By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
I may not be British, even though my favorite breakfast cereal is Cheerios, but for the past three decades, I have kept a stiff upper lip. Now, after all these years of hair-raising adventure, I am celebrating the 30th anniversary of my mustache.
I had never thought to grow one because mustaches are not common in my family. Two of the only relatives who ever had them were my Uncle Bill, who sported a dapper mustache, and my grandmother, who wasn’t dapper but had inner beauty and made a mean dish of spaghetti and meatballs.
Then, in 1979, I had surgery to correct a deviated septum, which in my case was like repairing the Lincoln Tunnel. For more than a week, I was wrapped in bandages and couldn’t shave. When the bandages came off, I had a mustache.
My wife liked the new look (anything was better than the old one), so I kept it.
Ever since, I have been told I look like Groucho Marx, who is dead and can’t sue me. In fact, I like to go out on Halloween dressed as Groucho so I can get candy and beer from startled neighbors. I also was once mistaken (by friends, co-workers and even my own mother) for the infamous Groucho Robber, who struck several banks in Stamford until his photo, showing him in a Groucho disguise, appeared on the front page of the paper. He was subsequently caught and I, saying the secret word ("innocent"), was exonerated.
So you can imagine my surprise and delight when I recently found out about the American Mustache Institute, a St. Louis-based advocacy organization that, according to its Web site (americanmustacheinstitute.org), is dedicated to "protecting the rights of, and fighting discrimination against, mustached Americans by promoting the growth, care and culture of the mustache."
"We are the ACLU of downtrodden mustached people," Dr. Aaron Perlut, the group’s chairman, told me over the phone, adding that AMI is "the only mustache think tank in the United States." Its slogan: "A mustache is a terrible thing to shave."
I quickly realized the immense value of the American Mustache Institute because, as I had long suspected, there is a lot of discrimination against mustached Americans. For example, the last U.S. president to wear a mustache was William Howard Taft, who left office in 1913. Perlut said that the last mustached major-party presidential candidate was Thomas E. Dewey, who did not, despite a famous newspaper headline, defeat Harry S. Truman in 1948.
Mustaches made a comeback in the 1970s, when, according to Perlut, "every man had three things: a mustache, a perm and a turtleneck." But lip hair suffered a big blow in 1981, when, said Perlut, two things happened: "Ronald Reagan became president and ushered in a clean-cut, corporate culture, leaving mustaches to the fields of nail technicianry, motorcycle repair and refuse disposal. And Walter Cronkite, who just died, God rest his soul, left the air. From that time on, it became unfashionable for TV newsmen to wear mustaches."
Now, however, mustaches are on the upswing. "When people like Brad Pitt and George Clooney grow them, it’s good for the movement," said Perlut. "And the fact that Attorney General Eric Holder has a mustache is very important to our way of life."
To keep the momentum going, AMI hosts the Robert Goulet Memorial Mustached American of the Year Award. This year’s contest had a field of 100, including 18 finalists, and drew almost 100,000 votes. The winner was Arizona Diamondbacks pitcher Clay Zavada, who sports a handlebar mustache. He beat out the likes of hero pilot Chesley "Sully" Sullenberger. I voted for journalism’s only representative, hirsute humorist Bill Geist, whose neatly trimmed mustache gets plenty of face time on "CBS News Sunday Morning."
Perlut, who has a doctorate in international studies and, he said, "nuclear mustacheology," congratulated me on the 30th anniversary of my mustache.
"Since you represent our way of life so well," he said, "you should nominate yourself for next year’s Goulet Award. And if you win," Perlut added, presumably with a straight, mustached face, "it won’t be lip service."
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, November 6, 2009
Friday, October 23, 2009
"Mr. and Mrs. Excitement"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
I don’t want to bore you with tales of my marital exploits, although I don’t see why this column should be different from any other one, but my wife, Sue, and I are anything but boring. In 31 years of wedded bliss, we have led the most exciting lives that two people who haven’t done much can possibly lead. This includes puttering around the house, sending out for pizza and, the high point of any boomer couple’s thrill-packed day, trying to stay awake for the 11 o’clock news.
So when I read a recent study on avoiding boredom in marriage, I fell asleep in a rocking chair in front of the TV and woke up when the news was over. Then I woke up Sue, who was snoozing in an easy chair, and we both went to bed.
The next morning, I went to see the co-author of the study, Dr. Arthur Aron, a professor of psychology at Stony Brook University on Long Island, N.Y.
For Aron, who worked on the study with Irene Tsapelas of Stony Brook and Terri Orbuch of the University of Michigan, this was his latest scientific triumph. His previous study, conducted last year, showed that brain activity in longtime spouses who are still in love is the same as the brain activity in MRIs of newly romantic couples.
"You could take an MRI of my brain," I told Aron, "but you probably wouldn’t find any activity."
"That would mean you are still out of your head in love with your wife," he suggested.
It goes without saying, but I will say it anyway, that Aron is brilliant. He proved it in the boredom study, which was published in Psychological Science, by finding that "couples need to make their lives together more exciting."
Aron knows what he’s talking about because he has been married for 35 years to Dr. Elaine Aron, a psychotherapist who is the author of several books, including "The Highly Sensitive Person."
"I’m not bored in my marriage because my wife and I like to go out on little dates," said Aron. "We enjoy doing different things, like finding new places to eat."
