"Talking the Talk"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

When I was about 12 years old, my father and I had The Talk. It was such a traumatic experience that I remember only two things about it:

First, my father told me that what the birds and the bees did (though not with each other) was “more fun than playing football.” I now realize that, unless you’re a little kinky, you don’t have to worry about concussions.

Second, my Aunt Anita (my father’s sister, who was a real pistol) called in the middle of The Talk. My father excused himself and went into the kitchen. I strained to listen to what he was telling her, sweating in fear and embarrassment that Aunt Anita knew I was being filled in on the birds and the bees. It was the worst part of the whole thing.

“Today” and “Morning Joe” co-host Willie Geist never had to go through this excruciating father-son ritual because his father, “CBS News Sunday Morning” correspondent and legendary humorist Bill Geist, never bothered to subject young Willie (or himself) to The Talk.

It’s all explained in Bill and Willie’s hilarious and poignant new book, “Good Talk, Dad: The Birds and the Bees ... and Other Conversations We Forgot to Have.”

I wasn’t embarrassed to have a brief conversation about the birds and the bees with Bill and Willie before their recent appearance at the 92nd Street Y in New York City, where veteran journalist Mike Barnicle moderated a vastly entertaining program in front of about 300 Geist fans.

“You’re one of the first people we’ve met who has actually had The Talk,” Bill told me.

“There’s anecdotal evidence that you should avoid it at all costs,” added Willie.

“I never told Willie about the birds and the bees because I was afraid he’d correct me,” Bill explained. “And I never understood why it’s the birds and the bees. Why not two dogs in the backyard? Bees do it in midair and then the male dies.”

Another conversation they never got around to having when Willie was a kid was the one about drinking.

“We did have it eventually,” Bill said.

“A couple of weeks ago,” added Willie, who’s 39.

“You can’t tell an 8-year-old about the dangers of vodka,” said Bill, who’s 69. “They don’t understand.”

Still, Bud Light gave a teenage Willie the courage to share a rooftop kiss with a girl in his high school class. That girl, Christina, is now his wife.

After Willie turned 30, he went on a road trip to Atlantic City to see a Rolling Stones concert with his Uncle Herb, aptly named because he has worked in the herbal supplement business for years. Uncle Herb has a shrine to the Stones in the basement of his house in my hometown of Stamford, Conn. It would not be giving too much away to say that the trip was memorable because some of it can’t be remembered.

“I couldn’t keep up with Herb anymore,” Bill said, “so Willie had to take up the slack.”

Not all the stories in “Good Talk, Dad” are about fun and games. A couple of years ago, Bill finally opened up to his family about his service in Vietnam, where he was a combat photographer. “Until then, I didn’t even open up to myself,” Bill said. “Denial has always worked for me.”

A few years ago, Bill finally discussed with Willie and daughter Libby what his wife, Jody, had long known: Bill has Parkinson’s disease. “I didn’t want the kids to worry about me,” he explained.

That didn’t stop Bill from getting a laugh out of his condition. Speaking at a gala for the Michael J. Fox Foundation, he began by saying, “I thought at times about ending it all.” The audience at New York’s Waldorf Astoria sat in stunned silence. “But,” Bill continued, “I was afraid that if I tried to shoot myself, I’d miss.”

The program at the 92nd Street Y was sensational, not surprising considering that the book and its authors are, too.

Afterward, I confessed to Bill that I never had a father-son talk with my kids about the birds and the bees, either.

“It was easy to get out of,” I said. “I have daughters.”

Copyright 2014 by Jerry Zezima

"Miles to Go Before It Sleeps"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

Any motorist knows that the best way to ensure longevity is to regularly check your parts, monitor your fluids and make sure your undercarriage is clean.

You should do the same for your car.

That’s why I am happy but not surprised that my sport utility vehicle recently hit 200,000 miles. Full credit for the fact that it is still running smoothly, which is more than I can say for myself most days, goes to Mary Husson, service manager at Hyundai 112 in Medford, N.Y.

“Oil is the lifeblood of the car,” Mary said when I brought mine in for an oil change.

“You mean extra virgin olive oil?” I wondered.

“That could be the lifeblood of you,” said Mary, who has been my car’s primary care physician since I bought it in 2004. “It’s also important to rotate your tires,” she added.

“Don’t I do that every time I drive?” I asked.

“Now I know why you don’t work here,” said Mary, who has three cars: a 2013 Hyundai Sonata, a 2011 Hyundai Elantra and, her pride and joy, a 1999 Ford Mustang convertible that has only 63,000 miles on it.

“I keep the Mustang in the garage for six months,” Mary said. “When the weather gets nice, I drive it with the top down.”

