By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
In "Duck Soup," the Marx Brothers’ 1933 war satire, Groucho is reading an important document when he says to Zeppo, "A 4-year-old child could understand this." Zeppo nods in agreement, at which point Groucho adds, "Run out and find me a 4-year-old child. I can’t make head or tail out of it."
That’s the way I felt recently when I went to war with a butterfly bush that threatened to attack the house and I needed the help of a 4-year-old child to defeat it.
The tyke was Brian Heidrich Jr., son of my landscaper, who came over with his crew to clean my yard and to slay the floral monster that made Audrey II, the man-eating plant in "Little Shop of Horrors," look like a petunia.
As Brian Sr. knows from his annual cleanups, my green thumb is really a fungus. That’s why, under my tender care, the lawn looks like it was manicured with a flamethrower. In fact, the whole place has gone to seed, so this year I asked Brian Sr. to drop some seed, as well as fertilizer (which I usually spread around pretty well myself) and lime, though not the kind that goes well with a gin and tonic, which I like to have in the summer after I have mown what little grass remains.
But the main job was getting rid of that butterfly bush, which was big enough to swallow a man (in this case, me) whole. It also drew so many winged creatures that our property often looked like something out of "The Birds." I was the birdbrain because every plant, flower and blade of grass I touched died except, of course, for the butterfly bush.
Recently, my wife, Sue, who has grown several normal-size butterfly bushes around the yard, asked me to get rid of the big one so she would have room for a garden. It was a frightening task because the thing was about 12 feet tall and couldn’t be transplanted. Its branches, which were more like tentacles, extended across the side yard and were within striking distance of the laundry room door.
At first I tried hedge clippers. The bush just laughed at me, although it could have been the wind. Then I got an electric trimmer. It was like using a plastic knife on a giant sequoia.
Finally, I called Heidrich Landscaping of Coram, N.Y. A few days later, a truck pulled up, followed by a car, out of which stepped the two Brians. I’m pretty sure Brian Sr. was driving.
"This is Mr. Zezima," Brian said to his son, who was clearly unimpressed. But being a little gentleman, he shook my hand. Then he said to his father, "I want to help."
Brian Sr. called over one of his workers, Luke Martinez, and asked him to give the young man something to do.
"Is he your assistant?" I asked Luke, who patted little Brian on the head and said, "He’s my boss."
"Are you Luke’s boss?" I asked little Brian. He smiled and nodded.
As head of the operation, little Brian supervised while Luke used an ax to chop down the butterfly bush. "Is Luke doing a good job?" I asked little Brian, who chirped, "Yep!"
To show he is not too important to get his hands dirty, little Brian helped cart away the branches, most of which dwarfed him. Still, he managed to drag a few of them to the truck. He also brought over a rake so Luke could smooth out the area where the bush had stood.
"If the bush hadn’t been taken down, it would have gone through the door," Brian Sr. said. "You could have had it arrested for breaking and entering."
Thanks to little Brian’s expert supervision, there was no need to call the police. "You did a good job," I said to little Brian. He grinned proudly and replied, "I know."
Before the Brians left, Brian Sr. gave me a few yard-care pointers, like keeping the flower beds clean and making sure the lawn gets enough water.
"A 4-year-old child could do it," I said. "And if I need help, I know just where to find one."
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, April 17, 2009
Friday, April 3, 2009
"Show Me the Money"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
In these challenging economic times, when a middle-class guy like myself can’t get a federal bailout or an AIG bonus, even though my tax dollars are helping to pay for it all, it’s nice to know that there are some people who are willing to give me lots of money.
I refer to the kind folks who have been sending me e-mails from all over the world with an offer I can’t, they hope, refuse: In exchange for my assistance in transferring huge sums of cash to the United States, which would entail giving them vital personal information, these generous individuals will give me a significant percentage of the millions of dollars in their foreign bank accounts.
They include Dr. Bakary Sawadogo of Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso, Africa; Mr. Zuma Camara, who is from Liberia but now lives in the United Arab Emirates; Mr. Egor Fillipenko, who works for a large oil company in Moscow, Russia; Sgt. Joey Jones, who is stationed with the U.S. Army in Iraq; Mr. Ken Ahia, an attorney representing a late relative of mine somewhere in the Middle East; and Miss Jessica Yao, a desperate young woman who lives in the Republic of Cote d’Ivoire, formerly known as the Ivory Coast in West Africa.
To all of these people I responded with the following message: "Show me the money."
You can imagine my surprise and delight when I actually heard back from some of them. Here is the reply I got from Mr. Ahia:
"Dear Zezima,
"I am Barrister Ken Ahia, a solicitor at law. I am the personal attorney to the late Mr. Ali Zezima, who bears the same last name with you, a national of your country.
"See my attached message.
"Best regards,
"Barrister Ken Ahia"
Naturally, the attached message contained a plea to help Mr. Ahia transfer a large sum of money to the United States through my bank account. Here is my reply:
"Dear Barrister Ahia:
"Cousin Ali is dead? I am desolated beyond words at this terrible news! Is it true he died in a tragic bungee jumping accident? Or that he was bitten in a sensitive area by a poisonous spider? Or that he was caught in flagrante delicto (Flagrante Delicto is a popular resort where cousin Ali often went to escape his legal troubles) by the husband of the wealthy woman with whom he was having a torrid affair?
"Please write back to fill me in on the scandalous details and to arrange to send all of his money to my bank account here in the United States.
"Best regards,
"Jerry Zezima"
Strangely, I have not had further contact with Mr. Ahia. But I did hear from Miss Jessica Yao, an orphaned college student who has been targeted for murder by the thugs who killed her father, a wealthy cocoa merchant. They want to get their bloody hands on her father’s fortune, which is why she wishes to transfer the money, through me, to the United States. Miss Yao wrote to me, in part, as follows:
"My Dear,
"Thanks for your prompt responds and my heartily greetings to you this day. I am glad for your interest in helping me with the funds transfer and investments in your country. Please promise me that you will not betray me when my inheritance is transferred into your account. ... God bless you.