"My wife and I do, too," I said.
"Maybe," Aron replied, "my wife and I will run into you and your wife some Saturday night."
If they do, it will probably be at the burger joint that Sue and I recently found. It’s actually a neighborhood bar called Reese’s 1900 Pub, which is a few miles from another neighborhood bar we also frequent, Billie’s 1890 Saloon.
Finding a new place to have delicious burgers and cold beer has added considerable excitement to our marriage. Just the thought of deciding whether to have fried onions or bacon as toppings, or whether to go with cheddar or Swiss cheese, is enough to make us giddy with the spark of first love. Then again, it could be the beer.
Still, like many empty nesters, Sue and I have discovered that it’s the little things that prevent boredom from creeping into a marriage. That’s because, after putting both of our daughters through college and marrying one of them off, we don’t have enough money left for the big things.
True, we went to Barbados last year for our 30th anniversary, the first time we had been away together, just the two of us, to a place with postcards and palm trees, since our honeymoon in Hawaii. We vowed to go back this year but ended up staying home and going to a local beach that did not, I regret to say, have postcards or palm trees, although it did have a snack bar.
Now that the weather is cooler, Sue and I spend our exciting Saturday nights either at home watching rented movies and trying to stay awake to the end or going out on little dates for burgers and beer. And if we should happen to run into Arthur and Elaine Aron, the first round is on them.
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
I don’t want to bore you with tales of my marital exploits, although I don’t see why this column should be different from any other one, but my wife, Sue, and I are anything but boring. In 31 years of wedded bliss, we have led the most exciting lives that two people who haven’t done much can possibly lead. This includes puttering around the house, sending out for pizza and, the high point of any boomer couple’s thrill-packed day, trying to stay awake for the 11 o’clock news.
So when I read a recent study on avoiding boredom in marriage, I fell asleep in a rocking chair in front of the TV and woke up when the news was over. Then I woke up Sue, who was snoozing in an easy chair, and we both went to bed.
The next morning, I went to see the co-author of the study, Dr. Arthur Aron, a professor of psychology at Stony Brook University on Long Island, N.Y.
For Aron, who worked on the study with Irene Tsapelas of Stony Brook and Terri Orbuch of the University of Michigan, this was his latest scientific triumph. His previous study, conducted last year, showed that brain activity in longtime spouses who are still in love is the same as the brain activity in MRIs of newly romantic couples.
"You could take an MRI of my brain," I told Aron, "but you probably wouldn’t find any activity."
"That would mean you are still out of your head in love with your wife," he suggested.
It goes without saying, but I will say it anyway, that Aron is brilliant. He proved it in the boredom study, which was published in Psychological Science, by finding that "couples need to make their lives together more exciting."
Aron knows what he’s talking about because he has been married for 35 years to Dr. Elaine Aron, a psychotherapist who is the author of several books, including "The Highly Sensitive Person."
"I’m not bored in my marriage because my wife and I like to go out on little dates," said Aron. "We enjoy doing different things, like finding new places to eat."
"My wife and I do, too," I said.
"Maybe," Aron replied, "my wife and I will run into you and your wife some Saturday night."
If they do, it will probably be at the burger joint that Sue and I recently found. It’s actually a neighborhood bar called Reese’s 1900 Pub, which is a few miles from another neighborhood bar we also frequent, Billie’s 1890 Saloon.
Finding a new place to have delicious burgers and cold beer has added considerable excitement to our marriage. Just the thought of deciding whether to have fried onions or bacon as toppings, or whether to go with cheddar or Swiss cheese, is enough to make us giddy with the spark of first love. Then again, it could be the beer.
Still, like many empty nesters, Sue and I have discovered that it’s the little things that prevent boredom from creeping into a marriage. That’s because, after putting both of our daughters through college and marrying one of them off, we don’t have enough money left for the big things.
True, we went to Barbados last year for our 30th anniversary, the first time we had been away together, just the two of us, to a place with postcards and palm trees, since our honeymoon in Hawaii. We vowed to go back this year but ended up staying home and going to a local beach that did not, I regret to say, have postcards or palm trees, although it did have a snack bar.
Now that the weather is cooler, Sue and I spend our exciting Saturday nights either at home watching rented movies and trying to stay awake to the end or going out on little dates for burgers and beer. And if we should happen to run into Arthur and Elaine Aron, the first round is on them.
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, October 2, 2009
"Identity Crisis"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
At the risk of being sued by Popeye, I am what I am. Unfortunately, what I am can’t be printed in a family newspaper. I don’t even know who I am anymore. That’s because my identity was recently stolen.
I never thought this would happen because you’d have to be crazy to want to be me. Even if you were caught and went to trial, you could easily get off, either by pleading insanity or by claiming the cops had the wrong man. Then I’d get arrested.
In contrast to the old Sammy Davis Jr. song "I’ve Gotta Be Me," I don’t want to be myself. It’s a terrible predicament, but there’s nothing I can do about it.
Despite the prospect of being married to someone richer and a lot more interesting, my wife, Sue, decided to do something about it when she noticed charges on my debit card for $1.13.
"Is that all I’m worth?" I asked. "What an insult!"
"There are three charges," Sue pointed out, "so you’re worth $3.39."
That made me feel a little better, but I still couldn’t understand why anyone would want to steal my identity, especially since I had to take a vow of poverty when I went into journalism.