“Can’t you get arrested for doing that?” I inquired.

“Yes,” Mary replied. “But at least I don’t waste gas by using the air-conditioning.”

Then Mary showed me cellphone photos of her adorable little granddaughter, Sophia, who’s 1. Not to be outdone, I showed Mary cellphone photos of my adorable little granddaughter, Chloe, who’s the same age.

“Chloe has her own little car at home,” I said. “She loves when I push her around the house in it. Now that the weather’s nice, we go outside.”

“Does the car have 200,000 miles on it?” Mary asked.

“No,” I said. “But sometimes it feels like my feet do.”

“Going over 200,000 miles is not really a big deal,” said Mary. “If you take good care of your vehicle, there’s no reason why it shouldn’t last longer. I knew a guy whose car had 275,000 miles on it. You could even hit 300,000.”

Technician Anthony Busone agreed.

“It looks like you take pretty good care of it,” he said as we stood under the vehicle, which was on a lift in the garage. “Some people don’t.”

Like the guy who never changed the brakes on his car.

“He got all the way down to the metal backings,” Anthony recalled. “The rotors were worn away. He heard this thumping noise but didn’t do anything about it. Miraculously, the car still stopped. I don’t know what he would have said if it didn’t.”

“Those are the brakes,” I offered.

Anthony, 22, who has been a technician for three years, has a 1992 Honda Civic with 243,000 miles on it.

“You must change the oil regularly,” I said.

“Yes,” Anthony replied. “I’ve also changed the motor. Most people can’t do that.”

“I’d have an easier time transcribing the Dead Sea Scrolls than telling you what’s under the hood of my car,” I noted.

“You don’t have to,” said Anthony. “That’s my job.”

And he does it well. Fortunately, my car, a Hyundai Santa Fe, didn’t need open-hood surgery.

“You do need a new air filter,” Anthony said. “And your rear brakes are getting low. Don’t be like that guy. We’ll change them next time you’re in. Other than that, it looks pretty good.”

On the way out, I thanked Mary and said I’d see her in 3,000 miles for another oil change.

“Fluids are important,” she emphasized.

“I know,” I said. “Especially when you have the kind of mileage I do.”

“If you want to keep going,” Mary said, “drink a lot of Gatorade.”

Copyright 2014 by Jerry Zezima

"Par for the Course"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

As a guy who has always loved Mark Twain’s definition of golf as “a good walk spoiled,” I had never aspired to be the next Tiger Woods, either on or off the course, which is why I’m not rich but am, fortunately, still married.

But lately, at the ripe old age of 60, I have had a hankering to take up the sport, which is more sensible than tennis because in golf you don’t have to run after the ball. In fact, you can use a cart, which is fine on a golf course but would be kind of clunky on a tennis court.

So I went to the Bergen Point Golf Course, a beautiful waterside public course in West Babylon, N.Y., for a lesson with instructor Kevin Lisi.

“You’ve never played golf before?” asked Kevin, who is 23 and has been playing since he was a kid, which to me he still is.

“No,” I replied. “But if Tiger Woods could win the Masters at 21, and Jordan Spieth could almost win this year at 20, the opposite could happen and a geezer like me could win. Then I could sign my AARP card and get a green jacket.”

“Show me how you think a golf club should be held,” said Kevin, who handed me a pitching wedge on the driving range, where I was among about a dozen people in the group lesson.

“I’m guessing this isn’t the right way,” I said as I grabbed the club by the head.

“You really are new at this,” said Kevin, who nonetheless was impressed when I wrapped my fingers around the handle and, with a little guidance, held the club correctly. After showing me how to plant my feet, bend my back and knees, and angle the head of the club, Kevin said, “Now take a practice swing.”

I raised the club parallel to the ground and lifted the head a bit higher, then brought it back down and followed through beautifully, a fluid motion that would have impressed Ben Hogan had the legendary golf champion, known for his perfect swing, not been currently deceased.

“Very good,” Kevin said. “Now let’s see if you can hit a ball.”

I lined up the little white sphere and drove it about 90 yards.

“Are you sure you’ve never played golf before?” asked Kevin.

“Just miniature golf,” I replied. “My kids beat me.”

I drove my second shot the same distance.

“Do you think I can win the Masters?” I asked.

“You’re just getting started,” Kevin cautioned. “Golf’s addictive, but it’s a tough game.”

He wasn’t kidding, because those two shots were my best of the day. I steadily regressed, with some of my worst shots dribbling off the mat. Kevin was wonderful, treating me with kid gloves (or, rather, golf gloves) and trying to get me back in my original groove when he wasn’t giving pointers to the other newbies.