"Best wishes with love,
"Yours sincerely,
"Miss Jessica Yao"
Here is my reply:
"Dearest Jessica:
"It grieves me to read of your troubles, which have touched my heart. I was already touched in the head. You probably think I am an easy touch, which is why you have written to me.
"I am a newspaper columnist who had to take a vow of poverty when I went into journalism, so I could use the money. Your story will be of great interest to readers around the world, including, I am sure, the authorities.
"Please respond quickly, dear one, for I desire to transact with you. It will be chaste, unless you are chased, by the police, who may want to arrest you for fraud, in which case I will have the funds to bail you out. At the very least, I’ll send you a postcard from the new vacation home your money will enable me to buy. God bless you.
"Best wishes with love,
"Yours sincerely,
"Jerry Zezima"
Unfortunately, I have not had further correspondence with Miss Yao or any of the other nice people who wanted to make me rich. But I am not giving up. Maybe, with the help of our elected officials, I can get some money from AIG.
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
In these challenging economic times, when a middle-class guy like myself can’t get a federal bailout or an AIG bonus, even though my tax dollars are helping to pay for it all, it’s nice to know that there are some people who are willing to give me lots of money.
I refer to the kind folks who have been sending me e-mails from all over the world with an offer I can’t, they hope, refuse: In exchange for my assistance in transferring huge sums of cash to the United States, which would entail giving them vital personal information, these generous individuals will give me a significant percentage of the millions of dollars in their foreign bank accounts.
They include Dr. Bakary Sawadogo of Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso, Africa; Mr. Zuma Camara, who is from Liberia but now lives in the United Arab Emirates; Mr. Egor Fillipenko, who works for a large oil company in Moscow, Russia; Sgt. Joey Jones, who is stationed with the U.S. Army in Iraq; Mr. Ken Ahia, an attorney representing a late relative of mine somewhere in the Middle East; and Miss Jessica Yao, a desperate young woman who lives in the Republic of Cote d’Ivoire, formerly known as the Ivory Coast in West Africa.
To all of these people I responded with the following message: "Show me the money."
You can imagine my surprise and delight when I actually heard back from some of them. Here is the reply I got from Mr. Ahia:
"Dear Zezima,
"I am Barrister Ken Ahia, a solicitor at law. I am the personal attorney to the late Mr. Ali Zezima, who bears the same last name with you, a national of your country.
"See my attached message.
"Best regards,
"Barrister Ken Ahia"
Naturally, the attached message contained a plea to help Mr. Ahia transfer a large sum of money to the United States through my bank account. Here is my reply:
"Dear Barrister Ahia:
"Cousin Ali is dead? I am desolated beyond words at this terrible news! Is it true he died in a tragic bungee jumping accident? Or that he was bitten in a sensitive area by a poisonous spider? Or that he was caught in flagrante delicto (Flagrante Delicto is a popular resort where cousin Ali often went to escape his legal troubles) by the husband of the wealthy woman with whom he was having a torrid affair?
"Please write back to fill me in on the scandalous details and to arrange to send all of his money to my bank account here in the United States.
"Best regards,
"Jerry Zezima"
Strangely, I have not had further contact with Mr. Ahia. But I did hear from Miss Jessica Yao, an orphaned college student who has been targeted for murder by the thugs who killed her father, a wealthy cocoa merchant. They want to get their bloody hands on her father’s fortune, which is why she wishes to transfer the money, through me, to the United States. Miss Yao wrote to me, in part, as follows:
"My Dear,
"Thanks for your prompt responds and my heartily greetings to you this day. I am glad for your interest in helping me with the funds transfer and investments in your country. Please promise me that you will not betray me when my inheritance is transferred into your account. ... God bless you.
"Best wishes with love,
"Yours sincerely,
"Miss Jessica Yao"
Here is my reply:
"Dearest Jessica:
"It grieves me to read of your troubles, which have touched my heart. I was already touched in the head. You probably think I am an easy touch, which is why you have written to me.
"I am a newspaper columnist who had to take a vow of poverty when I went into journalism, so I could use the money. Your story will be of great interest to readers around the world, including, I am sure, the authorities.
"Please respond quickly, dear one, for I desire to transact with you. It will be chaste, unless you are chased, by the police, who may want to arrest you for fraud, in which case I will have the funds to bail you out. At the very least, I’ll send you a postcard from the new vacation home your money will enable me to buy. God bless you.
"Best wishes with love,
"Yours sincerely,
"Jerry Zezima"
Unfortunately, I have not had further correspondence with Miss Yao or any of the other nice people who wanted to make me rich. But I am not giving up. Maybe, with the help of our elected officials, I can get some money from AIG.
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, March 20, 2009
"Jailhouse Talk"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
As a columnist whose work has no redeeming social value, which has no doubt contributed to the decline of the newspaper industry, I knew it was only a matter of time before my journalistic crimes landed me in jail. I just didn’t think I would end up on Rikers Island.
But New York City’s famous maximum-security prison is exactly where I found myself recently after I was asked by a teacher – not sentenced by a judge – to spend a day at the facility. The purpose of my visit was to address three writing classes at Horizon Academy, a school for detainees in their teens and 20s.
When I asked the teacher, Martin Flaster, how to get to Rikers Island, he said, "Rob a bank." Of course, a bank is the last place to go for money these days, but I knew I was in for a memorable time.
Mary Runyan, a secretary at Horizon Academy, picked me up at the guard post and drove me over the Francis R. Bruno Memorial Bridge (the word "memorial" made me nervous) to the 400-acre site, which sits in the East River near LaGuardia Airport.
"I feel safer here than I would at a regular high school," Runyan said.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because," she replied calmly, "there are no guns here."
That made me feel better, and although Runyan didn’t mention knives, shivs, blades or other dangerous weapons, I was sure the inmates had more to fear from me, at least psychologically, than I did from them. I figured a day of listening to me talk about writing would have most of them begging for solitary confinement.