In fact, my life is lived in increments of $20 because I use my debit card almost exclusively at the ATM, which in my case stands for Abominable Transaction Machine. I usually withdraw $20 so I can put enough gas in my car to go to work so I can earn enough money to put gas in my car to go to work. At least I have a job. Then again, if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have to put gas in my car.
At any rate, Sue called the bank to find out what was going on and spoke with a very nice customer representative named Renee, who wanted to speak with me because those little charges were being put on my card.
"Someone is probably downloading songs on an iPod," Renee said.
"I don’t have an iPod or iTunes, although I do have iTeeth," I told her. "I’m not technologically advanced."
"Neither am I," said Renee, adding that she would put a block on my card but that I would have to go to a bank branch to get a new one.
A little while later, Sue and I were sitting in the office of Friday McGraw, a small-business specialist who is as terrific as his name.
"Identity theft is a big problem," said Friday, which also happened to be the day we were there. "I’ve already done three this morning." Then he handed me a pair of scissors and asked if I wanted to cut up my card.
"I’ve always been a cutup, so why not?" I said. Friday looked on as I snipped away. "Wow!" I chirped. "I’m literally performing plastic surgery!"
"I guess you don’t do that for a living," Friday commented. "You’re too excited." He also said that identity thieves typically put small charges on a card at first. If the card holder doesn’t do anything about it, the thieves will then put on charges that could total thousands of dollars.
In trying to figure out where the theft might have occurred, Friday asked, "Where was the last place you ate?"
"My parents’ house," I replied, explaining that we had stayed overnight.
"If your identity got stolen there, you’re in trouble," said Friday, who has helped my parents with their banking and knows they’re honest people.
"Still," I wondered, "why would anyone want it?"
"I guess there’s at least one idiot out there," Friday answered with a smile. He issued me a temporary card, changed the number on our checking account, arranged for me to get a new debit card and new checks, and otherwise handled the whole transaction with great professionalism and good humor.
"Now you can be you again," he said.
"It’s small consolation," I replied. "But at least I can put gas in my car."
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
At the risk of being sued by Popeye, I am what I am. Unfortunately, what I am can’t be printed in a family newspaper. I don’t even know who I am anymore. That’s because my identity was recently stolen.
I never thought this would happen because you’d have to be crazy to want to be me. Even if you were caught and went to trial, you could easily get off, either by pleading insanity or by claiming the cops had the wrong man. Then I’d get arrested.
In contrast to the old Sammy Davis Jr. song "I’ve Gotta Be Me," I don’t want to be myself. It’s a terrible predicament, but there’s nothing I can do about it.
Despite the prospect of being married to someone richer and a lot more interesting, my wife, Sue, decided to do something about it when she noticed charges on my debit card for $1.13.
"Is that all I’m worth?" I asked. "What an insult!"
"There are three charges," Sue pointed out, "so you’re worth $3.39."
That made me feel a little better, but I still couldn’t understand why anyone would want to steal my identity, especially since I had to take a vow of poverty when I went into journalism.
In fact, my life is lived in increments of $20 because I use my debit card almost exclusively at the ATM, which in my case stands for Abominable Transaction Machine. I usually withdraw $20 so I can put enough gas in my car to go to work so I can earn enough money to put gas in my car to go to work. At least I have a job. Then again, if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have to put gas in my car.
At any rate, Sue called the bank to find out what was going on and spoke with a very nice customer representative named Renee, who wanted to speak with me because those little charges were being put on my card.
"Someone is probably downloading songs on an iPod," Renee said.
"I don’t have an iPod or iTunes, although I do have iTeeth," I told her. "I’m not technologically advanced."
"Neither am I," said Renee, adding that she would put a block on my card but that I would have to go to a bank branch to get a new one.
A little while later, Sue and I were sitting in the office of Friday McGraw, a small-business specialist who is as terrific as his name.
"Identity theft is a big problem," said Friday, which also happened to be the day we were there. "I’ve already done three this morning." Then he handed me a pair of scissors and asked if I wanted to cut up my card.
"I’ve always been a cutup, so why not?" I said. Friday looked on as I snipped away. "Wow!" I chirped. "I’m literally performing plastic surgery!"
"I guess you don’t do that for a living," Friday commented. "You’re too excited." He also said that identity thieves typically put small charges on a card at first. If the card holder doesn’t do anything about it, the thieves will then put on charges that could total thousands of dollars.
In trying to figure out where the theft might have occurred, Friday asked, "Where was the last place you ate?"
"My parents’ house," I replied, explaining that we had stayed overnight.
"If your identity got stolen there, you’re in trouble," said Friday, who has helped my parents with their banking and knows they’re honest people.
"Still," I wondered, "why would anyone want it?"
"I guess there’s at least one idiot out there," Friday answered with a smile. He issued me a temporary card, changed the number on our checking account, arranged for me to get a new debit card and new checks, and otherwise handled the whole transaction with great professionalism and good humor.
"Now you can be you again," he said.
"It’s small consolation," I replied. "But at least I can put gas in my car."
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, September 18, 2009
"Moby-Sick"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
Call me Ishmael. Call me captain. But don’t call me seasick.
That’s more than I could say for most of the 80 people – including my wife, Sue – who recently went out on a boat to watch whales but instead, in a stunning display of mass disgorgement that even Herman Melville couldn’t have imagined, gave new meaning to the old whaling term "Thar she blows!"
