"Down to a Science"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to write a newspaper column, but sometimes it helps to be a nuclear physicist.

Aside from realizing that I’m not smart enough to be either, which is why I write a newspaper column, that’s the lesson I learned recently after my wife, Sue, and I went on a tour of Brookhaven National Laboratory in Upton, N.Y.

We were among the approximately 1,800 people who saw the lab that day as part of Brookhaven’s Sunday Summer Tours. The program allows the public to view virtually every major part of the sprawling laboratory, which is operated in conjunction with the U.S. Department of Energy and has won seven Nobel Prizes.

Our group was welcomed by nuclear physicist Phil Pile, who said, “The world’s most perfect liquid was discovered here.”

“Wow!” I whispered to Sue. “They’re going to serve beer.”

No such luck. Phil was referring to a type of matter thought to have existed microseconds after the Big Bang. This means, I guess, that it was microbrewed.

The Big Bang is the prevailing cosmological theory of how the universe was created and is not to be confused with the Big Band, from which popular music was created.

Brookhaven is famous for the Relativistic Heavy Ion Collider, aka RHIC, pronounced Rick, which makes the laboratory Rick’s Place. “Of all the lab joints in all the towns in all the world, you had to walk into ours,” Phil didn’t say to the group.

He did say, however, that RHIC, where the origin of the universe is studied, is the first machine capable of colliding ions as heavy as gold.

“Maybe I’ll get some jewelry out of this,” Sue suggested.

Phil said that accelerated particles in RHIC have been known to travel 700 million miles per hour, which is almost as fast as some drivers go on Interstate 95 or the Long Island Expressway.

Phil also talked about protons and neutrons, though he didn’t mention morons, probably because he didn’t want to embarrass me. But he didn’t spare Albert Einstein (e equals MC Hammer), who was shown in a photo riding a bicycle without a helmet. “Not very smart,” Phil said.

Our group then got on a bus headed for STAR, one of two detectors we would see. STAR stands for Solenoidal Tracker At Relativistic. Xian Li, a brilliant doctorate student, told us how heavy ions are smashed together in a structure that looks like a huge roulette wheel. Even more brilliant was a 12-year-old girl named Mikaela Egbert, who showed me how to use my cell phone to take pictures.

Our next stop was the other detector, PHENIX, which stands for Pioneering High Energy Nuclear Interactions eXperiment. Aside from not being in Arizona, PHENIX also is where scientists collide heavy ions. Protons are collided in both detectors as well.

The last stop was the Tunnel, where an accelerator physicist named Mei Bai said the lab spends $600 million on parts.

“Do you go to Home Depot?” I inquired.

“When we need ladders,” she responded.

Accelerator physicist Todd Satogata talked about the Brookhaven Graphite Research Reactor, or BGRR. “It’s affectionately known as Booger,” he said.

Our group was given a tour by Guillaume Robert-Demolaize, an accelerator physicist who also happens to be my future son-in-law. He is even smarter than that 12-year-old girl and will one day win the Nobel Prize. You read it here first.

“This is where the magic happens,” said Guillaume, adding: “The person who asks the best question wins a T-shirt.”

“Can you use E-ZPass in this tunnel?” I asked.

I didn’t win the shirt.

But Guillaume gave a winning presentation, which included a detailed description of the 2.4-mile-long tunnel’s two concentric rings, which are made up of 1,740 superconducting magnets. “They’re not the kind you put on your refrigerator door,” he said.

After the tour, Sue said, “This was like being with Bill Nye the Science Guy.”

The whole day was fun and fascinating. The best thing I learned is that, when it comes to riding a bike without a helmet, Albert Einstein was no smarter than me.

Copyright 2010 by Jerry Zezima

"The Wedding Planner"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

Because I am going to be father of the bride for the second time -- which puts me ahead of both Spencer Tracy and Steve Martin, just in case any Hollywood producers are reading this -- I was extremely interested to read about Chelsea Clinton’s wedding.

