"A Star Isn't Born"

By Jerry Zezima

Now that I have seen Steven Spielberg’s “Disclosure Day,” a space alien thriller that’s out of this world, I am making this my own disclosure day:

I could have been the star of the movie.

And not necessarily as a space alien.

I was sure I’d be heading to Hollywood when I read about a casting call for Spielberg’s new film, the title of which had not been disclosed that day, although the plot was rumored to be about the U.S. government’s coverup of close encounters (get it, Steven?) with extraterrestrials (ditto).

The call, which was held last year at a theater about half an hour from my house on Long Island, New York, was for extras who would be portraying wrestling fans.

I didn’t have to grapple with the decision to apply because the WWE is headquartered in my hometown of Stamford, Connecticut, and I would undoubtedly be seen by Spielberg as the lord of the ring, even though that’s an entirely different film franchise.

I sent an email to the casting company with personal information such as name, age, height and weight, along with my photo, which itself should have qualified me to be cast as a man from Mars.

About a week later, I received an email confirming receipt of my application and information about the date and time of the casting call.

I showed up on the appointed day at 6 o’clock in the morning and walked into the theater. I didn’t see Spielberg, who might have been in the temple of doom (get it again, Steven?), but I did see a production person.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

“Neptune,” I replied.

“New Jersey?” she wondered.

“The planet,” I told her. “I’m perfect for this movie.”

She looked at me like I had just beamed down from outer space. Then she instructed me to go up the street to where the aspiring extras were waiting to be signed in.

I got in a long line with a guy who said he had tried out for a TV commercial but wasn’t chosen.

“That’s small-time stuff,” I said. “This is Spielberg. It’s our ticket to fame and fortune.”

My ticket was abruptly canceled when I got to the head of the line and was told by an officious individual that the company didn’t have my information and I couldn’t be cast as an extra, a wrestler, a space alien or — I was sure the legendary director would make this happen — the star of the movie.

It was, I figured, Spielberg’s loss. I drove back home, Hollywood dreams shattered. I regretted that I didn’t meet the man himself so I could ask him probing cinematic questions like:

How come the streets in night scenes are always wet?

If he made “E.T.” today, would the creature be unable to phone home because the kids were busy playing games on their devices?

And why did he make the biggest goof of his career in “Lincoln” by purposely misrepresenting the 13th Amendment votes by representatives from Connecticut, my home state?

Needless to say, but I’ll say it anyway, I wasn’t inclined to like “Disclosure Day” when my wife and I saw it recently.

Not to give anything away, but the first scene was the one in the wrestling arena. It was over in about two minutes, so my screen time, if I had any at all, would not have been long enough to establish me as a Hollywood heartthrob. Or, more likely, a heartburn.

But the movie was fantastic. The real stars, especially Emily Blunt, were brilliant. And the direction was, of course, masterful.

I forgive you, Steven. But please know that when you are casting your next film, I’m available. I can see it now: “Connecticut Jones and the Kingdom of the Empty Skull.”

All right, Mr. Spielberg, I’m ready for my closeup.

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima

"The Long and Chatty Road"

By Jerry Zezima

When it comes to talking the talk and walking the walk, the talk is that I do more talking than walking, even when I’m on a walk.

That’s why I won’t walk back the fact that I talked my way through two recent walks, one on which I had a delightful talk with a retired doctor and the other on which I tried to keep up with my wife, Sue, an avid walker who thinks I talk too much.

I took my first walk on a sunny day that was too nice for me to go to the gym, where I usually get on a treadmill and walk a mile in my shoes without actually going anywhere. This makes me talk to myself because everybody else is too busy huffing and puffing to be interested in anything I have to say.

On the plus side, if you’re on a treadmill you can’t get flattened by a speeding car, which is a definite danger if you’re out for a walk around the neighborhood.

But I risked life, limb and mouth to get some fresh air while avoiding all the aspiring Formula 1 champions who whiz through the streets on my route. I would like to talk to them with words that can’t be printed in a family newspaper, but they couldn’t hear me anyway.

About halfway through my walk, during which I talked with a guy named Tom, making us Tom and Jerry, I stopped to catch my breath, which by that time was pretty bad.

Across the street was Molitus Michel, who was doing yard work. I went over to help him.

Just kidding! I went over to talk.

“I used to do yard work,” I told him, “but my wife fired me. She said I didn’t do a good job. And I worked for free. I guess I was worth every penny. Now we have a landscaper.”

“My wife hasn’t fired me,” he said, adding that he is 92 and has been retired for 25 years.

“What did you do for a living?” I asked.

“I was a doctor,” he said.

“What kind of medicine did you practice?” I inquired.

“Not the kind where you would be one of my patients,” said Dr. Michel. “I was an OB-GYN.”

“I’m a little too old to get pregnant,” I noted, adding that I’m 72. “But if I needed emergency medical treatment, you could help me, right?”

“Absolutely,” Dr. Michel assured me. “And it would be free. I wouldn’t even charge you a copay.”