Our high-seas adventure began aboard the Viking Starship, a 140-foot-long vessel out of Montauk, N.Y. Under the able command of the friendly and experienced crew – Capt. Joseph DiLiberto, mate Alex Georgiev and naturalist Artie Kopelman – the Starship set sail at 9:30 a.m. on a six-hour tour, a six-hour tour (sorry, "Gilligan’s Island" fans) about 15 miles into the Atlantic. Destination: the feeding grounds of majestic marine mammals, including the fin whale, the second-largest species, which can grow to 80 feet in length.
Before Sue and I boarded, I noticed a sign on the dock next to the ship. It read: "No firearms allowed onboard." Now I know why: If you get violently sick out on the water, you’ll want to shoot yourself.
A storm had passed offshore the night before and the morning broke cloudy and chilly, but the conditions, if not ideal, weren’t bad enough to cancel the trip.
Kopelman stood on deck with a microphone as the boat chugged out of the harbor and, in a funny and informative routine that included fascinating facts about the creatures we hoped to see, explained what we should do in the event of seasickness. Ill passengers should not use bags but should go "over the rail," Kopelman said, adding: "And not into the wind."
The first sign of trouble came about five miles out, just past the Montauk Point Lighthouse, where the Viking Starship acted more like the Jefferson Starship: It was rocking and rolling in the increasingly churning ocean. Several people, who had turned greener than the water, clutched the rail. Others, disregarding Kopelman’s instructions, clutched bags. Sue clutched me.
Apparently, I was the only passenger, in addition to a group of little kids, who was having a good time. It was like being at an amusement park except that no one else thought it was amusing.
Among the afflicted was Sue, who got sick five times. It may have been a record. At one point, I went inside to get her some napkins and spoke with Kobi Kobayashi, who runs the snack bar.
"I guess business hasn’t been too good today," I said.
Kobayashi shook his head and replied, "I made three breakfasts – sausage and eggs – but they probably went over the side."
Kobayashi, a former commercial fisherman from Japan, has also been a filmmaker. He was the cinematographer on the 1977 Oscar winner for best short documentary, "I’ll Find a Way."
"If you made a movie about this trip," I noted, "you could call it ‘I’ll Find a Wave.’ A lot of people have." Kobayashi didn’t disagree.
About 12 miles out, Capt. Joe decided to cut the trip short and turn around. "It’s too bad," he said, "because we’ve had an 80 percent success rate this year. We’ve been out 20 times and have seen whales 16 times. None today, though."
"Maybe they’re sick, too," I suggested.
"Seasickness is mostly mind over matter," said Capt. Joe, adding that he used to get sick as a boy when he went on fishing trips with his father and uncles. "You grow out of it."
On the way back in, the water had calmed considerably, so Capt. Joe let me take the wheel. For five minutes, under strict supervision, I was Capt. Jerry.
About half an hour later, after the real captain docked the boat under sunny skies, Sue and I, along with scores of ashen-faced, wobbly-legged, would-be whale watchers, disembarked. I was going to ask Sue if she wanted to get some clams for lunch, but I didn’t want to end up sleeping with the fishes.
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
Call me Ishmael. Call me captain. But don’t call me seasick.
That’s more than I could say for most of the 80 people – including my wife, Sue – who recently went out on a boat to watch whales but instead, in a stunning display of mass disgorgement that even Herman Melville couldn’t have imagined, gave new meaning to the old whaling term "Thar she blows!"
Our high-seas adventure began aboard the Viking Starship, a 140-foot-long vessel out of Montauk, N.Y. Under the able command of the friendly and experienced crew – Capt. Joseph DiLiberto, mate Alex Georgiev and naturalist Artie Kopelman – the Starship set sail at 9:30 a.m. on a six-hour tour, a six-hour tour (sorry, "Gilligan’s Island" fans) about 15 miles into the Atlantic. Destination: the feeding grounds of majestic marine mammals, including the fin whale, the second-largest species, which can grow to 80 feet in length.
Before Sue and I boarded, I noticed a sign on the dock next to the ship. It read: "No firearms allowed onboard." Now I know why: If you get violently sick out on the water, you’ll want to shoot yourself.
A storm had passed offshore the night before and the morning broke cloudy and chilly, but the conditions, if not ideal, weren’t bad enough to cancel the trip.
Kopelman stood on deck with a microphone as the boat chugged out of the harbor and, in a funny and informative routine that included fascinating facts about the creatures we hoped to see, explained what we should do in the event of seasickness. Ill passengers should not use bags but should go "over the rail," Kopelman said, adding: "And not into the wind."
The first sign of trouble came about five miles out, just past the Montauk Point Lighthouse, where the Viking Starship acted more like the Jefferson Starship: It was rocking and rolling in the increasingly churning ocean. Several people, who had turned greener than the water, clutched the rail. Others, disregarding Kopelman’s instructions, clutched bags. Sue clutched me.
Apparently, I was the only passenger, in addition to a group of little kids, who was having a good time. It was like being at an amusement park except that no one else thought it was amusing.
Among the afflicted was Sue, who got sick five times. It may have been a record. At one point, I went inside to get her some napkins and spoke with Kobi Kobayashi, who runs the snack bar.
"I guess business hasn’t been too good today," I said.