When the hourlong lesson was over, Kevin said, “You’re not bad. You just need to practice.”

Later, in the pro shop, head pro Paul Rollo, who saw me on the driving range, said, “The basic principle is to move the ball forward. If it moves in the direction you want it to go, you’re doing OK.”

Pro shop employee Ken Klevitz added, “If you see water in front of you, forget it.”

Bob Miller, director of the Bergen Point Golf Course, ambled in with his dog, a 5-year-old black Lab named Lucas.

“Are you a dogleg right?” I asked Lucas.

“He’s a scratch golfer,” said Kevin.

“He does a lot of scratching,” Bob noted. “And he scares away the geese.”

“I’d be good at that,” I said. “Maybe I could do it at the Masters.”

“Sure,” said Paul. “But if you want a green jacket, you may have to buy it yourself.”

Copyright 2014 by Jerry Zezima

"Grandfather's Security System"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

When my two daughters were just starting to toddle — a means of locomotion that, in my case, has often involved beer — my wife, Sue, and I had to install latches and locks on the drawers and doors of our kitchen cabinets so the girls couldn’t open them and spill the contents all over the floor.

It worked, at least in part, because it kept me out. To this day, I don’t know where anything is.

Now that our 1-year-old granddaughter, Chloe, is crawling around at record speed and has taken her first tentative steps, we have to repeat the process when she comes over to visit.

I recently went to Babies R Us to buy childproofing equipment and got a refresher course from two very nice sales associates named Nikki and Jessica.

“A lot of the questions we get are about diapers and breast pumps,” said Nikki.

“I don’t think a breast pump would work on me, although I do like to milk a joke,” I said. “As for diapers, I’m a geezer, so I guess it Depends.”

“Most of our customers are moms,” Jessica explained.

“How about dads?” I wondered.

“They come in once in a while,” Jessica said. “They’ll have a list of things their wives want them to get.”

“The mom is either still in the hospital or has just gotten home after giving birth,” Nikki noted. “She’ll send the dad here to buy stuff. We pay special attention to him, especially if he’s a new dad, because he’s usually confused.”

“How about grandfathers?” I asked.

“We don’t get too many grandpas,” Jessica said. “But when we do, they’re usually confused, too.”

“I’m a grandpa and I’m confused,” I said.

“We can help you,” said Nikki.

“Good,” I said. “I’m looking for latches and locks so my granddaughter can’t open the drawers and doors of our kitchen cabinets.”

“How old is she?” Jessica asked.

“She just turned 1,” I responded.

“That’s an active age,” said Nikki. “They get into everything.”

“Unfortunately,” Jessica added, “many of the guys who come in for latches and locks aren’t too handy. One guy wanted a lock that didn’t have screws because it would be too much trouble to install.”

“He probably didn’t even have a screwdriver,” Nikki said.

“All he would need,” I suggested, “is vodka and orange juice.”

“That would help,” said Jessica.

“Or maybe not,” Nikki added.

Nikki and Jessica showed me the store’s childproofing equipment. It included a pack of 12 cabinet and drawer latches, which come with screws, and a pack of three cabinet slide locks, which don’t.

“The slide locks fit on doorknobs and handles,” Jessica said. “The latches are best for drawers. You have to screw them into the cabinet frames and the inside of the drawers.”

“I’ll take both packs,” I said, thanking Nikki and Jessica for their help and insight.

The next day, I slid the slide locks through the door handles of three of our kitchen cabinets. It took about 10 seconds, not bad considering it took about 10 minutes to open the pack.

An hour later, Chloe came over. She scooted around, crawling even faster in the week since I last saw her and taking more tentative steps. She went into the kitchen and tried to open the cabinet doors, behind which are pots, pans, bowls and other things that might have been spilled all over the floor.

Chloe tugged, but the locks worked, so she scooted off to play in the family room.

“Nice job,” Sue told me. “Next you have to secure the drawers.”

“No problem,” I said. “The latches have screws. All I need is some vodka and orange juice.”

Copyright 2014 by Jerry Zezima

"The Hole Truth"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

I am not a Rhodes Scholar because I have holes in my head, but I recently became a roads scholar because I learned how to patch holes in a road despite being suspended after only 10 minutes on the job.

I earned my street smarts with the help of a terrific crew from the Brookhaven Highway Department on Long Island, N.Y., which kindly took me out on pothole patrol and allowed me to help smooth out a rough situation without once telling me that I was a pain in the asphalt.

That did not, however, prevent me from getting into hot water — actually, it was oil, which is used on the equipment — because I got off on the wrong foot by having the wrong footwear.