It was only when I was escorted in and heard a barred door lock behind me that I thought: "Uh-oh."
As it turned out, I could not have felt more welcome or comfortable. Gloria Ortiz, principal of Horizon Academy, and her entire staff, including Flaster and senior program specialist Cherie Braxton, were wonderful. So were the guards. The inmates I passed in the halls were respectful. Some even said, "Good morning." Others just ignored me. So, unfortunately, do most people on the outside.
I am not some bleeding heart (I hate the sight of my own blood), so I believe that if you do the crime, you should do the time. And the crimes here can be pretty serious. Let me put it this way: Nobody goes to Rikers Island for jaywalking.
But the young men in Horizon Academy, which has about 300 students in six buildings, haven’t been convicted of anything. True, they have been charged with various offenses and most of them are awaiting trial. And even though they are officially called detainees, they get locked up like all the other inmates. But they are in school, some to improve their literacy skills and others to get their general equivalency diplomas.
I met the first class at 11 a.m. in the school annex. The group was so large (36 students) that it had to be held in a hallway, where desks were lined up against both walls. This didn’t bother me because I’m off the wall, so instead of standing at one end, I walked among the students and talked about different kinds of writing. A student named Emerson asked if I could write a rap song.
"Well," I said, "my initials are J.Z., which makes me a rapper."
"Let’s hear one," said Urena, another student.
I happily obliged: "My name’s J.Z. and I love to rap. / Unfortunately, I sound like crap."
It was politely suggested that I shouldn’t quit my day job.
Then I read one of three columns I had sent to the school before my visit. It was a recent piece in the form of a letter to President Barack Obama, from one family man to another, giving the new commander-in-chief advice on moving into the White House and what to do when he gets his two young daughters the puppy he promised them.
The students applauded when I finished, and not because they were glad it was over. I felt good about the session, but the other two went more smoothly because they were smaller and were held in classrooms.
Teacher John Parada’s English class had eight students: Danny, Cary, Adam, Kenny, Donovan, Travis, Martinez and Anonymous. They were engaging, sharp and interested in writing. They also had good senses of humor.
"How do you know when to use a colon?" asked Travis, setting me up for a bathroom joke.
When I read my Obama column, which contained the story of the time I called the White House to see if then-President George W. Bush would declare my younger daughter’s room a federal disaster area, Adam asked, "Did you really call Bush?"
"Yes," I told him.
"Man," Adam said, smiling and shaking his head, "you’re crazy."
"Thank you," I replied. "I was dropped on my head as a child."
Cary said I was "cool," adding: "For your age."
When I said I’m 55, Kenny, also known as "Tornado," commented: "You don’t look that old."
The class was fun – we talked about humor, fiction, nonfiction, language and editing – and went by quickly. When it was over, Martinez, a poet, asked if he could send me some of his work. "Of course," I said. I hope he does.
After a late lunch in another building, I spoke to the third group, Martin Flaster’s English class, which consisted of Eduardo, Lil Haye, Strictly 50, Lorenzo, Fever, HOV, James, B.B., Naquan and Leon, who used to live in my hometown of Stamford. Teacher and site coordinator Leila Riley helped Flaster conduct the class.
These students also were sharp and engaging. And creative: Instead of listening to me read my column, Eduardo, also known as "A-Rod," suggested that each student read a paragraph out loud. Around the room went the column, provoking laughs, chuckles and smiles.
"Good job," Eduardo said to his classmates when they were finished.
Lorenzo said to me, "You did a good job, too." The class laughed. Then he read an essay he had written. It was a letter to a young woman that Lorenzo said "could be" autobiographical. It was eloquent and touching.
James and Leon talked about books that are made into movies, with Leon saying that the film adaptations usually aren’t as good as the books because "a lot of stuff has to be left out."
At one point, James politely criticized my word choice when, in explaining the differences between writing and other professions, I said that airplane pilots need degrees to fly. "That’s wrong," James noted. "They need certificates."
"I stand corrected," I said.
"You mean you sit corrected," Lorenzo remarked. More laughter.
At the end of the class, Eduardo said to me, "You were really good because you were honest with us."
Flaster said the students would write essays about the session and send them to me. Then he asked if I would keep in touch. "Yes," I promised.
As I told the guys in each of the three classes, "potential" is one of the most overused words in the English language, but it applies to them because they all have it. I said they should use it in a positive way so they can improve their lives, adding: "If an idiot like me can make it, there’s hope for you."
To the charge of enjoying my day in prison, I plead guilty. Since the staff of Horizon Academy didn’t consider me a bad influence on the students, and the students seemed to agree, I would definitely go back. And I wouldn’t even have to rob a bank.
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
As a columnist whose work has no redeeming social value, which has no doubt contributed to the decline of the newspaper industry, I knew it was only a matter of time before my journalistic crimes landed me in jail. I just didn’t think I would end up on Rikers Island.
But New York City’s famous maximum-security prison is exactly where I found myself recently after I was asked by a teacher – not sentenced by a judge – to spend a day at the facility. The purpose of my visit was to address three writing classes at Horizon Academy, a school for detainees in their teens and 20s.
When I asked the teacher, Martin Flaster, how to get to Rikers Island, he said, "Rob a bank." Of course, a bank is the last place to go for money these days, but I knew I was in for a memorable time.
Mary Runyan, a secretary at Horizon Academy, picked me up at the guard post and drove me over the Francis R. Bruno Memorial Bridge (the word "memorial" made me nervous) to the 400-acre site, which sits in the East River near LaGuardia Airport.
"I feel safer here than I would at a regular high school," Runyan said.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because," she replied calmly, "there are no guns here."
That made me feel better, and although Runyan didn’t mention knives, shivs, blades or other dangerous weapons, I was sure the inmates had more to fear from me, at least psychologically, than I did from them. I figured a day of listening to me talk about writing would have most of them begging for solitary confinement.
It was only when I was escorted in and heard a barred door lock behind me that I thought: "Uh-oh."