Kobayashi shook his head and replied, "I made three breakfasts – sausage and eggs – but they probably went over the side."
Kobayashi, a former commercial fisherman from Japan, has also been a filmmaker. He was the cinematographer on the 1977 Oscar winner for best short documentary, "I’ll Find a Way."
"If you made a movie about this trip," I noted, "you could call it ‘I’ll Find a Wave.’ A lot of people have." Kobayashi didn’t disagree.
About 12 miles out, Capt. Joe decided to cut the trip short and turn around. "It’s too bad," he said, "because we’ve had an 80 percent success rate this year. We’ve been out 20 times and have seen whales 16 times. None today, though."
"Maybe they’re sick, too," I suggested.
"Seasickness is mostly mind over matter," said Capt. Joe, adding that he used to get sick as a boy when he went on fishing trips with his father and uncles. "You grow out of it."
On the way back in, the water had calmed considerably, so Capt. Joe let me take the wheel. For five minutes, under strict supervision, I was Capt. Jerry.
About half an hour later, after the real captain docked the boat under sunny skies, Sue and I, along with scores of ashen-faced, wobbly-legged, would-be whale watchers, disembarked. I was going to ask Sue if she wanted to get some clams for lunch, but I didn’t want to end up sleeping with the fishes.
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, September 4, 2009
"Day at the Museum"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
Aside from fame, fortune and talent, Ben Stiller has nothing on me. That’s because I recently spent a day at the museum.
Yes, it was the American Museum of Natural History in New York City, the site of Stiller’s 2006 box office hit, "Night at the Museum." I didn’t spend a night at the museum for two good reasons: It closed at 5:45 p.m. and I am not, for better or for worse, Ben Stiller.
Still, my wife, Sue, and I decided to spend an afternoon at this famous institution, which we hadn’t visited since our daughters were kids about 20 years ago, to see if anything would come alive.
"Oh, wow, things come alive all the time," said Abiba Ouattara, a guard who has been working at the museum for four years. "Especially at night."
Ouattara should know because she sometimes works the night shift. "The dinosaurs are more interesting than Ben Stiller," she said.
"Maybe I could be in an exhibit," I told her. "I’m a fossil."
"No, you’re not," replied Ouattara, whose love of her job and delightful sense of humor make her a great ambassador for the museum. "But you could be in the human origin section. That’s where we all belong."
Sue and I decided to start with an even older exhibit, in the David H. Koch Dinosaur Wing, which is oddly named because dinosaurs didn’t have wings, unless you believe, as do many paleontologists, that they were closely related to birds, especially on their mother’s side.
We saw all the biggies, including T-rex (my, what big teeth you have!) and apatosaurus, formerly known as brontosaurus, a name it must have used as an alias to escape meat eaters such as allosaurus, who was there, too.
We also saw stegosaurus, a huge armored creature that had a brain the size of a walnut, making it the congressman of dinosaurs.
"No wonder it’s extinct," Sue commented.
"I have a small brain and I’m not extinct," I said.
"No," Sue noted, "not yet."
All the dinosaurs died out tens of millions of years ago from one of three causes: climate change, a comet that hit Earth or, as cartoonist Gary Larson theorized in a famous "Far Side" strip, smoking.
Even though the skeleton crew didn’t come alive, it was great to see them again. But an even bigger thrill awaited in a new exhibit called "Extreme Mammals," of which I, of course, am one.
Just as I knew the names of all the dinosaurs when I was a kid because I was, and still am, an encyclopedia of useless information, I also was familiar with the prehistoric mammals, including the woolly mammoth, the saber-toothed tiger (not really a tiger, but it’s dead, so why quibble?) and the giant ground sloth. All of them were here, as was a gigantic hornless rhinoceros named Indricotherium, the largest land mammal that ever lived. It was even bigger than Orson Welles before he, too, became extinct.
Sue and I also made it to the human origin section, where I spotted many of my ancestors, who could easily be distinguished from me because none of them, even the women, had a mustache.
The museum is so large and so fascinating that no one could possibly see it all in one day. Or even one night, as Martin Hollander, a volunteer at the information desk, told me. There is, indeed, a "Night at the Museum" program, but it’s for kids 8-12 years old.
"You’d have to bring a brat," Hollander said.
"I’m a brat. And intellectually, I’m about 8," I said. "Could my wife bring me?"
"Yes," Hollander replied. "You could be Benjamin Button."
Unfortunately, I couldn’t be Ben Stiller. But if he doesn’t want to star in another "Night at the Museum" movie, I’ll gladly take his place.
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
Aside from fame, fortune and talent, Ben Stiller has nothing on me. That’s because I recently spent a day at the museum.
Yes, it was the American Museum of Natural History in New York City, the site of Stiller’s 2006 box office hit, "Night at the Museum." I didn’t spend a night at the museum for two good reasons: It closed at 5:45 p.m. and I am not, for better or for worse, Ben Stiller.
Still, my wife, Sue, and I decided to spend an afternoon at this famous institution, which we hadn’t visited since our daughters were kids about 20 years ago, to see if anything would come alive.
"Oh, wow, things come alive all the time," said Abiba Ouattara, a guard who has been working at the museum for four years. "Especially at night."
Ouattara should know because she sometimes works the night shift. "The dinosaurs are more interesting than Ben Stiller," she said.
