By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
If I ever write a book about my fantastic ballooning adventures, which I will dedicate to Jules Verne even though he is dead and can’t sue me, I am going to call it "Around the Island in Five Minutes." That’s because I recently spent several days trying to arrange a hot-air balloon ride that turned out to be the shortest flight since the Wright brothers barely got off the ground in the first airplane more than a century ago.
My incredible journey began at 5 a.m. on a calm and mild Thursday at Taylor Farm Park in Norwalk, Conn., where nearly a dozen balloonists had gathered for a race across Long Island Sound to the North Shore of Long Island, N.Y., for the official kickoff of the Metro NY Balloon and Music Festival.
I was assigned to a balloon piloted by Jon Thompson, 44, of Kissimmee, Fla., who flies for the Children’s Miracle Network, a nonprofit organization that raises funds for children’s hospitals. "I fly a balloon better than I drive a car," said Thompson, who got his balloon pilot’s license before he got his driver’s license.
That made me a little less nervous because his balloon was 70 feet high and 60 feet across and could fly up to 16,000 feet. Ordinarily, I don’t like to be any higher off the ground than the top of my head. And in this case, I’d be over water.
"If we run out of hot air," crew chief Pat Woods said after the balloon was inflated with propane, "we’re expecting you to provide a backup supply."
I never got a chance because the race was called off. "The conditions on the ground may seem perfect," explained Bill Corbett, the public relations man for the balloon festival, "but the winds above us are blowing west." That meant we’d be carried about 50 miles to LaGuardia Airport in New York City.
"We wouldn’t want to be hit by a 747," Thompson said. "We’d lose our frequent flyer miles." As a consolation, he said he would take me for a ride the next morning at the festival, which was held at Brookhaven Calabro Airport in Brookhaven, N.Y.
Unfortunately, the ride was called on account of rain. Saturday at 5 a.m., I showed up at the festival and was told that, even though conditions seemed good, the Federal Aviation Administration wouldn’t let any of the balloons fly. I went back with my wife at 6 p.m. only to find out that Thompson wasn’t even being allowed to inflate his balloon.
Sunday, the last day of the festival, I was back at 6 a.m., but some pretty-boy meteorologist from Eyewitness News was doing a series of live reports with Thompson, effectively killing any chances I had of flying with him.
Thompson kindly put me in touch with a fellow pilot, Bob Carlton, who was flying his balloon several miles to the east. I drove out to the middle of farm country and spotted Carlton’s balloon in a field, where he was waiting to pick me up. I parked at a vegetable stand and trudged through a gigantic cabbage patch, ruining my shoes in the process.
"Welcome aboard!" Carlton said cheerily as I climbed into the basket, which contained Carlton; his wife, Harriet; and their passengers, Steve Socko and his girlfriend, Dina Selimaj. Carlton, who used to fly the Mickey Mouse balloon at Disney World, now owns Balloons and Beyond in Polk City, Fla.
As the balloon ascended and started to fly, a feeling of exhilaration came over me. There, several hundred feet below us, lay a carpet of lush green farmland that stretched for miles in all directions. My reverie was snapped about two minutes later, when Carlton said, "I have to look for a place to land." My first thought was: Is that all there is? My second thought was: Where the heck is he going to touch down? The answer to the first question was: Yes. The answer to the second question was: In the back yard of the only house in view.
Carlton gently and expertly landed the balloon on the edge of the yard. As we got out, he shook my hand and said, "Congratulations! You just set the all-time record for the shortest balloon ride I’ve ever given." It lasted all of five minutes.
Socko and Selimaj had paid $175 each for an hour-long trip. Mine, at least, was free. But Carlton, 55, a terrific guy who has been flying professionally for three decades, had a small surprise in store.
He walked to the farmhouse, which was built in 1758, and returned with the owners, Tony and Diane Caliguiri, who were extremely hospitable even though the sign on their fence reads: "No trespassing. Violators will be shot. Survivors will be shot again."
The Caliguiris’ 10-year-old daughter, Amanda, spotted the balloon as it landed. "Actually," Amanda said, "Bill spotted it first."
"Who’s Bill?" I asked.
"My groundhog," Amanda replied.
The little critter apparently sounded the alarm that woke up the family. "Don’t worry," Tony Caliguiri assured me, referring to the sign on the fence, "I’m not going to shoot you."
But we did, at 9 a.m., have some shots anyway. In a tradition that began in France in the 1700s, when balloonists would bring gifts to the homeowners on whose property they often landed, Carlton opened a bottle of champagne and poured some bubbly for everyone (except Amanda, of course). He raised his plastic cup and proposed a toast: "Propane and champagne, the balloonist’s breakfast."
Jules Verne couldn’t have said it better.
Copyright 2007 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, August 31, 2007
Friday, August 10, 2007
"Talking Dirty"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
In 29 years of living in wedded bliss, I have discovered that the key to keeping the romance in marriage is for a husband and wife to talk dirty to each other. That is why my wife will often give me a come-hither look and, in her sexiest voice, say, "Would you clean the bathroom?"
And I will gaze into her beautiful brown eyes and reply, "Sure. You want me to do a load of laundry, too?"
"Yes. And vacuum upstairs."
"I love it when you talk like that."
"And don’t forget to take out the garbage."
So I was not surprised to read that the Pew Research Center, which was probably named by a spouse with a dirty bathroom, recently conducted a survey of married people and found that the sharing of household chores is considered the most important element in a good marriage.
According to the survey, 62 percent of the 2,000 respondents put chore-sharing at the top of their list, ahead of child-rearing and, yes, sex. I’m not sure who these people are, but I’m glad I don’t know them.
Still, it is a fact that housework is the glue that holds a marriage together. Unfortunately, the glue must be cleaned up, preferably with a damp cloth so it doesn’t ruin the furniture.
Not to be outdone, I conducted my own survey, with the sole respondent being my wife, Sue. When I asked her about the importance of doing chores, she said, "I wish I had a housekeeper."
"You don’t need a housekeeper," I told her. "You have me."
Sue acknowledged that I am "cheap labor," adding, "You’re much better than you used to be." Then she pointed out that it took me 25 years to learn how to use the washing machine.
I am ashamed to admit that for a long time, I was laundry-challenged. It was probably due to a traumatic experience I had in college. I went to a Laundromat, stuffed my dirty clothes into one of those industrial washers, threw in a box of detergent and walked up the street for a beer. When I returned, the entire Laundromat looked like a scene from "The Blob," with suds creeping across the floor. Naturally, they were coming out of my machine.
With Sue’s guidance, I am much better now and have even been known to do multiple loads without flooding the house.
When I asked Sue which chore is my strong point, she said, "Cleaning the bathroom." I am flush with excitement to say that I could give the Tidy Bowl Man a run for his money.
My worst chore: vacuuming. "Your vacuuming skills aren’t the greatest," Sue said. I hate to vacuum because I keep running over the cord. I’m lucky I haven’t been electrocuted. I can best describe this chore with a word that also describes what a vacuum cleaner is supposed to do.
Here are some of my other chores.
Loading the dishwasher: This used to be my weak point. One night I put in too much detergent. Like my college laundry experience, the result was a cascade of suds. Sue often criticized how I loaded the dishwasher, but now I can do it without breaking a glass that might sever a major artery and cause me to bleed all over the floor, which I would then, of course, have to clean up.
Taking out the garbage: I create most of it, so I might as well get rid of it. It’s a dirty job, but, well, you know the rest.
Dusting: I am dust and unto dust I shall return. Until then, I solemnly Pledge (lemon-scented) to keep our furniture clean.
Sweeping the kitchen floor: I also use the broom to sweep Sue off her feet.
After returning home from a recent trip to the supermarket, Sue remarked, "The house looks spotless." That’s because I had cleaned the bathroom, loaded the dishwasher and taken out the garbage. I even vacuumed. "You did a very good job," Sue said. "I guess I don’t need a housekeeper after all. I have you."
I was going to say that I should get a French maid’s outfit, but I figured it would kill the romance.
Copyright 2007 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
In 29 years of living in wedded bliss, I have discovered that the key to keeping the romance in marriage is for a husband and wife to talk dirty to each other. That is why my wife will often give me a come-hither look and, in her sexiest voice, say, "Would you clean the bathroom?"
And I will gaze into her beautiful brown eyes and reply, "Sure. You want me to do a load of laundry, too?"
"Yes. And vacuum upstairs."
"I love it when you talk like that."
"And don’t forget to take out the garbage."
So I was not surprised to read that the Pew Research Center, which was probably named by a spouse with a dirty bathroom, recently conducted a survey of married people and found that the sharing of household chores is considered the most important element in a good marriage.
According to the survey, 62 percent of the 2,000 respondents put chore-sharing at the top of their list, ahead of child-rearing and, yes, sex. I’m not sure who these people are, but I’m glad I don’t know them.
Still, it is a fact that housework is the glue that holds a marriage together. Unfortunately, the glue must be cleaned up, preferably with a damp cloth so it doesn’t ruin the furniture.
Not to be outdone, I conducted my own survey, with the sole respondent being my wife, Sue. When I asked her about the importance of doing chores, she said, "I wish I had a housekeeper."
"You don’t need a housekeeper," I told her. "You have me."
Sue acknowledged that I am "cheap labor," adding, "You’re much better than you used to be." Then she pointed out that it took me 25 years to learn how to use the washing machine.
I am ashamed to admit that for a long time, I was laundry-challenged. It was probably due to a traumatic experience I had in college. I went to a Laundromat, stuffed my dirty clothes into one of those industrial washers, threw in a box of detergent and walked up the street for a beer. When I returned, the entire Laundromat looked like a scene from "The Blob," with suds creeping across the floor. Naturally, they were coming out of my machine.
With Sue’s guidance, I am much better now and have even been known to do multiple loads without flooding the house.
When I asked Sue which chore is my strong point, she said, "Cleaning the bathroom." I am flush with excitement to say that I could give the Tidy Bowl Man a run for his money.
My worst chore: vacuuming. "Your vacuuming skills aren’t the greatest," Sue said. I hate to vacuum because I keep running over the cord. I’m lucky I haven’t been electrocuted. I can best describe this chore with a word that also describes what a vacuum cleaner is supposed to do.
Here are some of my other chores.
Loading the dishwasher: This used to be my weak point. One night I put in too much detergent. Like my college laundry experience, the result was a cascade of suds. Sue often criticized how I loaded the dishwasher, but now I can do it without breaking a glass that might sever a major artery and cause me to bleed all over the floor, which I would then, of course, have to clean up.
Taking out the garbage: I create most of it, so I might as well get rid of it. It’s a dirty job, but, well, you know the rest.
Dusting: I am dust and unto dust I shall return. Until then, I solemnly Pledge (lemon-scented) to keep our furniture clean.
Sweeping the kitchen floor: I also use the broom to sweep Sue off her feet.
After returning home from a recent trip to the supermarket, Sue remarked, "The house looks spotless." That’s because I had cleaned the bathroom, loaded the dishwasher and taken out the garbage. I even vacuumed. "You did a very good job," Sue said. "I guess I don’t need a housekeeper after all. I have you."
I was going to say that I should get a French maid’s outfit, but I figured it would kill the romance.
Copyright 2007 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, July 27, 2007
"Doggie Star"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
If anyone in my family ever gets a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, which isn’t so far-fetched because the entertainment industry is going to the dogs, it will be my dog, Lizzie. As her star-struck daddy, I am proud and excited to report that Lizzie recently was a winner in the Petco Stars Search for America’s Most Talented Pet contest.
This national event, sponsored by Petco, the pet supply and product chain, had regional competitions at stores across the country. Videos of the winners, including Lizzie, are being posted on YouTube. A panel of judges will select 12 finalists. From Aug. 6 to Aug. 18, visitors to the chain’s Web site, petco.com, can vote for the grand prize winner. The grand prize, by the way, is a trip to Hollywood.
This was a great incentive for Lizzie, who enjoyed a Hollywood moment last year when she met Lassie in New York City, where the canine legend (Lizzie, I mean, although Lassie is famous, too) spent an afternoon with the popular collie, who was promoting her latest movie.
A couple of weeks ago, I saw a poster for the talent contest at the Petco store in Selden, N.Y., where I had brought Lizzie for a spa treatment, which she will have on a regular basis if she goes to Hollywood. As visions of fame, fortune and poolside cocktails danced in my head, I signed her up.
Lizzie’s competitors were Daisy, a Bichon Frise who stood on her hind legs to beg for treats, and Bella, a singing Pomeranian. The field wasn’t large, but it was extremely competitive.
Lizzie, a multitalented mutt, blew them both away.
She was introduced to the small but enthusiastic crowd of onlookers (and now, I must say, fans) by Derek Gerardi, an assistant manager at the store. The distinguished judges were Rose Sofia, director of the Paw House, an animal rescue organization on Long Island; Susan Ennis, a field representative for Eukanuba dog food; and Nicole Ciardulli, a small-animal specialist at Petco.
For Lizzie’s first trick, she played me in a game of blackjack. "Cut the cards," I told her. Lizzie tapped the deck with her paw. Then I dealt her two cards and gave two to myself. Lizzie had a 9 and a 3. "Stay?" I asked her. "Or hit?" When I said "hit," Lizzie gave me her paw. I dealt her a 6. "You have 18," I told her. "Stay or hit?" She thought about it. "Stay?" I said again. This time, she gave me her paw. I had a 10 and a 5, so I dealt myself another card. It was a queen. I busted. Lizzie won. The crowd went wild. "Lizzie is playing with a full deck," I said. "I’m not." Everyone agreed.
For her next trick, she did math. I put one dog treat on top of another and showed them to her. Then I blocked them from Lizzie’s view and added two more treats to the pile. "How many treats did I add?" I asked Lizzie. She gave me her paw twice. The crowd gasped. "Next year," I said, "I am going to have Lizzie do my taxes."
Then I knelt next to Lizzie and barked while she just sat there. "Lizzie," I announced, "is a ventriloquist." Huge applause. "And I’m her dummy," I added. Several people nodded.
Next I told the judges to listen carefully to Lizzie. She didn’t say anything. "Lizzie’s also a mime," I said. By this time, the crowd was delirious.
Finally, I said that Lizzie had won the blue ribbon in the Pooch Who Can Smooch competition a couple of years ago at Puttin’ on the Dog, the annual Adopt-A-Dog fund-raiser in Greenwich, Conn. Lizzie proved it by smothering me in kisses. With that, we both took a bow and received a standing ovation, probably because there were no chairs.
Nobody was surprised when Lizzie won. And the judges were effusive in their praise.
"Lizzie seems very intelligent," said Ciardulli, who didn’t say the same about me.
"She dispelled the old saying that you can’t teach an old dog new tricks," said Ennis, who immediately apologized for calling Lizzie old. "Sorry, I should have called her a senior dog." Lizzie, who is 12, accepted the apology by licking Ennis’ knee.
Sofia summed it up when she said, "Lizzie is amazing."
Now we’ll see if she’s amazing enough to win a trip to Hollywood. As Lizzie said, "Woof, woof, woof!" (Translation: "Move over, Lassie!")
Copyright 2007 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
If anyone in my family ever gets a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, which isn’t so far-fetched because the entertainment industry is going to the dogs, it will be my dog, Lizzie. As her star-struck daddy, I am proud and excited to report that Lizzie recently was a winner in the Petco Stars Search for America’s Most Talented Pet contest.
This national event, sponsored by Petco, the pet supply and product chain, had regional competitions at stores across the country. Videos of the winners, including Lizzie, are being posted on YouTube. A panel of judges will select 12 finalists. From Aug. 6 to Aug. 18, visitors to the chain’s Web site, petco.com, can vote for the grand prize winner. The grand prize, by the way, is a trip to Hollywood.
This was a great incentive for Lizzie, who enjoyed a Hollywood moment last year when she met Lassie in New York City, where the canine legend (Lizzie, I mean, although Lassie is famous, too) spent an afternoon with the popular collie, who was promoting her latest movie.
A couple of weeks ago, I saw a poster for the talent contest at the Petco store in Selden, N.Y., where I had brought Lizzie for a spa treatment, which she will have on a regular basis if she goes to Hollywood. As visions of fame, fortune and poolside cocktails danced in my head, I signed her up.
Lizzie’s competitors were Daisy, a Bichon Frise who stood on her hind legs to beg for treats, and Bella, a singing Pomeranian. The field wasn’t large, but it was extremely competitive.
Lizzie, a multitalented mutt, blew them both away.
She was introduced to the small but enthusiastic crowd of onlookers (and now, I must say, fans) by Derek Gerardi, an assistant manager at the store. The distinguished judges were Rose Sofia, director of the Paw House, an animal rescue organization on Long Island; Susan Ennis, a field representative for Eukanuba dog food; and Nicole Ciardulli, a small-animal specialist at Petco.
For Lizzie’s first trick, she played me in a game of blackjack. "Cut the cards," I told her. Lizzie tapped the deck with her paw. Then I dealt her two cards and gave two to myself. Lizzie had a 9 and a 3. "Stay?" I asked her. "Or hit?" When I said "hit," Lizzie gave me her paw. I dealt her a 6. "You have 18," I told her. "Stay or hit?" She thought about it. "Stay?" I said again. This time, she gave me her paw. I had a 10 and a 5, so I dealt myself another card. It was a queen. I busted. Lizzie won. The crowd went wild. "Lizzie is playing with a full deck," I said. "I’m not." Everyone agreed.
For her next trick, she did math. I put one dog treat on top of another and showed them to her. Then I blocked them from Lizzie’s view and added two more treats to the pile. "How many treats did I add?" I asked Lizzie. She gave me her paw twice. The crowd gasped. "Next year," I said, "I am going to have Lizzie do my taxes."
Then I knelt next to Lizzie and barked while she just sat there. "Lizzie," I announced, "is a ventriloquist." Huge applause. "And I’m her dummy," I added. Several people nodded.
Next I told the judges to listen carefully to Lizzie. She didn’t say anything. "Lizzie’s also a mime," I said. By this time, the crowd was delirious.
Finally, I said that Lizzie had won the blue ribbon in the Pooch Who Can Smooch competition a couple of years ago at Puttin’ on the Dog, the annual Adopt-A-Dog fund-raiser in Greenwich, Conn. Lizzie proved it by smothering me in kisses. With that, we both took a bow and received a standing ovation, probably because there were no chairs.
Nobody was surprised when Lizzie won. And the judges were effusive in their praise.
"Lizzie seems very intelligent," said Ciardulli, who didn’t say the same about me.
"She dispelled the old saying that you can’t teach an old dog new tricks," said Ennis, who immediately apologized for calling Lizzie old. "Sorry, I should have called her a senior dog." Lizzie, who is 12, accepted the apology by licking Ennis’ knee.
Sofia summed it up when she said, "Lizzie is amazing."
Now we’ll see if she’s amazing enough to win a trip to Hollywood. As Lizzie said, "Woof, woof, woof!" (Translation: "Move over, Lassie!")
Copyright 2007 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, July 13, 2007
"Pie Fight"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
As a sensitive modern man with only the most sophisticated tastes, I have never had any pie-in-the-sky illusions about the Three Stooges. As a lifelong Stooges fan, however, I have always had pie-in-the-face aspirations. That’s because I have long dreamed of being in a social situation where I could emulate Moe, Larry and Curly by actually hitting someone in the face with a pie.
I am happy and totally unashamed to say that I recently got my chance. Not only did I hit a high-ranking corporate executive right in the kisser with a plate of whipped dessert topping, but I allowed him to return the favor. And, unlike the Stooges, who often started pie fights at swanky parties where the cream of society ended up with faces full of cream, neither one of us had to run away because somebody called the cops.
In fact, it was all officially sanctioned and held for a good cause.
The company for which I work sponsored an event called Field Day, which was appropriately named because employees were invited to spend the day in a field on company grounds. In addition to plenty of food and nonalcoholic beverages, which were served under a large tent, there was a softball game for which I, microphone in hand so I could be heard by everyone, including all the big bosses, was the announcer. As of this writing, I still have a job.
Other activities included pool dunking and, of course, pie throwing. The only requirement was that participants had to make a contribution to the United Way.
Throughout my life I have been guided by one shining principle: What would Moe do? In this case, the answer was easy: He’d hit someone in the face with a pie. So, because I am a proud member of the Amalgamated Association of Morons, I immediately signed up.
Although this was my first chance to participate in the ultimate Stooge activity, I have had plenty of Stooge-related experiences. In 1990, I was the runner-up in the National Curly Sound-Alike Contest. Participants had to call a 900 number and do Curly imitations over the phone. I worked up a routine in which I barked like a dog and uttered such famous phrases as "Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk," "Woo, woo, woo" and "Soitenly!" The contest drew thousands of entries. About a month later, I got a phone call informing me that I was the runner-up. I never found out who won (he was probably an inmate somewhere), but I did receive $100 and some Stooge paraphernalia.
In the mid-’90s, I attended a couple of Three Stooges conventions in Trevose, Pa., at which I met various members of the Stooges’ families, including Moe’s daughter, who, at my request, poked me in the eyes. My only disappointment was losing the Curly Shuffle Contest to a 4-year-old girl.
I was thus well-armed with Stooge experience to use my arm well in the pie toss. Rob Rosenthal, my executive target, told me that he also is a Three Stooges fan. As he sat in a chair with a plastic poncho protecting his clothes, one of the people running the event handed me a plastic pie plate filled with whipped cream.
"Are you ready?" I asked Rob. He responded, and I quote, "Woo, woo, woo!"
I took three steps back, cocked my arm and let the pie fly. I scored a direct hit! The cream splattered upon impact and covered Rob’s face. As soon as he wiped it off with a towel, I hit him with another pie. "Now I know how Curly felt," Rob said, gagging slightly.
Then it was his turn. I donned a plastic poncho and sat down. "The rules just changed," I told Rob. "You have to stand on the other side of the parking lot." The words were no sooner out of my mouth than a huge gob of whipped cream was in it. Rob had scored a direct hit, too, covering my face with cream and sending some into my eyes and up my nose. I had officially been christened an honorary Stooge.
Was the experience all I had dreamed it would be? In the immortal words of Curly: Soitenly! Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk!
Copyright 2007 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
As a sensitive modern man with only the most sophisticated tastes, I have never had any pie-in-the-sky illusions about the Three Stooges. As a lifelong Stooges fan, however, I have always had pie-in-the-face aspirations. That’s because I have long dreamed of being in a social situation where I could emulate Moe, Larry and Curly by actually hitting someone in the face with a pie.
I am happy and totally unashamed to say that I recently got my chance. Not only did I hit a high-ranking corporate executive right in the kisser with a plate of whipped dessert topping, but I allowed him to return the favor. And, unlike the Stooges, who often started pie fights at swanky parties where the cream of society ended up with faces full of cream, neither one of us had to run away because somebody called the cops.
In fact, it was all officially sanctioned and held for a good cause.
The company for which I work sponsored an event called Field Day, which was appropriately named because employees were invited to spend the day in a field on company grounds. In addition to plenty of food and nonalcoholic beverages, which were served under a large tent, there was a softball game for which I, microphone in hand so I could be heard by everyone, including all the big bosses, was the announcer. As of this writing, I still have a job.
Other activities included pool dunking and, of course, pie throwing. The only requirement was that participants had to make a contribution to the United Way.
Throughout my life I have been guided by one shining principle: What would Moe do? In this case, the answer was easy: He’d hit someone in the face with a pie. So, because I am a proud member of the Amalgamated Association of Morons, I immediately signed up.
Although this was my first chance to participate in the ultimate Stooge activity, I have had plenty of Stooge-related experiences. In 1990, I was the runner-up in the National Curly Sound-Alike Contest. Participants had to call a 900 number and do Curly imitations over the phone. I worked up a routine in which I barked like a dog and uttered such famous phrases as "Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk," "Woo, woo, woo" and "Soitenly!" The contest drew thousands of entries. About a month later, I got a phone call informing me that I was the runner-up. I never found out who won (he was probably an inmate somewhere), but I did receive $100 and some Stooge paraphernalia.
In the mid-’90s, I attended a couple of Three Stooges conventions in Trevose, Pa., at which I met various members of the Stooges’ families, including Moe’s daughter, who, at my request, poked me in the eyes. My only disappointment was losing the Curly Shuffle Contest to a 4-year-old girl.
I was thus well-armed with Stooge experience to use my arm well in the pie toss. Rob Rosenthal, my executive target, told me that he also is a Three Stooges fan. As he sat in a chair with a plastic poncho protecting his clothes, one of the people running the event handed me a plastic pie plate filled with whipped cream.
"Are you ready?" I asked Rob. He responded, and I quote, "Woo, woo, woo!"
I took three steps back, cocked my arm and let the pie fly. I scored a direct hit! The cream splattered upon impact and covered Rob’s face. As soon as he wiped it off with a towel, I hit him with another pie. "Now I know how Curly felt," Rob said, gagging slightly.
Then it was his turn. I donned a plastic poncho and sat down. "The rules just changed," I told Rob. "You have to stand on the other side of the parking lot." The words were no sooner out of my mouth than a huge gob of whipped cream was in it. Rob had scored a direct hit, too, covering my face with cream and sending some into my eyes and up my nose. I had officially been christened an honorary Stooge.
Was the experience all I had dreamed it would be? In the immortal words of Curly: Soitenly! Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk!
Copyright 2007 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, June 29, 2007
"No Business Like Show Business"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
Stewart F. Lane, the Broadway impresario who recently won his fourth Tony Award, wants to break my leg. Wait, sorry, that’s not right. A lot of other people, most of them readers, want to do that. Lane wants me to break a leg. That’s because he plans to put me on the stage, after which he will probably tell the driver to make the horse run as fast as it can and take me out of town.
This is the only thing, aside from a complete lack of performing talent, that can prevent me from being a big star on the Great White Way.
That was the promise made to me recently over dinner and, especially, drinks at the Friars Club in New York City, where Lane and Jules Feiler, the mad genius at 5W Public Relations, plotted to put my name in lights. With my luck, the lights will be above the 9th Precinct, which covers Manhattan’s theater district, after I am charged with crimes against art for a planned one-man show I may have to call "Bullets Over Broadway," because when people see it, they’ll want to shoot me.
I got the idea (not to be shot, but to put on a show) after reading Lane’s excellent new book, "Let’s Put on a Show!" In it, he tells great stories about life on and off stage. One of the best is about the time Lane’s mother walked out on one of his shows because he had turned off the air-conditioning in the theater. "My own mother!" Lane writes.
Mainly, though, "Let’s Put on a Show!" provides invaluable tips for anyone who wants to put on a show. Lane knows his stuff because he has won Tonys for producing "Thoroughly Modern Millie," "The Will Rogers Follies," "La Cage aux Folles" and, most recently, "Jay Johnson: The Two and Only," in which Johnson recounts his career as a ventriloquist.
"I could have played the dummy," I told Lane, who – I was very encouraged by this – agreed.
Lane was even more encouraging when I said I am such a bad performer – can’t sing, can’t dance, can’t act – that I couldn’t pass an audition for the role of myself.
"This is the biggest challenge of your career," I said. "Can you make me a star?"
Lane responded by telling an old tale about a king who asked his prime minister if he could make the king’s dog talk. The minister said no, so the king had him beheaded. The king then asked his grand wizard if he could make the dog talk. "No," said the wizard, who also was beheaded. Finally, the king asked a rabbi if he could make the dog talk. "Yes," the rabbi replied, "but it will take 10 years." When the rabbi’s wife heard this, she said, "How are you going to make the dog talk?" The rabbi said, "I don’t know. But in 10 years, the king will be dead."
"What’s the moral of the story?" I asked.
"Give me 10 years," Lane promised, "and I’ll make you a star."
In fact, he added, it probably won’t take that long. There are roles, such as Roxie Hart in "Chicago," in which the character is supposed to be a bad performer. "Not that I would ever cast you as Roxie," Lane said, "but in your case, having no talent could be an asset. If you play a character who can’t sing, dance or act, you could pull it off. And you’d get a great review in The New York Times."
Still, Lane added, I’d do better in a one-man show.
"Because nobody would want to be on stage with me?" I wondered.
"No," Lane said. "Because you’re funny and you can talk. You’d have to do it for an hour and a half, eight times a week, which is physically demanding, but you could do it."
Now I have to think of a name for my show. I am leaning toward either "The Jerry Zezima Follies" or "La Cage aux Fool."
Finally, and most important, I have to find someone who believes in me enough to bankroll the show.
"Is your mother still alive?" Lane asked.
"Yes," I answered. "And she won’t walk out because I’ll keep the air-conditioning on."
So it’s all set. I’ll begin rehearsals in the bathroom mirror tomorrow morning. Lane, who may never win another Tony Award after this, might want to break my leg after all.
Copyright 2007 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
Stewart F. Lane, the Broadway impresario who recently won his fourth Tony Award, wants to break my leg. Wait, sorry, that’s not right. A lot of other people, most of them readers, want to do that. Lane wants me to break a leg. That’s because he plans to put me on the stage, after which he will probably tell the driver to make the horse run as fast as it can and take me out of town.
This is the only thing, aside from a complete lack of performing talent, that can prevent me from being a big star on the Great White Way.
That was the promise made to me recently over dinner and, especially, drinks at the Friars Club in New York City, where Lane and Jules Feiler, the mad genius at 5W Public Relations, plotted to put my name in lights. With my luck, the lights will be above the 9th Precinct, which covers Manhattan’s theater district, after I am charged with crimes against art for a planned one-man show I may have to call "Bullets Over Broadway," because when people see it, they’ll want to shoot me.
I got the idea (not to be shot, but to put on a show) after reading Lane’s excellent new book, "Let’s Put on a Show!" In it, he tells great stories about life on and off stage. One of the best is about the time Lane’s mother walked out on one of his shows because he had turned off the air-conditioning in the theater. "My own mother!" Lane writes.
Mainly, though, "Let’s Put on a Show!" provides invaluable tips for anyone who wants to put on a show. Lane knows his stuff because he has won Tonys for producing "Thoroughly Modern Millie," "The Will Rogers Follies," "La Cage aux Folles" and, most recently, "Jay Johnson: The Two and Only," in which Johnson recounts his career as a ventriloquist.
"I could have played the dummy," I told Lane, who – I was very encouraged by this – agreed.
Lane was even more encouraging when I said I am such a bad performer – can’t sing, can’t dance, can’t act – that I couldn’t pass an audition for the role of myself.
"This is the biggest challenge of your career," I said. "Can you make me a star?"
Lane responded by telling an old tale about a king who asked his prime minister if he could make the king’s dog talk. The minister said no, so the king had him beheaded. The king then asked his grand wizard if he could make the dog talk. "No," said the wizard, who also was beheaded. Finally, the king asked a rabbi if he could make the dog talk. "Yes," the rabbi replied, "but it will take 10 years." When the rabbi’s wife heard this, she said, "How are you going to make the dog talk?" The rabbi said, "I don’t know. But in 10 years, the king will be dead."
"What’s the moral of the story?" I asked.
"Give me 10 years," Lane promised, "and I’ll make you a star."
In fact, he added, it probably won’t take that long. There are roles, such as Roxie Hart in "Chicago," in which the character is supposed to be a bad performer. "Not that I would ever cast you as Roxie," Lane said, "but in your case, having no talent could be an asset. If you play a character who can’t sing, dance or act, you could pull it off. And you’d get a great review in The New York Times."
Still, Lane added, I’d do better in a one-man show.
"Because nobody would want to be on stage with me?" I wondered.
"No," Lane said. "Because you’re funny and you can talk. You’d have to do it for an hour and a half, eight times a week, which is physically demanding, but you could do it."
Now I have to think of a name for my show. I am leaning toward either "The Jerry Zezima Follies" or "La Cage aux Fool."
Finally, and most important, I have to find someone who believes in me enough to bankroll the show.
"Is your mother still alive?" Lane asked.
"Yes," I answered. "And she won’t walk out because I’ll keep the air-conditioning on."
So it’s all set. I’ll begin rehearsals in the bathroom mirror tomorrow morning. Lane, who may never win another Tony Award after this, might want to break my leg after all.
Copyright 2007 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, June 15, 2007
"Locked Out"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
In nearly three decades of marriage, my wife has never locked me out of the house. That’s because she needs me on the premises so I can let her in after she locks herself out.
This recently happened, for approximately the 247th time if you are scoring at home, which you can’t do if you are locked out, when Sue shouted to me from the front yard to let her in.
I was upstairs, in the bathroom, wearing only a towel because I had just stepped out of the shower. So I had to go downstairs, dripping wet, and open the front door in full view of the entire neighborhood. I’m lucky I wasn’t arrested.
Because we are empty nesters, there is no one else to let Sue in. That includes the dog, who can’t reach the doorknob. If Sue is outside, banging on the door because she is locked out, the dog just barks, as if to say, "Call Daddy."
That’s exactly what Sue did during another lockout a few weeks ago, except she had to call me from next door because, instead of being in the house, I was at work. "I locked myself out," she whimpered after she had gone outside to give some water to our dog and our daughter’s dog, for whom we were puppy-sitting, and closed the door behind her. I had a choice: I could drive home, which would take about 45 minutes, or I could tell Sue to call a locksmith, who would charge us a figure rivaling the cost of the key to Fort Knox.
I must admit that I had previously needed the services of that very same locksmith when I broke my key off in the lock on the front door. This time, Sue was at work. I couldn’t call her because the phone was in the house and the neighbors weren’t home. So I had to risk breaking my foot in a futile effort to kick the door down. As it turned out, I broke two of my fingernails, which I used to pry the broken key out of the lock. Cost of a new key: $125.
Not wanting to risk bankruptcy, which would get both of us locked out of the house, I drove home to let Sue in. Because of heavy traffic, it took me an hour. I arrived to find that Sue and both dogs were with our next-door neighbors, who had once house-sat for us but, being honest people, had given back the key, which at that moment was locked inside the house.
Unfortunately, Sue isn’t the only family member with a key problem. Last year, before she left the nest and adopted the aforementioned puppy, our younger daughter, Lauren, called me at work to say she had gone outside to get something in her car and had locked herself out.
"How could you remember to bring your cell phone with you but not your house key?" I asked.
"My phone is more important," Lauren answered.
I happened to be busy doing something inconsequential and told Lauren I would leave as soon as I could. About 10 minutes later, Lauren called back to say that I had left the kitchen window open and that she had climbed through it to get back into the house. Sue later confessed that when she had locked herself out a few weeks before, she also got in through a window I had left open.
This came as a great relief because now there’s a chance that when Sue gets locked out, I won’t have to rush home to let her in. But it also was disconcerting because a burglar could get in and take everything we own, including the house key that Sue would undoubtedly have left inside. And if he doesn’t clean us out, he could always come back and, unlike Sue, use the key to let himself in.
Even worse, if I ever lock myself out and have to climb through an open window, our next-door neighbors would probably see the whole thing, mistake me for a burglar and call the cops.
With my luck, the judge would lock me up. And, for good measure, he’d throw away the key.
Copyright 2007 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
In nearly three decades of marriage, my wife has never locked me out of the house. That’s because she needs me on the premises so I can let her in after she locks herself out.
This recently happened, for approximately the 247th time if you are scoring at home, which you can’t do if you are locked out, when Sue shouted to me from the front yard to let her in.
I was upstairs, in the bathroom, wearing only a towel because I had just stepped out of the shower. So I had to go downstairs, dripping wet, and open the front door in full view of the entire neighborhood. I’m lucky I wasn’t arrested.
Because we are empty nesters, there is no one else to let Sue in. That includes the dog, who can’t reach the doorknob. If Sue is outside, banging on the door because she is locked out, the dog just barks, as if to say, "Call Daddy."
That’s exactly what Sue did during another lockout a few weeks ago, except she had to call me from next door because, instead of being in the house, I was at work. "I locked myself out," she whimpered after she had gone outside to give some water to our dog and our daughter’s dog, for whom we were puppy-sitting, and closed the door behind her. I had a choice: I could drive home, which would take about 45 minutes, or I could tell Sue to call a locksmith, who would charge us a figure rivaling the cost of the key to Fort Knox.
I must admit that I had previously needed the services of that very same locksmith when I broke my key off in the lock on the front door. This time, Sue was at work. I couldn’t call her because the phone was in the house and the neighbors weren’t home. So I had to risk breaking my foot in a futile effort to kick the door down. As it turned out, I broke two of my fingernails, which I used to pry the broken key out of the lock. Cost of a new key: $125.
Not wanting to risk bankruptcy, which would get both of us locked out of the house, I drove home to let Sue in. Because of heavy traffic, it took me an hour. I arrived to find that Sue and both dogs were with our next-door neighbors, who had once house-sat for us but, being honest people, had given back the key, which at that moment was locked inside the house.
Unfortunately, Sue isn’t the only family member with a key problem. Last year, before she left the nest and adopted the aforementioned puppy, our younger daughter, Lauren, called me at work to say she had gone outside to get something in her car and had locked herself out.
"How could you remember to bring your cell phone with you but not your house key?" I asked.
"My phone is more important," Lauren answered.
I happened to be busy doing something inconsequential and told Lauren I would leave as soon as I could. About 10 minutes later, Lauren called back to say that I had left the kitchen window open and that she had climbed through it to get back into the house. Sue later confessed that when she had locked herself out a few weeks before, she also got in through a window I had left open.
This came as a great relief because now there’s a chance that when Sue gets locked out, I won’t have to rush home to let her in. But it also was disconcerting because a burglar could get in and take everything we own, including the house key that Sue would undoubtedly have left inside. And if he doesn’t clean us out, he could always come back and, unlike Sue, use the key to let himself in.
Even worse, if I ever lock myself out and have to climb through an open window, our next-door neighbors would probably see the whole thing, mistake me for a burglar and call the cops.
With my luck, the judge would lock me up. And, for good measure, he’d throw away the key.
Copyright 2007 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, June 1, 2007
"Shark Dive"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
One of the scariest things about the movie "Jaws," the heartwarming tale of a great white shark who loved people so much he just ate them up, was the music. Playing ominously in the background was John Williams’ Oscar-winning score, which went like this: "Dumb-dumb-dumb-dumb, dumb-dumb-dumb-dumb."
That described me recently when I went to Atlantis Marine World Aquarium in Riverhead, N.Y., for what I feared would be a once-in-a-lifetime experience called a Shark Dive.
Instead of encountering a great white, or even a mediocre white, I came face-to-face with nine sharks that had a combined total of what appeared to be several million teeth, each of which could sever a major artery, such as Interstate 95 or the Long Island Expressway. Six were sand tiger sharks, the largest of which measured 7 feet long, weighed 300 pounds and was named Bertha, and three were nurse sharks, in case Bertha was hungry and I needed medical care. Unfortunately, there were no doctor sharks, but there was a gigantic loggerhead turtle that weighed more than Bertha and was named – this was the really scary part – Jaws.
The Shark Dive took place in the aquarium’s 12-foot-deep, 120,000-gallon tank, which also is home to lots of other creatures, including a stingray and a moray eel, neither of which is mentioned in my life-insurance policy.
Speaking of which, I had to sign several waivers absolving Atlantis Marine World and, though not mentioned specifically by name, Bertha from any blame in case I needed the services of the Davy Jones Funeral Home ("For all of your at-sea burial needs").
I should point out that I was in a metal cage that provided protection against the tank’s most dangerous creature: me. It seems sharks are in more danger from humans than the other way around, probably because the most frightening sharks are called – you guessed it – lawyers.
"We hear a lot of lawyer jokes," said marine biologist Chris Paparo, who with Kate Hanson, the aquarium’s head shark dive educator, told me everything I wanted to know about sharks but was afraid to ask. For example, sharks can smell one drop of blood from a mile away. They also can detect the heartbeat of a potential meal.
"Don’t worry," Hanson assured me, "sand tiger sharks eat only fish and other long, soft-bodied creatures."
"Wait a minute," I said as my heartbeat picked up. "I’m a long, soft-bodied creature."
I thought I was nervous until I met Anthony Esposito, who would be going on the Shark Dive with me. Esposito’s wife, Idina, had given him the dive, which costs $155, for his 39th birthday. She and their children, Anthony Jr., 13, Brendan, 10, and Giulia, 8 months, were there to watch and, because you never know what might happen, kiss him goodbye.
Even though Esposito is a trainer for Brazilian jujitsu welterweight champion Matt Serra, requiring him to spar with Serra in a cage, which to me would be worse than being in a shark cage, he admitted: "I’m scared."
There really was no reason to be. Dive master Ken LaPeters, who would be in the cage with us, made sure we were thoroughly schooled in what to do, from donning our wet suits to putting on our masks, which had microphones so we could talk with each other. The masks also were hooked up to air tanks, which made me breathe a lot easier.
LaPeters’ son, Ken Jr., 10, who said he wants to be like his dad when he grows up, helped me on with my rubber shoes. "Have fun!" he said before the three of us were locked in the cage and lowered into the tank.
Fun was an understatement. For half an hour, I had the most exhilarating and educational experience of my life. I chatted away with LaPeters, who is funny, dedicated and knowledgeable; gave the thumbs-up sign to the visibly less nervous Esposito, who waved as his wife and kids took pictures from outside the glass tank; and said hello to Bertha, who swam by several times, as did the other sharks, but apparently – and fortunately – found me extremely unappetizing.
I now have a greater appreciation for sharks and other undersea life, which is the point of the Shark Dive. And, unlike a lot of people in "Jaws," I lived to tell about it.
Copyright 2007 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
One of the scariest things about the movie "Jaws," the heartwarming tale of a great white shark who loved people so much he just ate them up, was the music. Playing ominously in the background was John Williams’ Oscar-winning score, which went like this: "Dumb-dumb-dumb-dumb, dumb-dumb-dumb-dumb."
That described me recently when I went to Atlantis Marine World Aquarium in Riverhead, N.Y., for what I feared would be a once-in-a-lifetime experience called a Shark Dive.
Instead of encountering a great white, or even a mediocre white, I came face-to-face with nine sharks that had a combined total of what appeared to be several million teeth, each of which could sever a major artery, such as Interstate 95 or the Long Island Expressway. Six were sand tiger sharks, the largest of which measured 7 feet long, weighed 300 pounds and was named Bertha, and three were nurse sharks, in case Bertha was hungry and I needed medical care. Unfortunately, there were no doctor sharks, but there was a gigantic loggerhead turtle that weighed more than Bertha and was named – this was the really scary part – Jaws.
The Shark Dive took place in the aquarium’s 12-foot-deep, 120,000-gallon tank, which also is home to lots of other creatures, including a stingray and a moray eel, neither of which is mentioned in my life-insurance policy.
Speaking of which, I had to sign several waivers absolving Atlantis Marine World and, though not mentioned specifically by name, Bertha from any blame in case I needed the services of the Davy Jones Funeral Home ("For all of your at-sea burial needs").
I should point out that I was in a metal cage that provided protection against the tank’s most dangerous creature: me. It seems sharks are in more danger from humans than the other way around, probably because the most frightening sharks are called – you guessed it – lawyers.
"We hear a lot of lawyer jokes," said marine biologist Chris Paparo, who with Kate Hanson, the aquarium’s head shark dive educator, told me everything I wanted to know about sharks but was afraid to ask. For example, sharks can smell one drop of blood from a mile away. They also can detect the heartbeat of a potential meal.
"Don’t worry," Hanson assured me, "sand tiger sharks eat only fish and other long, soft-bodied creatures."
"Wait a minute," I said as my heartbeat picked up. "I’m a long, soft-bodied creature."
I thought I was nervous until I met Anthony Esposito, who would be going on the Shark Dive with me. Esposito’s wife, Idina, had given him the dive, which costs $155, for his 39th birthday. She and their children, Anthony Jr., 13, Brendan, 10, and Giulia, 8 months, were there to watch and, because you never know what might happen, kiss him goodbye.
Even though Esposito is a trainer for Brazilian jujitsu welterweight champion Matt Serra, requiring him to spar with Serra in a cage, which to me would be worse than being in a shark cage, he admitted: "I’m scared."
There really was no reason to be. Dive master Ken LaPeters, who would be in the cage with us, made sure we were thoroughly schooled in what to do, from donning our wet suits to putting on our masks, which had microphones so we could talk with each other. The masks also were hooked up to air tanks, which made me breathe a lot easier.
LaPeters’ son, Ken Jr., 10, who said he wants to be like his dad when he grows up, helped me on with my rubber shoes. "Have fun!" he said before the three of us were locked in the cage and lowered into the tank.
Fun was an understatement. For half an hour, I had the most exhilarating and educational experience of my life. I chatted away with LaPeters, who is funny, dedicated and knowledgeable; gave the thumbs-up sign to the visibly less nervous Esposito, who waved as his wife and kids took pictures from outside the glass tank; and said hello to Bertha, who swam by several times, as did the other sharks, but apparently – and fortunately – found me extremely unappetizing.
I now have a greater appreciation for sharks and other undersea life, which is the point of the Shark Dive. And, unlike a lot of people in "Jaws," I lived to tell about it.
Copyright 2007 by Jerry Zezima
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