As it turned out, I could not have felt more welcome or comfortable. Gloria Ortiz, principal of Horizon Academy, and her entire staff, including Flaster and senior program specialist Cherie Braxton, were wonderful. So were the guards. The inmates I passed in the halls were respectful. Some even said, "Good morning." Others just ignored me. So, unfortunately, do most people on the outside.
I am not some bleeding heart (I hate the sight of my own blood), so I believe that if you do the crime, you should do the time. And the crimes here can be pretty serious. Let me put it this way: Nobody goes to Rikers Island for jaywalking.
But the young men in Horizon Academy, which has about 300 students in six buildings, haven’t been convicted of anything. True, they have been charged with various offenses and most of them are awaiting trial. And even though they are officially called detainees, they get locked up like all the other inmates. But they are in school, some to improve their literacy skills and others to get their general equivalency diplomas.
I met the first class at 11 a.m. in the school annex. The group was so large (36 students) that it had to be held in a hallway, where desks were lined up against both walls. This didn’t bother me because I’m off the wall, so instead of standing at one end, I walked among the students and talked about different kinds of writing. A student named Emerson asked if I could write a rap song.
"Well," I said, "my initials are J.Z., which makes me a rapper."
"Let’s hear one," said Urena, another student.
I happily obliged: "My name’s J.Z. and I love to rap. / Unfortunately, I sound like crap."
It was politely suggested that I shouldn’t quit my day job.
Then I read one of three columns I had sent to the school before my visit. It was a recent piece in the form of a letter to President Barack Obama, from one family man to another, giving the new commander-in-chief advice on moving into the White House and what to do when he gets his two young daughters the puppy he promised them.
The students applauded when I finished, and not because they were glad it was over. I felt good about the session, but the other two went more smoothly because they were smaller and were held in classrooms.
Teacher John Parada’s English class had eight students: Danny, Cary, Adam, Kenny, Donovan, Travis, Martinez and Anonymous. They were engaging, sharp and interested in writing. They also had good senses of humor.
"How do you know when to use a colon?" asked Travis, setting me up for a bathroom joke.
When I read my Obama column, which contained the story of the time I called the White House to see if then-President George W. Bush would declare my younger daughter’s room a federal disaster area, Adam asked, "Did you really call Bush?"
"Yes," I told him.
"Man," Adam said, smiling and shaking his head, "you’re crazy."
"Thank you," I replied. "I was dropped on my head as a child."
Cary said I was "cool," adding: "For your age."
When I said I’m 55, Kenny, also known as "Tornado," commented: "You don’t look that old."
The class was fun – we talked about humor, fiction, nonfiction, language and editing – and went by quickly. When it was over, Martinez, a poet, asked if he could send me some of his work. "Of course," I said. I hope he does.
After a late lunch in another building, I spoke to the third group, Martin Flaster’s English class, which consisted of Eduardo, Lil Haye, Strictly 50, Lorenzo, Fever, HOV, James, B.B., Naquan and Leon, who used to live in my hometown of Stamford. Teacher and site coordinator Leila Riley helped Flaster conduct the class.
These students also were sharp and engaging. And creative: Instead of listening to me read my column, Eduardo, also known as "A-Rod," suggested that each student read a paragraph out loud. Around the room went the column, provoking laughs, chuckles and smiles.
"Good job," Eduardo said to his classmates when they were finished.
Lorenzo said to me, "You did a good job, too." The class laughed. Then he read an essay he had written. It was a letter to a young woman that Lorenzo said "could be" autobiographical. It was eloquent and touching.
James and Leon talked about books that are made into movies, with Leon saying that the film adaptations usually aren’t as good as the books because "a lot of stuff has to be left out."
At one point, James politely criticized my word choice when, in explaining the differences between writing and other professions, I said that airplane pilots need degrees to fly. "That’s wrong," James noted. "They need certificates."
"I stand corrected," I said.
"You mean you sit corrected," Lorenzo remarked. More laughter.
At the end of the class, Eduardo said to me, "You were really good because you were honest with us."
Flaster said the students would write essays about the session and send them to me. Then he asked if I would keep in touch. "Yes," I promised.
As I told the guys in each of the three classes, "potential" is one of the most overused words in the English language, but it applies to them because they all have it. I said they should use it in a positive way so they can improve their lives, adding: "If an idiot like me can make it, there’s hope for you."
To the charge of enjoying my day in prison, I plead guilty. Since the staff of Horizon Academy didn’t consider me a bad influence on the students, and the students seemed to agree, I would definitely go back. And I wouldn’t even have to rob a bank.
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, March 6, 2009
"The Electric Company"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
I have always been interested in current events except when it comes to electrical work. That’s because I am afraid a current will zap me in the event I tried to perform some mundane task like replacing a fuse, in which case I would either be eulogized with the words "ashes to ashes" or, even worse, get hit with a whopper of an electric bill.
So I was pleasantly surprised – but not shocked – when I recently passed a test from an electrician who showed me how to do simple repairs without burning the house down.
I required his services because I couldn’t answer this question: How many homeowners does it take to change a light bulb? Most people would say it takes only one – unless, of course, the homeowner is yours truly. Then I would need the help of a professional.
Not only couldn’t I change the bulb in one of the two lights outside the front door, but I couldn’t replace the fixture in the hallway or figure out how to rewire the microwave without ending up like charred meatloaf.
That’s why I called Shawn Krueger, owner of Luminaire Electric on Long Island, N.Y. Krueger came over for an estimate, quickly ascertained that I’m not the brightest guy on the circuit and said he would send over one of his best men, Jose Lucero, who not only would solve my problems but would give me a crash course in Light Bulb Changing 101.
At 8 a.m. the following Saturday, Lucero was at the front door, which I didn’t realize at first because the doorbell doesn’t work.
"Basically," Lucero said as he started to replace the fixture in the hallway, "electrical work isn’t that hard."
"It is for me," I told him. "Maybe I’m not wired right."
Lucero, who kindly ignored the remark, said that the first rule is to turn off the power where you’re working.