My wife, Sue, and I weren’t invited, probably because, in 1992 and 1996, I was a candidate for vice president of the United States on the Cocktail Party ticket. Both times, my running mate, Alan Abel, and I lost to Bill Clinton and Al Gore in what can only be considered great upsets because Alan and I were greatly upset that we lost.

Still, I am willing to let bygones be bygones, which is why I want to invite Bill and Hillary, as well as Chelsea and her husband, Marc Mezvinsky, to my younger daughter’s wedding next year.

Of course, Sue and I can’t afford to spend $3 million on the big day, which is what Bill and Hillary reportedly spent on Chelsea’s wedding. That’s because we have already spent at least that much over the years on things like Girl Scout cookies, school fundraisers, clothes, shoes, college tuition and, when our two daughters were living at home, phone bills.

Then there was our older daughter’s wedding, in 2006. The cost included not only the big day but a kitchen renovation, which Sue commissioned because, in a brilliant plan to “save money,” we had the bridal shower at our house.

Now, Sue and I are planning our younger daughter’s wedding and have decided to invite a lot of the people who reportedly were on Bill and Hillary’s guest list.

That includes, of course, Bill and Hillary.

As a former president, Bill will add prestige to the event. He also has proven to be an effective fundraiser for worthy causes, and I can think of no worthier cause than the Jerry’s Kids Wedding Fund.

The goal is $3 million. If any money is left over, Sue and I will blow it on frivolous luxuries like food and shelter. After all, you only live once.

Hillary will be a great guest, too. As secretary of state, she can help with diplomacy when it comes to the seating arrangements. And since our future son-in-law is from France, Hillary can use her expertise in international relations to make already warm relations even better.

We’ll also invite Barbra Streisand, who I am sure will not mind providing the entertainment. She was interviewed recently on “CBS News Sunday Morning” and she still has a terrific voice. People who need people at their daughter’s wedding are the luckiest people in the world.

Then there is Barbara Walters, who can announce the happy couple at the reception and perhaps conduct a short interview. She can ask about the rings, the bride’s dress and the honeymoon plans. She should avoid asking, “If you two were trees, what kind would you be?” Think about it, Barbara. We’re in touch, so you be in touch.

Ted Danson can be the bartender. During the cocktail hour, Ted, everyone will know your name. Cheers!

Finally, there is Oprah Winfrey, who can host a video of the big day. She can also give away cars or even cash to lucky attendees, most notably yours truly.

What do you say, folks? As far as Sue and I are concerned, your presence is more important than your presents. It will be a wonderful time. Bill and I can even put aside our political differences and swap funny stories about being father of the bride.

The wedding is set for June 5, 2011. Save the date.

Copyright 2010 by Jerry Zezima

"New Phone Hang-ups"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

If Alexander Graham Bell were still alive -- in which case I would demand reimbursement for all of the phone bills my daughters racked up when they were living at home -- he would call his assistant, Thomas Watson, to say, “Watson, come here, I need you to show me how to operate this stupid new telephone system.”

But instead of talking with Watson, Bell would hear this recording: “I’m sorry, your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please check the number and try again.”

So Bell would actually have to take a class to learn how to use his own invention.

That’s what I had to do recently when we got new phones at work.

It used to be that all you had to know about the telephone was that you said “hello” when you picked it up and “goodbye” when you put it down.

Now, you practically have to be a Ph.D (phone doctor) to operate one.

A few years ago, when I became the last man in America to get a cell phone, one of my daughters had to program it for me and the other had to show me how to operate it because I couldn’t comprehend the 134-page user guide.

But that was nothing compared to the new phone system in the office.

“I haven’t heard this much swearing in the seven years I’ve been here,” said Tommy, a contractor who was taking away the old phones, which were practically tin cans connected by strings compared to the new ones.

I wanted to say some bad words myself -- directly into the phone, if possible -- when I went to my training class and had to wait 20 minutes because the previous class, which was supposed to be 45 minutes, lasted more than an hour.