“Thank you, doctor. You’re priceless,” I said before heading off to finish my walk.

The next day, I went for a walk with Sue.

The first topic of conversation: Which side of the road should we walk on?

At that moment, we were on the right side and going with the flow of traffic.

“Shouldn’t we be facing the cars coming at us so we can see which one is about to run us over?” I inquired.

“Why?” Sue wanted to know.

“Because I’m chicken,” I answered nervously. “Want to know why the chicken crossed the road?”

Sue sighed and crossed with me.

“They see you coming and don’t slow down,” she observed as an SUV blew past us. “It doesn’t matter which side of the road you’re on.”

“This is like the toilet conundrums: Does the paper go over or under the holder? And does the seat go up or down?”

“Just walk,” Sue said with another sigh. “And don’t talk so much.”

I had a hard time keeping up with her because she walks even faster than I talk.

When we finally got home, Sue said, “Now you don’t have to go to the gym.”

“And I didn’t get hit by a car,” I replied. “But if I do, I know a good doctor. You’d love him. And his wife likes how he does yard work.”

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima

"You Can Spray That Again"

By Jerry Zezima

Every so often, when dirt, grime and mildew build up, a good power washing is in order. But it would be too messy, so I took a shower.

I had the house power-washed instead.

It had been a long time since our humble abode got such a thorough cleaning. Before that, it was the same mold story: I was responsible for getting the green gunk off the outside of the two-story Colonial.

This involved climbing a ladder — a hard-bristled brush and a spray bottle of bleach in  hand — and attempting to scrub the fungi away.

Since I am afraid of being any higher off the ground than the top of my head, and I had to keep moving the ladder a couple of feet at a time, my efforts not only were pathetically ineffective, but they took roughly as long as it would take a kindergartner to read “War and Peace.”

Then I had a brilliant idea: Sell the house!

No, actually, I bought a power washer. But there was a problem: It wouldn’t start.

Risking the rupture of a vital organ, I loaded the bulky machine into my car and drove it back to the home improvement store, where a helpful employee started it on the first try.

When I got home, I revved up the power washer, squeezed the trigger and was immediately blasted with a soapy spray. In a grave miscalculation, I was standing about 10 inches from the side of the house and got soaked to the skin.

Unfortunately, the power washer wasn’t powerful enough to wash the second story. The first story, which began, “Once upon a time, there was an incompetent homeowner,” was easy to wash once I learned to back away.

Ultimately, I gave the power washer to our contractor, who stripped the house of its moldy aluminum siding and replaced it with clean vinyl siding.

Slow-forward several years.

“The house needs to be power-washed,” my wife, Sue, told me recently.

“I’m not buying another machine,” I told her.

So we hired Benedetto Costanzo, who owns Three Village Power Washing on Long Island, New York.

Benedetto and his great crew saved me from having a heart attack last winter by getting rid of the nearly five feet of snow that fell on our property.

This time they lived up to the company’s name by power washing not only the house (including all the windows, the French doors in back, the storm door in front, the brick facade, the foundation and the gutters), but the driveway, the Belgian blocks on either side of it and those surrounding a front-yard tree, the mailbox, the front and side walks, the white PVC fence, the short brick wall in front and the backyard patio.

“Close and lock the windows,” Benedetto said before his guys, Brendan and Jose, got started. “And don’t come out of the house until they’re done.”

That’s because the cleaning solution they would be using contained eco-friendly chemicals that only professionals should handle. The chemicals mixed with water from a tank in the back of the company truck, went through long tubes and were shot out of the nozzles of the two industrial-grade power washers.

When the job was done, the house was fresh and fungus-free; the windows and doors gleamed; the walks and the driveway were spotless; so were the wall, the fence and the patio; the Belgian blocks sparkled; and the mailbox was letter-perfect.

“What do you think?” asked Benedetto.

“The house is cleaner than I am,” I replied.

“We could power-wash you,” he said.

“I’d have to take off my clothes,” I pointed out. “And the neighbors might call the cops. Thanks, but I’ll just go upstairs and take a shower.”

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima

"If Looks Could Grill"

By Jerry Zezima

Whenever I’m cooking with gas, which causes people who eat what I cook to have the same thing, I’m afraid I will not only burn the burgers but be blown to smithereens, after which I will rest in pieces.

That’s why I feel much safer now that I have a new grill, even though I had to reassemble part of it and ended up with a couple of screws left over. I put them in a container with my other loose screws.

My wife, Sue, who does the inside cooking, agreed that we needed a new grill so I could do the outside cooking, which doesn’t measure up to hers because it’s rare when anything I cook is well done.

So we went to a home improvement store and bought a shiny appliance to replace the rusty contraption we had for years.

To get the grill home, Sue and I would have to put it in the back of my car. Since I am a cardiac patient who shouldn’t lift anything heavier than a plate of hot dogs, and Sue is a cardiac patient who can lift two plates but shouldn’t overdo it, we enlisted the help of Kyle, a young and personable store employee who looked strong enough to lift not only the grill but my entire car.