"I’m usually asleep at the switch, but even I know that," I replied. "It’s the rest of it that has me baffled."
I explained that I was actually able to change a light bulb in the fixture but couldn’t get the cover back on because the screw wouldn’t fully attach to the threaded stem, which was loose and couldn’t be tightened. This wasn’t surprising since the fixture was old and corroded (like me) and needed (unlike me, I hope) to be replaced.
This necessitated undoing the wires, which I figured would be my undoing.
"All you have to remember," Lucero said, "is that the white wire is neutral and the black one is for the power. In the middle is the ground."
"So we’ve reached a middle ground," I said.
Lucero also ignored this remark and – after turning off the power, of course – showed me how to disconnect the old wires and connect the ones in the new fixture, which my wife bought after I couldn’t get the cover back on the old one.
She also bought new outside lights. In one of the old ones, which also were corroded, the bulb had broken off and couldn’t be removed without either a screwdriver or a pair of pliers. Owing to my fear of being electrocuted, which would have made my hair stand on end even more than it does now, I let Lucero do it.
Then I got brave and asked if I could try to connect one of the new fixtures. "Sure," Lucero said. "Just make sure you attach the right wires."
It took a while – if I had charged myself by the hour, I couldn’t have afforded it – but I finally managed to get everything hooked up. Then came the test. I flicked the switch. The light Lucero changed went on. Mine didn’t.
"You didn’t attach the wires tightly enough," Lucero said when he examined my work, "but at least you connected the right ones."
Lucero, who is only 23 but already a seasoned pro, gave me a passing grade. I didn’t want to push my luck, so I let him fix the microwave by putting a new fuse in the fuse box.
I still may be a dim bulb, but now, at least, I know how to change one.
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
I have always been interested in current events except when it comes to electrical work. That’s because I am afraid a current will zap me in the event I tried to perform some mundane task like replacing a fuse, in which case I would either be eulogized with the words "ashes to ashes" or, even worse, get hit with a whopper of an electric bill.
So I was pleasantly surprised – but not shocked – when I recently passed a test from an electrician who showed me how to do simple repairs without burning the house down.
I required his services because I couldn’t answer this question: How many homeowners does it take to change a light bulb? Most people would say it takes only one – unless, of course, the homeowner is yours truly. Then I would need the help of a professional.
Not only couldn’t I change the bulb in one of the two lights outside the front door, but I couldn’t replace the fixture in the hallway or figure out how to rewire the microwave without ending up like charred meatloaf.
That’s why I called Shawn Krueger, owner of Luminaire Electric on Long Island, N.Y. Krueger came over for an estimate, quickly ascertained that I’m not the brightest guy on the circuit and said he would send over one of his best men, Jose Lucero, who not only would solve my problems but would give me a crash course in Light Bulb Changing 101.
At 8 a.m. the following Saturday, Lucero was at the front door, which I didn’t realize at first because the doorbell doesn’t work.
"Basically," Lucero said as he started to replace the fixture in the hallway, "electrical work isn’t that hard."
"It is for me," I told him. "Maybe I’m not wired right."
Lucero, who kindly ignored the remark, said that the first rule is to turn off the power where you’re working.
"I’m usually asleep at the switch, but even I know that," I replied. "It’s the rest of it that has me baffled."
I explained that I was actually able to change a light bulb in the fixture but couldn’t get the cover back on because the screw wouldn’t fully attach to the threaded stem, which was loose and couldn’t be tightened. This wasn’t surprising since the fixture was old and corroded (like me) and needed (unlike me, I hope) to be replaced.
This necessitated undoing the wires, which I figured would be my undoing.
"All you have to remember," Lucero said, "is that the white wire is neutral and the black one is for the power. In the middle is the ground."
"So we’ve reached a middle ground," I said.
Lucero also ignored this remark and – after turning off the power, of course – showed me how to disconnect the old wires and connect the ones in the new fixture, which my wife bought after I couldn’t get the cover back on the old one.
She also bought new outside lights. In one of the old ones, which also were corroded, the bulb had broken off and couldn’t be removed without either a screwdriver or a pair of pliers. Owing to my fear of being electrocuted, which would have made my hair stand on end even more than it does now, I let Lucero do it.
Then I got brave and asked if I could try to connect one of the new fixtures. "Sure," Lucero said. "Just make sure you attach the right wires."
It took a while – if I had charged myself by the hour, I couldn’t have afforded it – but I finally managed to get everything hooked up. Then came the test. I flicked the switch. The light Lucero changed went on. Mine didn’t.
"You didn’t attach the wires tightly enough," Lucero said when he examined my work, "but at least you connected the right ones."
Lucero, who is only 23 but already a seasoned pro, gave me a passing grade. I didn’t want to push my luck, so I let him fix the microwave by putting a new fuse in the fuse box.
I still may be a dim bulb, but now, at least, I know how to change one.
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, February 20, 2009
"One for the Ages"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
Now that I have reached 55, which means I am only 10 years from retirement, although at this rate I will be working posthumously, I realize how much I have in common with the highway speed limit: Nobody obeys either one of us.
Nonetheless, I have reason to be happy, not only because I am still alive (maybe I should get a second opinion), but because, according to AARP, I am officially eligible for senior discounts.
As a baby boomer who still acts like a baby even though the boom is over, I firmly believe that people my age deserve a price break. This belief is rooted in one unshakable truth: I’m cheap.
So I recently called Luci de Haan, a spokeswoman for AARP in New York City, to find out how much I could save.
"You can get discounts from hotels, airlines and companies that are licensees of AARP," de Haan told me. "You can also go to movie theaters with your AARP card. There’s not an official arrangement between smaller vendors and AARP, but you can try."
Shortly after my birthday, I went to a CVS pharmacy on Long Island, N.Y., to buy some toiletries. But when I put a can of shaving cream, a pack of razor blades and a stick of deodorant on the counter and asked if I could get a senior discount, cashier Christina Hendrickson said, "You tried this five years ago when you turned 50. It didn’t work then and it won’t work now."