The people who walked out seemed dazed and confused. Nigel, the instructor, who had been giving classes all day, seemed tired. “Sorry,” he said as half a dozen of us sat down in front of the new phones, “but my voice is a little scratchy.”

“Sounds like a bad connection,” I noted.

Nigel, a very nice guy, smiled wearily. Then he explained that we would be working on a system called Cisco Unified IP Phone 7942G, as opposed to another system called Cisco Unified IP Phone 7962G.

“If the two systems got together,” I asked, “would they have a Cisco kid?” Then I sang a line from my own version of the War song: “Cisco kid’s not a friend of mine.”

As punishment, the phone in front of me refused to work.

“Press the help button,” Nigel said.

It was one of 16 buttons on the phone, which also had a screen on which I could not, regrettably, watch something intellectual, like baseball or the Three Stooges.

Other buttons included the footstand button (what, no handstand button?) and the mute button (for mimes, I guess). As if to reciprocate, the phone was pressing my buttons.

“The soft keys are where the action is,” Nigel said.

I pressed a soft key, the only thing about the phone that wasn’t hard, and heard a woman’s disembodied voice say, “Invalid entry.” I pressed another key. She said it again.

“Shut up!” I shouted.

“You have to speak into the phone,” said Nigel, who then had us practice calling each other. Daria, who sat next to me, called my number. I picked up the receiver and said, “I’m sorry, your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please check the number and try again.”

The rest of the class went pretty smoothly, thanks to Nigel’s patience and good humor. I wish I could say the same for the phones, which have been giving everybody trouble.

Fortunately, I didn’t have any trouble recording my voice mail greeting: “Hi, this is Jerry Zezima. I’m either away from my desk or at my desk but fast asleep. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

Don’t bet on it. I am now in Alexander Graham Hell. Watson, come here, I need you.

Copyright 2010 by Jerry Zezima

"Massage at the Garage"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

Early to rise and to the garage gets a man an oil change and a massage.

That new version of the old rhyme has been motoring through my mind since I found out firsthand (both hands, actually) that if your car needs work by a mechanic, your body might as well get a workout by a masseuse while you wait.

“It helps relieve stress when you get the bill,” explained Rich Heins, a service adviser at Mid-Island Hyundai in Centereach, N.Y. The dealership recently began giving free massages to customers who might stall, overheat or possibly even backfire as they contemplate the repairs being done on their vehicles.

“Are you going to put me on a lift?” I asked.

“No,” said Heins, “but we will put you in a massage chair.”

The stimulus program, he added, rubs customers the right way.

“And a lot of them could use it,” Heins said, noting that one guy needed repairs for a problem that could have gotten him rubbed out.

“He said that whenever his car went over a bump, it died,” Heins recalled. “So we looked at the car and found two bullet holes in it. One bullet hit the door handle and the other hit the harness and frayed the wiring, which caused the car to die whenever it went over a bump.”

“It’s a good thing the bullets didn’t cause the owner to die,” I said.

“I don’t know if he was in the car at the time of the shooting,” Heins continued, “but when I called and told him about the bullet holes, he said, ‘Oh, yeah, I know about them.’ Like it was an everyday occurrence.”

“Still,” I said, “that can make a guy tense. He must have needed a massage.”

“Do you have any bullet holes in your car?” Heins asked.

“No,” I replied. “But I need a massage anyway.”

I got one from Sarah Chen, a registered masseuse who was waiting for me in the lounge. I was her first customer of the day.

“You are going to enjoy this,” Sarah said.

She wasn’t kidding. After I had positioned myself so I was leaning forward in the massage chair, with my face sticking through a round opening in the headrest, Sarah began to work her magic on my neck, shoulders, arms and back. I was putty (and a fair amount of flab) in her hands.

She explained Chinese pressure points, which she knows all about, not only because she is a thorough professional, but because she is from China. She also is very nice.

“Am I hurting you?” she asked as she used her fingers, palms and elbows to loosen my muscles, which I keep in tiptop shape through a rigorous exercise program that generally involves walking to the refrigerator for beer.