My day began at the town yard, where general foreman Dan Curtin assigned me to a crew that would perform pothole repair on a residential street in the hamlet of, appropriately enough, Rocky Point. Dan gave me a bright yellow vest, which was more stylish than my bland blue shirt and faded jeans, and a hard hat, which wasn’t as hard as my head but which I had to wear anyway.

I was introduced to road crew worker Billy Lattman, who showed me the hot box attached to the truck we would be riding in.

“It holds four tons of asphalt that’s heated to 290 degrees,” Billy explained.

“I guess it’s safer to think outside the box,” I said.

“You’re catching on already,” said Billy, who drove with me to Asphalt Supply of Long Island to pick up three tons of the stuff.

“This past winter was one of the worst ever,” said Billy, who has been working in the highway department for 13 years and also is a volunteer fire chief. “So there are a lot of potholes to fill. And some of them are pretty big. I saw one with a hubcap in it. Another one had a bumper in it. It made me wonder what happened to the rest of the car.”

“Do you have potholes on your street?” I asked.

“Yes,” Billy replied. “We haven’t gotten to them yet. My wife keeps asking when we’re going to fill them in. I told her that we don’t get any special treatment. But at least I’ve never lost a hubcap or a bumper in a pothole. I avoid them because I know where they are.”

When we got to the work site, a narrow residential street named Friendship Drive, I met the rest of the personable and hardworking crew: Rob Nolan, John O’Sullivan, Gary Grob Jr. and Mario Desena.

I also met Tony Gallino, chief deputy of the Brookhaven Highway Department, who took one look at my ratty sneakers and suspended me.

“Not even 10 minutes on the job and already you’re suspended,” Tony said, adding that I should have worn safety boots. “You’re lucky the union won’t let me fire you.”

But Tony did compliment me on my work, which entailed shoveling hot asphalt into the ruts and potholes that pocked the street, smoothing it out with a long metal rake and going over it with a roller.

“You’re doing OK,” said Tony. “Still, I wouldn’t quit my day job.”

I learned that the crew’s day job is pretty tough. But they perform it with professionalism and good humor.

“You guys have real camaraderie,” I said.

“That’s because you’re here,” Billy responded. “We’re on our best behavior.”

It’s a good thing I was, too, because at that very moment, Dan Losquadro, superintendent of highways, came by.

“I hear you’ve been doing a good job,” Dan told me.

“I don’t like to brag, but you see that spot?” I said, pointing to an area that I worked on. “I did that.”

“Very nice,” said Dan. “You are no longer suspended. I am reinstating you.”

“Thanks,” I said. “On the next job, maybe the crew can do something about the holes in my head.”

Copyright 2014 by Jerry Zezima

"A Twin-Win Situation"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

In the year since my precious little granddaughter was born, during which time she has become smarter and more mature than I am, even though I am constantly telling her stupid jokes and acting more like an infant than she is, I have said that Chloe is twice as beautiful as any other baby in the world.

It turns out I am right. That’s because it took two babies to win the Gerber Photo Search, a nationwide contest sponsored by the infant and toddler food company. The latest competition, the fourth annual, drew 156,000 entries, including Chloe.

The winners are Levi and Paxton Strickland, 1-year-old identical twin brothers from Wernersville, Pa., who are, I must admit, adorable.

In a press release, Bernadette Tortorella, integrated marketing manager at Gerber, said, “There were so many entries that fit our criteria, but the judges were in awe of the Strickland twins,” adding: “Every baby is a Gerber baby.”

That includes Chloe, who likes to snack on Gerber Graduates Apple-Cinnamon Puffs.

But in the spirit of good sportsmanship, I called Levi and Paxton to congratulate them on winning the contest, which comes with a grand prize of $50,000 and the chance to appear in a Gerber advertisement.

The twins must have been busy playing, which is, at this point, their job, because their mother, Amanda, answered the phone.

“Winning the contest is very exciting,” Amanda said, “but the boys haven’t let it go to their heads.”

I found that out when I asked Amanda to put the phone to those two handsome heads, which are topped with light hair and dominated by big blue eyes and wide smiles.

“Here’s Levi,” said Amanda.

“Congratulations, Levi!” I said. “You’re a star.”

Levi was too modest to reply, but he must have been doing something funny because I heard giggles in the background.

“Paxton’s laughing,” Amanda explained. “He’s the laid-back one. Levi is our little jokester. He’s always making his brother crack up.”

“My granddaughter, Chloe, loves to laugh, too,” I said. “She has a great sense of humor. And she’s really smart. She gets that from her mommy and daddy, not me.”

“I bet the boys would like to meet her,” Amanda replied.