"Maybe I could be in an exhibit," I told her. "I’m a fossil."
"No, you’re not," replied Ouattara, whose love of her job and delightful sense of humor make her a great ambassador for the museum. "But you could be in the human origin section. That’s where we all belong."
Sue and I decided to start with an even older exhibit, in the David H. Koch Dinosaur Wing, which is oddly named because dinosaurs didn’t have wings, unless you believe, as do many paleontologists, that they were closely related to birds, especially on their mother’s side.
We saw all the biggies, including T-rex (my, what big teeth you have!) and apatosaurus, formerly known as brontosaurus, a name it must have used as an alias to escape meat eaters such as allosaurus, who was there, too.
We also saw stegosaurus, a huge armored creature that had a brain the size of a walnut, making it the congressman of dinosaurs.
"No wonder it’s extinct," Sue commented.
"I have a small brain and I’m not extinct," I said.
"No," Sue noted, "not yet."
All the dinosaurs died out tens of millions of years ago from one of three causes: climate change, a comet that hit Earth or, as cartoonist Gary Larson theorized in a famous "Far Side" strip, smoking.
Even though the skeleton crew didn’t come alive, it was great to see them again. But an even bigger thrill awaited in a new exhibit called "Extreme Mammals," of which I, of course, am one.
Just as I knew the names of all the dinosaurs when I was a kid because I was, and still am, an encyclopedia of useless information, I also was familiar with the prehistoric mammals, including the woolly mammoth, the saber-toothed tiger (not really a tiger, but it’s dead, so why quibble?) and the giant ground sloth. All of them were here, as was a gigantic hornless rhinoceros named Indricotherium, the largest land mammal that ever lived. It was even bigger than Orson Welles before he, too, became extinct.
Sue and I also made it to the human origin section, where I spotted many of my ancestors, who could easily be distinguished from me because none of them, even the women, had a mustache.
The museum is so large and so fascinating that no one could possibly see it all in one day. Or even one night, as Martin Hollander, a volunteer at the information desk, told me. There is, indeed, a "Night at the Museum" program, but it’s for kids 8-12 years old.
"You’d have to bring a brat," Hollander said.
"I’m a brat. And intellectually, I’m about 8," I said. "Could my wife bring me?"
"Yes," Hollander replied. "You could be Benjamin Button."
Unfortunately, I couldn’t be Ben Stiller. But if he doesn’t want to star in another "Night at the Museum" movie, I’ll gladly take his place.
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, August 21, 2009
"Grape Expectations"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
My favorite Latin phrase, which must have been translated improperly when I was in high school, is "Veni, vidi, vino." It means, "I came, I saw, I drank a lot of wine."
That is what I have been saying since I introduced my very own merlot.
Actually, the wine has just been introduced by Castello di Borghese, the oldest vineyard on Long Island, N.Y., and it's called Borghese 2004 Reserve Merlot. But I can say with great pride, a pleased palate and a slight buzzing in my ears that I helped to make it.
Since wine needs time to age (I don't because I get more decrepit every day), the process began in 2002, when I drove out to Castello di Borghese and, with the permission of the owners, Marco and Ann Marie Borghese, picked a bunch of cabernet franc grapes so I could take them home to make my own wine.
Back at Chateau de Zezima, I decided to re-create the famous scene in "I Love Lucy" in which Lucille Ball crushes wine grapes with her feet. I put my grapes in the bathtub, removed my shoes and socks, and stomped away. Then I plopped the crushed grapes into a stainless steel pot, covered them and let them ferment. A week later, I strained the mess, poured the juice into an empty wine bottle, which I capped with a party balloon to trap the vapors and prevent the house from blowing up, and let it ferment for another week.
When I took my wine, which I dubbed Cabernet Jerry 2002, back to Castello di Borghese, the winemaker took one sip and spluttered, "It tastes like nail polish remover!"
After assuring me that my feet were not responsible for the disaster, he took me down to the cellar so I could help make real wine. This required me to again take off my shoes and socks, put on a T-shirt and a pair of swim trunks, and climb through a small porthole leading to the inside of a 3,000-gallon stainless steel tank containing 4 tons of thick, soggy merlot grape skins.
My job was to stand knee-deep in the bone-chilling gunk and, using an orange plastic shovel, dump the skins into an auger-driven pump that funneled them into a 900-gallon press. After a fermentation process that would last slightly longer than the two weeks it took to make my cabernet, the result would be the 2004 Reserve Merlot.
Slow forward to 2009. My wife, Sue, and I, along with our older daughter, Katie, and her huband, Dave, drove out to the vineyard to see if my merlot was ready.
"You're in luck," said Marco Borghese. "We're just coming out with it now."
Although the label year is 2004, Marco explained, "Wine has to stay in barrels for at least three years and in bottles for as long as you want."
Since the winery has been voted best vineyard on Long Island (more info at castellodiborghese.com), I had no doubt that Marco knew the proper time to come out with my merlot. "It's not our very finest," he acknowledged. "And it's not because of your feet. Still," added Marco, who gave me a bottle with his compliments, "I hope you enjoy it."
At home, I opened the bottle and, like a true oenophile, took a whiff of the cork. It smelled like cork. Then I poured some of my merlot into glasses for Sue, Katie, Dave and yours truly. I took a sip, let the wine sit on the back of my tongue and swallowed. "Magnifique," I announced.