“Mmmm,” I responded happily. “Not at all.”

“You’re very tight in the neck,” Sarah said.

“That’s because I’m a pain in the neck,” I explained.

Sarah then massaged my head, noting that I have hard hair and a soft skull.

“I always thought it was the other way around,” I said.

Speaking of my head, Sarah said that rubbing a pressure point on my left hand, next to the index finger, can stimulate my brain.

“If I’m feeling stupid, which happens every day, I can rub that spot and feel smarter?” I asked.

“Yes,” Sarah replied with a giggle.

The 20-minute session was one of the most sensational and sensuous experiences of my life. I felt great from my head to my toes, even though Sarah didn’t massage my feet. A good thing, too, because she probably would have passed out.

“Sarah was wonderful,” I told Heins when he gave me the bill, which came to $101 for an oil change, a state inspection, an air filter replacement and a left rear marker light replacement.

“I don’t feel any stress,” I said.

“That’s why we do this,” Heins said. “Bring your car in for regular maintenance. And get a massage every 3,000 miles.”

Copyright 2010 by Jerry Zezima

"The Invisible Man"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

When it comes to dentistry, I know the drill: You sit in a chair, open wide and brace yourself as the tooth doctor tries to get to the root of the problem.

Fortunately, drilling hasn’t been needed to solve my current dental dilemma. But braces have been, although you won’t see them when I open wide to reveal the oral equivalent of Mammoth Cave because these braces are invisible.

For this painless treatment and the promise of a nicer smile, I have to thank Dr. Ben Murray, my orthodontic oracle, who recently graduated from the dental program at Stony Brook University on Long Island, N.Y.

In Murray’s three years as a resident at Stony Brook, I was one of his most challenging cases, even more challenging than the case of beer I am sure he needed (but would never actually consume) each time he saw me.

That’s because two of my teeth, one on the top and one on the bottom, have shifted, which is amazing since I can’t shift for myself. The one on top, a lateral incisor, has been especially troublesome because the other teeth have had to be moved back so there will be room to rotate the incisor to its original position, which is not shortstop but, if you are scoring at home, right field.

“It’s on the right side,” said Murray, who had to construct, attach and constantly adjust a separate set of braces. “This,” he explained, “will distalize the maxillary arch in the right buccal segment and correct the Class 2 malocclusion.”

He took the words right out of my mouth. At least he wore gloves.

In the year and a half since the braces were put on, Murray used wires, pins and screwdrivers but not, thank God, jackhammers or dynamite.

And none of it hurt a bit, thanks to the able assistance of able assistants Celeste DeGeorge and Grace Ratigan, who helped Murray work tooth and nail to straighten out the situation. I don’t think any of them broke a nail, but I did break a tooth when I got my invisible braces. They are different from the ones on top, a more traditional kind that are mostly hidden by my cheek.

The invisible braces, known by the brand name Invisalign, were not worn by Claude Rains, who played the Invisible Man, because they weren’t invented yet. They look like mouth guards used by football players. The difference is that they are clear, which makes them -- you guessed it -- invisible.

They are designed from impressions made of a patient’s teeth, so they fit snugly. Unfortunately, as I snapped on my first set, the crooked tooth on the bottom broke, so I had to go to my regular dentist, Dr. Salvatore Trentalancia, who has a practice in Stamford, to get the tooth bonded, James bonded.

“He did a fantastic job,” Murray said of Dr. T, who goes by that nickname because it is tough to say “Trentalancia” while your mouth is open wide. Dr. T got able assistance from assistant Jo-Ann Rachinsky and hygienist Amy Manzano.

During my final visit with Murray, a 2007 University of Connecticut graduate who landed a job with a practice north of Boston, he said he discussed my case with a class of dental students.

“It was very interesting to them,” Murray said.

“Maybe you’ll win the Nobel Prize,” I suggested.

“You never know,” replied Murray, adding that I have been “a very good patient” who has “taken our torture pretty well.”