"But I’m officially eligible," I pleaded.
"You could have one foot in the grave and you wouldn’t get a discount," said Hendrickson, who is in her 30s. "It’s against company policy."
I paid the full price, which came to $15.72, and went to Port Jeff Beverage Center to see if I could get a senior discount on a six-pack of beer.
"You tried this five years ago when you turned 50," said manager Frank Stoutenburg, echoing Hendrickson at CVS. "It didn’t work then and it won’t work now."
Stoutenburg, who recently turned 50, said that when he got his first mailing from AARP, he threw it in the garbage. "I’m in serious denial," he acknowledged.
Owner Bruce Bezner, 52, said that age is relative. "I have a grandson who’s 6 and a son who’s 5," Bezner noted. He paused and added: "Different wives."
"Besides," Stoutenburg said, "55 is the new 35, so you wouldn’t qualify for a discount anyway. You’re way too young and way too good-looking. With the exception of a few more gray hairs, which make you appear distinguished, you look the same as you did when you turned 50."
That made me feel a little better, so I paid the full $10 for my beer and headed over to Charmed Salon & Spa to see if I could get a senior discount on a haircut.
"Sure, why not?" said owner Maria Vieira, who has been cutting my hair, both gray and brown, since I was in my 40s, which is the age group she is in, although, like me, she looks a lot younger.
Maria – we’re on a first-name basis – said she would charge me the regular price for a haircut, a very reasonable $17, but would throw in a free shampoo and conditioning treatment for an overall saving of 30 percent.
That sounded good to me, so I went in the back to be worked into a lather by an assistant shampoo specialist named Luz, who declined to give her age but hinted that she, too, might be considered a boomer. She also might be considered an angel because her Angel Wash treatment was heavenly.
Afterward, I got my hair cut by Maria, who pointed out that 55 is middle age because the average life expectancy is between 90 and 100. I don’t know if those figures are accurate, but since 55 is the new 35, they must be.
"When you turn 65," Maria promised, "I’ll clip your nose hairs for free."
I can’t wait! Until then, I’ll enjoy getting older. And even if I can’t get senior discounts anywhere else, it beats the alternative.
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
Now that I have reached 55, which means I am only 10 years from retirement, although at this rate I will be working posthumously, I realize how much I have in common with the highway speed limit: Nobody obeys either one of us.
Nonetheless, I have reason to be happy, not only because I am still alive (maybe I should get a second opinion), but because, according to AARP, I am officially eligible for senior discounts.
As a baby boomer who still acts like a baby even though the boom is over, I firmly believe that people my age deserve a price break. This belief is rooted in one unshakable truth: I’m cheap.
So I recently called Luci de Haan, a spokeswoman for AARP in New York City, to find out how much I could save.
"You can get discounts from hotels, airlines and companies that are licensees of AARP," de Haan told me. "You can also go to movie theaters with your AARP card. There’s not an official arrangement between smaller vendors and AARP, but you can try."
Shortly after my birthday, I went to a CVS pharmacy on Long Island, N.Y., to buy some toiletries. But when I put a can of shaving cream, a pack of razor blades and a stick of deodorant on the counter and asked if I could get a senior discount, cashier Christina Hendrickson said, "You tried this five years ago when you turned 50. It didn’t work then and it won’t work now."
"But I’m officially eligible," I pleaded.
"You could have one foot in the grave and you wouldn’t get a discount," said Hendrickson, who is in her 30s. "It’s against company policy."
I paid the full price, which came to $15.72, and went to Port Jeff Beverage Center to see if I could get a senior discount on a six-pack of beer.
"You tried this five years ago when you turned 50," said manager Frank Stoutenburg, echoing Hendrickson at CVS. "It didn’t work then and it won’t work now."
Stoutenburg, who recently turned 50, said that when he got his first mailing from AARP, he threw it in the garbage. "I’m in serious denial," he acknowledged.
Owner Bruce Bezner, 52, said that age is relative. "I have a grandson who’s 6 and a son who’s 5," Bezner noted. He paused and added: "Different wives."
"Besides," Stoutenburg said, "55 is the new 35, so you wouldn’t qualify for a discount anyway. You’re way too young and way too good-looking. With the exception of a few more gray hairs, which make you appear distinguished, you look the same as you did when you turned 50."
That made me feel a little better, so I paid the full $10 for my beer and headed over to Charmed Salon & Spa to see if I could get a senior discount on a haircut.
"Sure, why not?" said owner Maria Vieira, who has been cutting my hair, both gray and brown, since I was in my 40s, which is the age group she is in, although, like me, she looks a lot younger.
Maria – we’re on a first-name basis – said she would charge me the regular price for a haircut, a very reasonable $17, but would throw in a free shampoo and conditioning treatment for an overall saving of 30 percent.
That sounded good to me, so I went in the back to be worked into a lather by an assistant shampoo specialist named Luz, who declined to give her age but hinted that she, too, might be considered a boomer. She also might be considered an angel because her Angel Wash treatment was heavenly.
Afterward, I got my hair cut by Maria, who pointed out that 55 is middle age because the average life expectancy is between 90 and 100. I don’t know if those figures are accurate, but since 55 is the new 35, they must be.
"When you turn 65," Maria promised, "I’ll clip your nose hairs for free."
I can’t wait! Until then, I’ll enjoy getting older. And even if I can’t get senior discounts anywhere else, it beats the alternative.
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, February 6, 2009
"Million Problem Password"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
One of the sad realizations of my life, which has been complicated beyond endurance by an electronic conspiracy that threatens what little is left of my sanity, is that I will never be a winner on my favorite game show, "Million Dollar Password." Even if you paid me a million dollars, I could never remember every password I need to continue my daily existence.
Like most people who are not legally dead, I have approximately 150 passwords for virtually every aspect of my life. I can’t keep track of them all. To make matters worse, some of them change regularly.