Unfortunately, the grill wouldn’t fit. The hatch of my SUV (senior utility vehicle) was all the way up, but the cargo area wasn’t wide enough for Kyle — despite myriad maneuverings and much muttering — to jam the grill in.

“We didn’t have this trouble with our old grill,” I said. “And this one isn’t any bigger.”

“No,” said Sue. “But your car was.”

She solved the mystery by noting that my new car is smaller than the one I had when we got our previous grill.

“I’m going to get a screwdriver,” Kyle said.

“If you mean the kind with vodka and orange juice, get me one, too,” I said.

Kyle came back with the tool — solid, not liquid — that enabled him to disassemble one side of the grill so the whole thing could be slipped into the back of the car.

“You will have to put it back together,” said Kyle, who handed me the screws that needed to be screwed back in when I reattached the side of the grill.

I told him the story of our very first grill, which we bought during the Carter administration.

“It didn’t come preassembled,” I said. “I had to put it together myself. Because I am the least handy man in America, it took me about a week and a half. When I was finished, I had not only screws but several other parts left over. I was too scared to start the grill, so I asked Sue to do it. I felt like a mobster who makes his wife start his car. I know it was shameful, but what could I do?”

Kyle looked at Sue with sympathy and wished us luck.

I managed, with Sue’s help, to reassemble the side of the grill. But the grease cup, which collects drippings, wouldn’t fit onto the bottom of the assembly tray, which I brought back to the store.

“The holder is on backward,” said Kyle, who fixed the problem and sent me on my way.

The next issue was the igniter battery, which I put in backward before correcting my mistake. It didn’t matter because the tank, which I used on our old grill, was out of gas.

Back I went to the store, where Kyle got me a new full tank.

“Now you’re all set,” he said. “Happy grilling.”

“For all your help, you’re invited to come over for a barbecue,” I said. “And I’ll give you a screwdriver, easy on the orange juice.”

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima

"A Farewell to My Arm"

By Jerry Zezima

You know you’re old and washed up as an athlete when you hurt your arm playing Wiffle ball.

That’s what happened when I was the pitcher in a spirited game with my grandchildren, who not only hit home runs off me but ran so fast around the nonexistent bases in my backyard that when I tried to throw them out at home plate, I threw out my arm instead.

Now you can call me Lefty. But I’m still ambidextrous — incompetent with both hands.

Also playing were my younger daughter, a star athlete as a kid who now has knee problems, and one of my sons-in-law, who once threw a baseball through a window in our shed.

An enthusiastic fan was the family dog, a spunky Chihuahua who couldn’t hold a bat or she would have hit home runs off me, too.

I have not been modest in telling my grandkids that I was a pretty fair athlete in my day.

“I think it was a Tuesday,” I added.

What I haven’t told them is that I was the worst player on the worst team in Little League.

In my last season, I got one hit, a double that amazed the umpire, who said, “You’re hitting this year.” 

“I closed my eyes,” I told him.

He laughed and called me out when I got picked off second base.

That’s why I love Wiffle ball, which doesn’t require any real athletic talent aside from the demanding ability, in a close game, to stay awake.

That’s also why it has become our family pastime.

When I was a kid, I played Wiffle ball with my mother, father and sisters. I had approximately the same success I did in Little League.

When my kids were kids, I took them to my parents’ house so my mother could strike me out. She was the MVP (Mom Valuable Player).

The pitching prowess has obviously skipped a generation because I have played Wiffle ball with two of my granddaughters, who are sisters, and they’ve belted my pitches all over the yard, even though the younger one held the bat the wrong way.

This time, the slugger was my older grandson, who is 9, plays organized baseball and enjoys it because he’s something I never was — good.

I should have used analytics when preparing to face him, but I didn’t have the time or the mathematical acumen to calculate release angle, spin rate or whatever statistic can help you gain an advantage over an opposing batter.

I was, however, able to determine the exit velocity of the balls my grandson hit: FAST!

Some of them were launched so far that they hit the roof of the house, rolled off and landed in the bushes, which I had to chop through to retrieve the ball without, I fervently hoped, disturbing a hornets’ nest.

Other shots sailed over my head, requiring me — also the infielder, outfielder and bat boy — to turn around, run like a wounded sloth after the ball, pick it up and throw it to the catcher, my younger grandson, who’s 6 and is the slugger’s brother.

The ball typically arrived about 10 feet short, the same distance wide and a good half-minute after the batter crossed the imaginary plate.

On one such throw, I felt something pop in my arm.

I felt like a major leaguer who is put on the injured list for flank tightness or toe tenderness. What’s next, a tweaked pinkie?

I didn’t do myself any favors by continuing to serve up gopher balls that I had to chase down and throw, tenderly, back to the catcher.

I was, of course, the losing pitcher. And I’ve been sent down to the minors, sore arm and all, by a team of minors.

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima