fresh flowers on the breakfast nook table, all of our problems seamlessly worked out, a new rhythm to our life together, hope lingering in the air all around us like pixie dust. All I need to do is wipe the kiwi-sized sleepies out of my eyes, heat the griddle and put on some lovely, soothing, morning music. Sounds divine. Unrealistic to be sure, but heavenly.

Speaking of heaven and death. Did you know that there are drive-thru funeral parlors in the good 'ole USA? You follow the arrows, slowly driving around the building, like at a bank or Burger King, and stop at the podium next to your car door, on which lays the guest book and a pen. Just behind the podium there is a low, long rectangular window cut out of the funeral home's basement floor. There, behind the glass, lying in eternal grace, is your dear friend you were too lazy-assed to get out of the car for.

You glance at your friend, or maybe your mother, and decide what to write. Maybe you even turn down the radio or shush your kids in order to better organize your thoughts. You could just sign your name, but they'll know that this is the outdoor guest book on account of the dried rain drops and bird doo on its sun bleached pages, so perhaps a little note is in order. Something sentimental will do nicely.

"Dear Gertie,
Sorry about the piano. I was sure the smoking would kill ya.
Aren't you glad you didn't stop? Ha, ha! I'll miss you at canasta.
Love, Vickie"

or

"Dear Mom,
I'd get out of the car, but I've got the kids with me and whose going to watch them now that you're gone and besides, I knew you wouldn't want them to get caramel corn on your precious casket that could have paid for ballet/jazz and tap lessons, but OK, fine.
Sorry to see you go. I told you not to smoke.
Love ya, miss ya, Vick"

I could go on, but I won't.

Sometime I'll tell you about the place out west where you can have your loved one's ashes shot into space where they'll orbit Earth for 64 million years. Now that's death. Eternal life ain't got nuthin' on that.