For example, every month I have to come up with a new password for my office computer. And I can’t use any of the previous dozen. I have used various combinations of my name, my wife’s name and our two daughters’ names, along with numbers (you need them, too) based on anniversaries, birthdays, shoe size, my decreasing IQ, anything I can think of. When I run out of possibilities, I do the same with the names of our dog and four cats. Once I even used an expletive. It worked!
Why, you may wonder, don’t I write all my passwords on a piece of paper? I am not glad you asked, but I’ll answer anyway. The reason is twofold: (a) I would forget where I put the piece of paper and (b) somebody else would find it and steal my identity, though why anyone would want it is beyond me. I don’t want it myself. Nonetheless, it would further complicate things.
Recently I became so flummoxed and desperate, which I may have to use as passwords, that I sought help from Tony Dottino, a management consultant who founded the USA Memory Championship, a national brain-teasing event that will be held March 7 in New York City (more info at usamemorychampionship.com).
I was in the inaugural competition in 1997 and finished 14th in a field of 18. I came back for the 10th anniversary two years ago and, as the oldest contestant at 53, fared even worse: 38th out of 41.
"I remember you," Dottino said when I called him. "You are not easy to forget. Unfortunately, passwords are, which is why most people can’t remember them."
Even Dottino, a memory expert, said he has trouble with passwords.
"They drive me nuts," he admitted. "The whole idea of having a password for everything is just brutal."
"How can I keep track of them all?" I asked.
"It’s almost impossible," Dottino said solemnly. "The worst are the ones that have both letters and numbers and a minimum of eight characters. They’re a royal pain, especially if you have to keep changing them. I must confess that for me at times, it’s hopeless."
If this password problem can baffle a mnemonic maven like Dottino, who could possibly help me? You guessed it: Regis Philbin, host of "Million Dollar Password."
"Jerry!" Regis exclaimed when he returned my call. "This is exactly why I am computer-free and cell-phone free! I live my life without wondering what my name is! Everything you have these days has a code or a password! Then you have to punch the stupid thing in! It’s ridiculous! It’s not worth it, Jerry! You’ve got to give it all up! Live a new life, Jerry! You’re joining my computer-free club! You’re an important guy, Jerry! You don’t need people knowing your password!"
Yes, it’s true: Regis Philbin has no passwords. He has simplified his life the way I and millions of other people wish we could simplify ours, but can’t.
Still, he did help me come up with a solution to my problem. From now on, I am going to use only one word, with a series of numbers starting with 1 and going, if necessary, to infinity, for every computer, telephone and bank account in my life.
The password is: "Regis."
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
One of the sad realizations of my life, which has been complicated beyond endurance by an electronic conspiracy that threatens what little is left of my sanity, is that I will never be a winner on my favorite game show, "Million Dollar Password." Even if you paid me a million dollars, I could never remember every password I need to continue my daily existence.
Like most people who are not legally dead, I have approximately 150 passwords for virtually every aspect of my life. I can’t keep track of them all. To make matters worse, some of them change regularly.
For example, every month I have to come up with a new password for my office computer. And I can’t use any of the previous dozen. I have used various combinations of my name, my wife’s name and our two daughters’ names, along with numbers (you need them, too) based on anniversaries, birthdays, shoe size, my decreasing IQ, anything I can think of. When I run out of possibilities, I do the same with the names of our dog and four cats. Once I even used an expletive. It worked!
Why, you may wonder, don’t I write all my passwords on a piece of paper? I am not glad you asked, but I’ll answer anyway. The reason is twofold: (a) I would forget where I put the piece of paper and (b) somebody else would find it and steal my identity, though why anyone would want it is beyond me. I don’t want it myself. Nonetheless, it would further complicate things.
Recently I became so flummoxed and desperate, which I may have to use as passwords, that I sought help from Tony Dottino, a management consultant who founded the USA Memory Championship, a national brain-teasing event that will be held March 7 in New York City (more info at usamemorychampionship.com).
I was in the inaugural competition in 1997 and finished 14th in a field of 18. I came back for the 10th anniversary two years ago and, as the oldest contestant at 53, fared even worse: 38th out of 41.
"I remember you," Dottino said when I called him. "You are not easy to forget. Unfortunately, passwords are, which is why most people can’t remember them."
Even Dottino, a memory expert, said he has trouble with passwords.
"They drive me nuts," he admitted. "The whole idea of having a password for everything is just brutal."
"How can I keep track of them all?" I asked.
"It’s almost impossible," Dottino said solemnly. "The worst are the ones that have both letters and numbers and a minimum of eight characters. They’re a royal pain, especially if you have to keep changing them. I must confess that for me at times, it’s hopeless."
If this password problem can baffle a mnemonic maven like Dottino, who could possibly help me? You guessed it: Regis Philbin, host of "Million Dollar Password."
"Jerry!" Regis exclaimed when he returned my call. "This is exactly why I am computer-free and cell-phone free! I live my life without wondering what my name is! Everything you have these days has a code or a password! Then you have to punch the stupid thing in! It’s ridiculous! It’s not worth it, Jerry! You’ve got to give it all up! Live a new life, Jerry! You’re joining my computer-free club! You’re an important guy, Jerry! You don’t need people knowing your password!"
Yes, it’s true: Regis Philbin has no passwords. He has simplified his life the way I and millions of other people wish we could simplify ours, but can’t.
Still, he did help me come up with a solution to my problem. From now on, I am going to use only one word, with a series of numbers starting with 1 and going, if necessary, to infinity, for every computer, telephone and bank account in my life.
The password is: "Regis."
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, January 23, 2009
"Family Guys"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
Barack Obama
The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Ave.
Washington, D.C. 20500
Dear Mr. President:
Congratulations on your inauguration. It was a defining moment in American history, but you must realize that as you enter the White House, you will be faced with many challenges, not the least of which is the puppy you promised your two young daughters.
I also am the father of two daughters, Katie and Lauren. They’re all grown up now, but when they were 9 and 7, about the same ages as Malia and Sasha, my wife and I got them a cat named Ramona. In August, Ramona will turn 20. She’ll probably outlive me. Anyway, Ramona was the first in a menagerie that includes three other cats and a dog named Lizzie.
Lizzie is a mutt like us. We got her when Lauren was 12. A woman who lived near Lauren’s friend Holly was looking to give away a 6-week-old puppy and wanted to know if Lauren would take her. Initially I said no because we lived in a condo. Still, the woman told Lauren to take the dog overnight. If we didn’t want her, we could return her. If we did want her, she was ours.
Naturally, I fell in love with the little pup, so we decided to keep her. The next morning, however, the woman called to say that she wanted the dog back. Lauren started to cry, at which point 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 won’t let us keep the dog," I said firmly, "I am going to call my Uncle Vito."
And that, Mr. President, is how Lizzie became a member of our family. She’ll be 14 in July and she’s the sweetest creature God ever made. By the way, you can use the Uncle Vito line when dealing with Congress.
You must know, of course, that once you have fulfilled your campaign promise to Malia and Sasha, you will have to walk the dog. You may be the president, but you are a father first, and that will be one of your chief duties.
Another important job will be to make sure that Malia and Sasha clean their rooms. This will be a great challenge. I found that out when Katie and Lauren were young. And it doesn’t get any easier as they get older.
When Lauren was home from college one summer, her room was so messy that my wife called it a disaster area. That gave me an idea: I phoned the White House to see if Lauren’s room could officially be declared a disaster area so we’d be eligible for federal funds to clean it up. Your predecessor was in office at the time, but I also felt a kinship with him because he has two daughters about the same ages as Katie and Lauren.
I never spoke with the president, who had his own messes to deal with, but I did speak with Noelia Rodriguez, Mrs. Bush’s press secretary. When I asked if President Bush had ever declared Jenna and Barbara’s rooms disaster areas, she said, "That would be classified information."
Speaking of rooms, you will have to keep yours clean, too. You can’t be like me and leave your dirty underwear all over the floor – unless you want them to be news briefs. After all, it’s the White House, and your wife, Michelle, will want it to look good when she gives tours.
As for the kitchen, you might want to find out what’s in your cabinets after you fill your Cabinet. Wives get miffed when their husbands don’t know where things are.
And don’t worry about unpacking everything. My wife, Sue, and I have been in our house for almost 11 years and I still haven’t unpacked some of the boxes in the garage. The longest you’ll be in the White House is eight years, so if Michelle gives you grief about this, tell her to call Sue so they can commiserate.
Can we guys do better when it comes to domestic policy? To borrow a familiar phrase: Yes, we can.
Well, Mr. President, from one family man to another, that’s all the advice I have for you. Good luck settling into your new home, give my best to your family and don’t forget to walk the dog.
Sincerely,
Jerry Zezima
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
Barack Obama
The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Ave.
Washington, D.C. 20500
Dear Mr. President:
Congratulations on your inauguration. It was a defining moment in American history, but you must realize that as you enter the White House, you will be faced with many challenges, not the least of which is the puppy you promised your two young daughters.
I also am the father of two daughters, Katie and Lauren. They’re all grown up now, but when they were 9 and 7, about the same ages as Malia and Sasha, my wife and I got them a cat named Ramona. In August, Ramona will turn 20. She’ll probably outlive me. Anyway, Ramona was the first in a menagerie that includes three other cats and a dog named Lizzie.
Lizzie is a mutt like us. We got her when Lauren was 12. A woman who lived near Lauren’s friend Holly was looking to give away a 6-week-old puppy and wanted to know if Lauren would take her. Initially I said no because we lived in a condo. Still, the woman told Lauren to take the dog overnight. If we didn’t want her, we could return her. If we did want her, she was ours.
Naturally, I fell in love with the little pup, so we decided to keep her. The next morning, however, the woman called to say that she wanted the dog back. Lauren started to cry, at which point 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 won’t let us keep the dog," I said firmly, "I am going to call my Uncle Vito."
And that, Mr. President, is how Lizzie became a member of our family. She’ll be 14 in July and she’s the sweetest creature God ever made. By the way, you can use the Uncle Vito line when dealing with Congress.
You must know, of course, that once you have fulfilled your campaign promise to Malia and Sasha, you will have to walk the dog. You may be the president, but you are a father first, and that will be one of your chief duties.
Another important job will be to make sure that Malia and Sasha clean their rooms. This will be a great challenge. I found that out when Katie and Lauren were young. And it doesn’t get any easier as they get older.
When Lauren was home from college one summer, her room was so messy that my wife called it a disaster area. That gave me an idea: I phoned the White House to see if Lauren’s room could officially be declared a disaster area so we’d be eligible for federal funds to clean it up. Your predecessor was in office at the time, but I also felt a kinship with him because he has two daughters about the same ages as Katie and Lauren.
I never spoke with the president, who had his own messes to deal with, but I did speak with Noelia Rodriguez, Mrs. Bush’s press secretary. When I asked if President Bush had ever declared Jenna and Barbara’s rooms disaster areas, she said, "That would be classified information."
Speaking of rooms, you will have to keep yours clean, too. You can’t be like me and leave your dirty underwear all over the floor – unless you want them to be news briefs. After all, it’s the White House, and your wife, Michelle, will want it to look good when she gives tours.
As for the kitchen, you might want to find out what’s in your cabinets after you fill your Cabinet. Wives get miffed when their husbands don’t know where things are.
And don’t worry about unpacking everything. My wife, Sue, and I have been in our house for almost 11 years and I still haven’t unpacked some of the boxes in the garage. The longest you’ll be in the White House is eight years, so if Michelle gives you grief about this, tell her to call Sue so they can commiserate.
Can we guys do better when it comes to domestic policy? To borrow a familiar phrase: Yes, we can.
Well, Mr. President, from one family man to another, that’s all the advice I have for you. Good luck settling into your new home, give my best to your family and don’t forget to walk the dog.
Sincerely,
Jerry Zezima
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
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