“Maybe we could set up a play date,” I said, adding that with the twins and her husband, Matt, Amanda is surrounded by guys. “It’s the opposite with me,” I noted. “My wife and I have two daughters and now there’s Chloe, so I’m surrounded by women.”

“The boys love their daddy,” Amanda said. “But I’m with them during the day and we have fun.”

Amanda, 24, has started a home-based business selling essential oils; Matt, 26, is the production manager for a technology company.

Amanda and I compared notes on the kids. Levi and Paxton, who were born on Matt’s birthday, are about a month older than Chloe, but all three are babbling (“I do that, too,” I admitted) and are about to take their first steps.

“Time for the grown-ups to buy track shoes,” I said, adding that the prize money could pay for a lot of them.

“That’s going into the boys’ college fund,” said Amanda.

“Save some of it to buy them track shoes, too,” I said. “It could lead to college scholarships. The prize money is nice, but it won’t cover everything.”

As for being in a Gerber ad or doing personal appearances, nothing as been set up yet, said Amanda, adding: “The boys would like it.”

“If they can’t make it to an appearance, Chloe could fill in,” I suggested.

“I’m sure she would be great,” said Amanda.

“Congratulations again to Levi and Paxton,” I said.

“The twins appreciate your call,” Amanda said. “And they send their love to Chloe.”

Copyright 2014 by Jerry Zezima

"The Pun and Only"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

As a guy who has always loved puns, and has been known to use as many as 10 at a time (even if they don’t work, I can say, “No pun in 10 did”), I had long looked for a venue where my wordplay would be ear relevant.

That’s why I was happy as a clam, I will admit for shellfish reasons, to find out about Punderdome 3000, a monthly contest for people who have grown to love puns and audience members who have groaned to hear them.

Punderdome is the brainchild of entrepreneurial comic Fred Firestone and his real child, funny daughter Jo, who together, if you consider their surname, are two tires, though fortunately they are not too tired to put on a great show.

The latest one was held, as usual, at Littlefield, a fabulous performance and art space in Brooklyn, N.Y., where a tree grows because, of course, everything happens in trees.

I signed up, showed up and found myself in a crowd of about 400 young, happy and friendly people who were so eclectic that they must have paid the eclectic bill and so hip that I, clearly the oldest among them, figured I’d need a hip replacement.

I also was one of 17 contestants, who included individuals and two-person teams, which brought the total number of participants to about two dozen if you add them up, though you shouldn’t divide them, especially if you are division-impaired.

When I registered with Jo in the Littlefield lobby, I had to pick a punny nickname, so I selected JZ because, I said initially, “They’re my initials.”

Fred and Jo took the stage (and gave it back) to explain the rules: Contestants would be given a topic and have a minute and a half to prepare. They would then be called up to a microphone and have two minutes to be off and punning.

Their scores would be registered on a “human clap-o-meter,” on a scale of 1 (lowest) to 10 (highest), based on the reaction of the crowd.

The first round was divided into three parts. My group, composed of six contestants, went last. The topic: sea creatures.

After the first contestant went, I stepped up to the microphone and said, “Before we started, he and I decided to swap puns. It was a squid pro quo.”

The crowd went wild. “Your applause is so loud,” I continued, holding my hand to my head, “I have a haddock.”

I rattled off a stream of sea-creature puns. As my two minutes ended, I said, “Everything I said up here was on porpoise.”

I got thunderous applause that registered at 9.5 and, along with two other punsters in my group, made the first cut.

The second round’s topic: yoga. Since I don’t do yoga, it was, I said, “a stretch,” but after saying that the practice was invented by a famous baseball player, “Yoga Berra,” I scored a 10 and went on, with three other contestants, to the semifinals.

The topic: the names of people you went to high school with.

I said I went to high school so long ago that many of the boys in my class became Founding Fathers. “Then there was the guy who became big in coffee: Joe. And the girl who became a lawyer: Sue.”

I ended by saying that I went to college at Pun State.

My score: 10. I was in the finals! It was me against One-Two Punch, a team of two bright and funny young guys, Dylan DePice, 26, and Noah Berg, 24. There was no preparation time. We would stand at separate microphones and, for four minutes, volley puns. The topic: babies.

“My little granddaughter is so smart, she’s studying Shakespeare,” I began. “The other day I heard her say, ‘To pee or not to pee, that is the question.’”

This gave birth to a series of infantile comments (“We’re in a womb with a view”) that whipped the crowd into a frenzy.

My score: 10. I won! I was Punderdome champ.

My prize: a chocolate fountain and fondue maker. I brought it home to my wife, who has had to put up with my puns all these years. It was the least I could fondue.

Copyright 2014 by Jerry Zezima