"It's good," Sue said. "Very peppery."
"And sharp," Katie added.
Dave said, "I smell pepper. No feet as yet. Very good."
My merlot had passed the family test, but what would a professional wine critic say? To find out, I asked my pal Peter M. Gianotti, a respected food and wine critic for Newsday, to give me his unbiased opinion.
Because there are no wine glasses in the office, Peter used a paper cup. "It's plummy," he said after taking a sip. "And it has a back bite. It might need a little more time in the bottle, but I would have it with pizza."
The ultimate compliment! What more could a winemaker want? I don't know how you say it in Latin, but I do know that, if she were still around, Lucy would be proud.
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
My favorite Latin phrase, which must have been translated improperly when I was in high school, is "Veni, vidi, vino." It means, "I came, I saw, I drank a lot of wine."
That is what I have been saying since I introduced my very own merlot.
Actually, the wine has just been introduced by Castello di Borghese, the oldest vineyard on Long Island, N.Y., and it's called Borghese 2004 Reserve Merlot. But I can say with great pride, a pleased palate and a slight buzzing in my ears that I helped to make it.
Since wine needs time to age (I don't because I get more decrepit every day), the process began in 2002, when I drove out to Castello di Borghese and, with the permission of the owners, Marco and Ann Marie Borghese, picked a bunch of cabernet franc grapes so I could take them home to make my own wine.
Back at Chateau de Zezima, I decided to re-create the famous scene in "I Love Lucy" in which Lucille Ball crushes wine grapes with her feet. I put my grapes in the bathtub, removed my shoes and socks, and stomped away. Then I plopped the crushed grapes into a stainless steel pot, covered them and let them ferment. A week later, I strained the mess, poured the juice into an empty wine bottle, which I capped with a party balloon to trap the vapors and prevent the house from blowing up, and let it ferment for another week.
When I took my wine, which I dubbed Cabernet Jerry 2002, back to Castello di Borghese, the winemaker took one sip and spluttered, "It tastes like nail polish remover!"
After assuring me that my feet were not responsible for the disaster, he took me down to the cellar so I could help make real wine. This required me to again take off my shoes and socks, put on a T-shirt and a pair of swim trunks, and climb through a small porthole leading to the inside of a 3,000-gallon stainless steel tank containing 4 tons of thick, soggy merlot grape skins.
My job was to stand knee-deep in the bone-chilling gunk and, using an orange plastic shovel, dump the skins into an auger-driven pump that funneled them into a 900-gallon press. After a fermentation process that would last slightly longer than the two weeks it took to make my cabernet, the result would be the 2004 Reserve Merlot.
Slow forward to 2009. My wife, Sue, and I, along with our older daughter, Katie, and her huband, Dave, drove out to the vineyard to see if my merlot was ready.
"You're in luck," said Marco Borghese. "We're just coming out with it now."
Although the label year is 2004, Marco explained, "Wine has to stay in barrels for at least three years and in bottles for as long as you want."
Since the winery has been voted best vineyard on Long Island (more info at castellodiborghese.com), I had no doubt that Marco knew the proper time to come out with my merlot. "It's not our very finest," he acknowledged. "And it's not because of your feet. Still," added Marco, who gave me a bottle with his compliments, "I hope you enjoy it."
At home, I opened the bottle and, like a true oenophile, took a whiff of the cork. It smelled like cork. Then I poured some of my merlot into glasses for Sue, Katie, Dave and yours truly. I took a sip, let the wine sit on the back of my tongue and swallowed. "Magnifique," I announced.
"It's good," Sue said. "Very peppery."
"And sharp," Katie added.
Dave said, "I smell pepper. No feet as yet. Very good."
My merlot had passed the family test, but what would a professional wine critic say? To find out, I asked my pal Peter M. Gianotti, a respected food and wine critic for Newsday, to give me his unbiased opinion.
Because there are no wine glasses in the office, Peter used a paper cup. "It's plummy," he said after taking a sip. "And it has a back bite. It might need a little more time in the bottle, but I would have it with pizza."
The ultimate compliment! What more could a winemaker want? I don't know how you say it in Latin, but I do know that, if she were still around, Lucy would be proud.
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, July 24, 2009
"Growing Pains"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
Jerry, Jerry, quite contrary, how does your garden grow? Not too badly considering I am more of a vegetable than anything I've planted this year.
Actually, the little patch of earth on the side of the house is the first garden I have ever had. My wife, Sue, who has a green thumb (she really ought to see a doctor), could grow tomatoes in Death Valley. I, on the other hand, which has a dirty thumb, am responsible for making parts of our property look like that famous desert.
So when the only plant I could not kill, a gigantic butterfly bush, was removed earlier this year, I decided to put in herbs (nobody named Herb was harmed during planting) and various veggies (not including broccoli and zucchini, which I will consume only at the point of a gun) and turn the place into a Garden of Eatin'.
I was inspired to get into agriculture, which is the only culture I have, by President Barack Obama and his wife, first lady Michelle Obama, who recently planted a White House garden that is approximately the size of Rhode Island.
Mine is somewhat smaller (83 by 64 inches, to be exact), but you have to start somewhere, and I didn't think the Secret Service would let me do so outside the Oval Office.
I went with Sue to one of those home-improvement warehouses to pick out what I wanted to plant.
"Do you like squash?" she asked as we walked through the garden department.