It has hardly been torture, but it’s hardly over, either, because Murray left me in the capable hands of Dr. Michael Sheinis, a second-year resident who said, “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Sheinis, a brave man to be taking on my case, will soon remove the traditional braces from my right upper teeth and replace them with Invisalign to match the invisible braces on the bottom. Both sets will cover all my teeth.

In less than a year, I’ll have a Hollywood smile. In the meantime, just call me the Invisible Man.

Copyright 2010 by Jerry Zezima

"You Go, Grill"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

Now that it is barbecue season, I’d like to say that I am really cooking with gas. Unfortunately, that flammable substance not only is what my grilling usually produces in people, but it’s not the best thing to cook with if you want to be a barbecue champion.

I got this hot tip from Phil Rizzardi, a barbecue champion who has cooked at the American Royal Barbecue Competition in Kansas City, Mo., and the Jack Daniel’s World Barbecue Championships in Lynchburg, Tenn. He also has won barbecue contests in his home state of New York, including “Big Wiener” at Willie Palooza. His trophy is topped by the figure of the back end of a horse.

If that weren’t impressive enough, Rizzardi is the founder of BBQ Brethren (bbq-brethren.com), an international organization whose logo features the words “Brothers in Smoke.”

Because smoke gets in my eyes whenever I barbecue, with the result that I either overcook or undercook whatever I am cooking, and I end up getting cooked myself by washing it all down with beer, I invited Rizzardi over to my house for a private lesson.

“Wood chips are the way to go,” said Rizzardi, who brought his son, James, who at 15 is a wood chip off the old block.

Rizzardi also brought his grill, an old, rickety contraption on which marinated magic is made.

“Do you ever use this thing?” he asked when he opened my grill and saw that it was practically spotless.

“All the time,” I replied.

“Let me guess,” Rizzardi said. “You knew I was coming, so you cleaned it.”

“It was a little greasy,” I confessed.

“That’s OK,” Rizzardi said. “It’s a flavor enhancer.”

In barbecuing, grease is the word.

I told the champ about my first gas grill, which I had to assemble myself. “It took me a week,” I said. “And then there were parts left over. I figured I would blow myself to smithereens, so whenever my wife wanted me to barbecue something, I made her start the grill. I felt like a mob boss who makes his wife start his car.”

Eventually we got another grill, which came preassembled, but the ignitor conked out, so I had to turn on the gas and throw matches at the thing until I heard a big whoosh. Our present grill is the starship Enterprise by comparison.

“A little kettle like mine may not look impressive, but it’s better and it lasts longer,” said Rizzardi, who uses it when he gives barbecue classes (bbq101-li.com).

“A lot of guys need classes,” Rizzardi said. “At a typical barbecue, a wife will marinate a steak, make potato salad and set the table. Then she’ll hand her husband the steak and tell him to hurry up and grill it. The steak will end up charred on the outside and raw on the inside, and the family will say, ‘Great job, Dad. Call 911.’ The poor guy doesn’t know what he did wrong.”

To do the job right, said Rizzardi, a barbecuer needs a good meat thermometer that measures the temperature instantly so heat doesn’t escape.

Also imperative is a chimney, a cylindrical metal holder in which to heat the wood chips. “You can put paper at the bottom to get them going,” Rizzardi said. Copies of this column would work nicely.

“Never use lighter fluid,” warned Rizzardi. “Don’t put meat directly on the flame. And don’t keep opening and closing the lid. If you’re looking, you ain’t cooking.”

Rizzardi, 50, a technology analyst whose biggest barbecue payday was $3,000 (grand champions in national competitions can win up to $15,000), brought two hanger steaks, one to cook on his grill, the other to cook on mine. To help me along, he made a “smoke bomb,” a handful of wood chips that he wrapped in foil, which he then perforated and placed in the corner of my grill. “It’ll help give the steak a smoky flavor even though you’re cooking it with gas,” he said.

When the steaks were done, we had a blind taste test. It was no contest. “Phil’s steak is much better than yours,” said my wife, Sue. I had to agree.

“Next time you want me to barbecue,” I suggested, “I’ll invite him back.”

Copyright 2010 by Jerry Zezima

"Lizzie"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

There is an old and wise saying: The best things in life are free. Nothing epitomized that better than my dog, Lizzie. She cost nothing, but she was priceless.

She came into our lives in 1995, when my younger daughter, Lauren, who was then 12, brought home a little black and white puppy that a friend’s neighbor had given to her. The woman told Lauren that if we didn’t want the dog, she would take her back. Otherwise, she was ours.

Even though I love dogs, I was against the idea because we lived in a condo. Besides, the dog would have to be walked through rain, sleet, snow and gloom of night. Guess who would end up doing it.

Approximately five seconds after I saw the pup, I fell in love with her. We fed her, took her to the vet for an exam, and adopted her.

Two weeks later, the woman called to say she wanted the dog back. Lauren was in tears. I got on the phone. Words were exchanged. Threats were made. A custody battle ensued.

Finally, in an effort to be fair, and mature, and reasonable, I told the woman I had veto power.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“If you don’t let us keep the dog,” I replied very calmly, “I am going to call my Uncle Vito.”

And that is how Lizzie became a cherished member of our family.

Nobody knew what breed Lizzie was -- the vet wasn’t sure and the dog wasn’t telling -- but we thought she was a mix of Lab, border collie and terrier, with perhaps a little Italian from her adoptive mommy and daddy’s sides.

What was clear, however, was that Lizzie had a prodigious appetite for lint, grass, acorns, cat treats -- everything but dog food. She ended up on a special diet consisting almost exclusively of boiled chicken.

She loved her snacks, of course, which is why she grew into a full-figured gal.

Eventually, we moved from the condo to a house with a big backyard where she could run and play, though I still took her for walks. She quickly became the mayor of our neighborhood, greeting people with big, slobbering kisses.

She was, in fact, the kissingest dog I ever knew, even winning the Pooch Who Can Smooch contest at Puttin’ on the Dog, the annual fundraiser for Adopt-a-Dog in Greenwich.

Lizzie, whose tail was always wagging, was both a canine alarm system (she barked at leaves that blew past the front door) and the burglar’s helper: If anyone ever broke into our house, she would either drown him in kisses or help him carry out all our valuables.

She was the sweetest creature God ever made.

She also was half of an inseparable team whose two goals in life were to love each other and have fun. As the other half of that team, I can say we accomplished both in Lizzie & Daddy’s Excellent Adventures, which were documented in numerous columns that ran in newspapers across the country and around the world. Lizzie also is in my new book, “Leave It to Boomer.” She’s even on YouTube. Lizzie became a global celebrity, but she never let fame go to her pretty head.

There was the time I had to brush her teeth. (Her breath sometimes smelled like a bean supper with the windows closed.) And the time, after reading about Sonya Fitzpatrick, TV’s “Pet Psychic,” I tried to determine if Lizzie had extrasensory powers. (My wife thought I was “The Pet Psycho.”) And the time Lizzie actually beat me in a blackjack tournament. (I’m not playing with a full deck.) And the time I took her to New York City to meet Lassie. (The canine superstars got along famously.)

Needless to say, Lizzie was smart. I would have to spell out certain words, such as “car,” “walk” and “play,” because if I was talking to somebody else and Lizzie was within earshot, pronouncing them would set her off in a frenzy of excitement.

And she was tough. She twice tore an ACL, and both times, without surgery, she was back in playing shape in no time. Not like these rich, pampered professional athletes. Wimps.

Even when she died Monday, she showed a special grace.

But what Lizzie did better than anything was give unconditional love to Lauren; to my older daughter, Katie; to my wife, Sue, also known as Mommy; and especially to Daddy.

Yes, it’s true that the best things in life are free. Even if Lizzie had cost a fortune, she would have been worth it. She was the absolute best.

Copyright 2010 by Jerry Zezima