"I'd rather play tennis," I replied.
Sue ignored the remark and suggested we get vegetables I would actually eat, which narrowed the choices considerably. They included tomatoes, eggplants, jalapeno peppers, bell peppers, string beans and cauliflowers. We also got parsley, as well as basil and rosemary. In fact, Basil, Rosemary and Herb are having a nice little menage a twine, which I am using to hold up the tomato plants.
The planting itself was pretty hard work. I was about to throw in the trowel when I realized I wouldn't see the fruits of my labors. And since tomatoes are also considered fruits, I wasn't taking any chances, even though they were tough rows to hoe.
Speaking of rows, I could have used a rowboat -- or maybe even an ark -- after we had what seemed like 40 days and 40 nights of rain, which nearly caused a flood of biblical proportions. Sue said it was God's way of telling me that I couldn't be trusted to water the garden.
I got the hint, however, and when the rain finally stopped, I began giving the garden a shower every evening. I give myself a shower every morning, but not outside.
To break up the monotony, I started talking to my tomato plants. But I stopped after I heard a report on the radio about how men can stunt the growth of their tomato plants when they talk to them. According to a study conducted by the Royal Horticultural Society in Surrey, England, tomato plants will respond to a woman's voice much better than they will to a man's and will grow up to an inch more when they hear soothing female sounds.
I thought only cauliflowers had ears, but I guess our world isn't called Mother Nature for nothing. When I told Sue about the study, she said, "Shall I go out to the garden and have a conversation with the tomato plants?"
She must have done so because we now have tomatoes the size of baseballs. (Imagine if it were basketball season.) I think the real reason the plants are doing so well, and haven't been affected by the current fungus that has ruined many tomato crops, is that I no longer tell them stupid jokes when I water the garden.
At any rate, because of my tender care, or perhaps despite it, my garden is growing just fine. We have had several delicious meals featuring string beans, jalapenos and parsley, and there will be plenty more when the tomatoes, eggplants, bell peppers and cauliflowers are ready to eat. Maybe then, if they're not too busy tending their own garden, we'll invite the Obamas over for dinner.
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
Jerry, Jerry, quite contrary, how does your garden grow? Not too badly considering I am more of a vegetable than anything I've planted this year.
Actually, the little patch of earth on the side of the house is the first garden I have ever had. My wife, Sue, who has a green thumb (she really ought to see a doctor), could grow tomatoes in Death Valley. I, on the other hand, which has a dirty thumb, am responsible for making parts of our property look like that famous desert.
So when the only plant I could not kill, a gigantic butterfly bush, was removed earlier this year, I decided to put in herbs (nobody named Herb was harmed during planting) and various veggies (not including broccoli and zucchini, which I will consume only at the point of a gun) and turn the place into a Garden of Eatin'.
I was inspired to get into agriculture, which is the only culture I have, by President Barack Obama and his wife, first lady Michelle Obama, who recently planted a White House garden that is approximately the size of Rhode Island.
Mine is somewhat smaller (83 by 64 inches, to be exact), but you have to start somewhere, and I didn't think the Secret Service would let me do so outside the Oval Office.
I went with Sue to one of those home-improvement warehouses to pick out what I wanted to plant.
"Do you like squash?" she asked as we walked through the garden department.
"I'd rather play tennis," I replied.
Sue ignored the remark and suggested we get vegetables I would actually eat, which narrowed the choices considerably. They included tomatoes, eggplants, jalapeno peppers, bell peppers, string beans and cauliflowers. We also got parsley, as well as basil and rosemary. In fact, Basil, Rosemary and Herb are having a nice little menage a twine, which I am using to hold up the tomato plants.
The planting itself was pretty hard work. I was about to throw in the trowel when I realized I wouldn't see the fruits of my labors. And since tomatoes are also considered fruits, I wasn't taking any chances, even though they were tough rows to hoe.
Speaking of rows, I could have used a rowboat -- or maybe even an ark -- after we had what seemed like 40 days and 40 nights of rain, which nearly caused a flood of biblical proportions. Sue said it was God's way of telling me that I couldn't be trusted to water the garden.
I got the hint, however, and when the rain finally stopped, I began giving the garden a shower every evening. I give myself a shower every morning, but not outside.
To break up the monotony, I started talking to my tomato plants. But I stopped after I heard a report on the radio about how men can stunt the growth of their tomato plants when they talk to them. According to a study conducted by the Royal Horticultural Society in Surrey, England, tomato plants will respond to a woman's voice much better than they will to a man's and will grow up to an inch more when they hear soothing female sounds.
I thought only cauliflowers had ears, but I guess our world isn't called Mother Nature for nothing. When I told Sue about the study, she said, "Shall I go out to the garden and have a conversation with the tomato plants?"
She must have done so because we now have tomatoes the size of baseballs. (Imagine if it were basketball season.) I think the real reason the plants are doing so well, and haven't been affected by the current fungus that has ruined many tomato crops, is that I no longer tell them stupid jokes when I water the garden.
At any rate, because of my tender care, or perhaps despite it, my garden is growing just fine. We have had several delicious meals featuring string beans, jalapenos and parsley, and there will be plenty more when the tomatoes, eggplants, bell peppers and cauliflowers are ready to eat. Maybe then, if they're not too busy tending their own garden, we'll invite the Obamas over for dinner.
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
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