"Killer on the Keys"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

When it comes to pianists, only one -- goodness gracious! -- is a great ball of fire.

I refer, of course, to Jerry Lee Zezima.

With apologies to The Killer, Jerry Lee Lewis, who may indeed kill me if he ever finds out, I earned the name when I performed a flawless glissando in the last of the five piano lessons I took recently at Steinway & Sons in Melville, N.Y.

The crash course, “Learn to Play the EZ Way,” was developed and taught by Vince Warren, a talented musician (he also plays guitar, dulcimer and other stringed instruments) who works for Steinway.

As it said in a brochure for the class, “If your goal is to play Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 3 at Carnegie Hall, this class will not get you there. However, if you would like to play popular music, jazz standards, etc., with very little commitment on your part, then this class is for you. No musical experience necessary!”

I’ve always known that the best way to get to Carnegie Hall is, of course, by taxi. You also have to practice. And be able to spell “Rachmaninoff.”

It was the part about very little commitment and no musical experience that sold me. After all, I had never played the piano, have never owned one and couldn’t even bang out “Chopsticks” or the Piano Concerto No. 3.

Still, I’ve always wanted to shoot the keys like Victor Borge, Chico Marx and, above all, Jerry Lee Lewis. So I signed up because the piano, despite being difficult to play in a marching band, is my favorite instrument.

“It’s mine, too,” Vince said at the beginning of the first lesson. “And it’s the most well-thought-out instrument. Notes you can learn to play quickly on the piano would take you months to learn on the trumpet.”

That was good news to me and my two classmates, Marguerite and Joe, a very nice married couple who drew inspiration from the fact that Vince never took formal piano lessons as a kid. Because of his teaching method, we wouldn’t have to take them as adults.

Like me, Joe had never played the piano, but he turned out to have a good ear for music. Or, as I told him, “two good ears.” Marguerite had played before on an old family piano. I was at a disadvantage because (a) I have a bad ear for music and (b) I didn’t have access to a piano to practice on.

“Don’t worry,” said Vince. “I’ll have you playing in no time.”

He wasn’t kidding. By the end of the first lesson (and helped by key guides, or “cheaters,” which line up with the piano keys), I was playing “Ode to Joy,” which unfortunately went for naught because Joy wasn’t in the class.

“Like you, Beethoven didn’t have a piano,” Vince told me. “There’s hope.”

I didn’t think so because Vince said that the key to music is math, which was my worst subject in school, if you don’t count all the others.

Amazingly, I got an A (the key of A) in Vince’s class, which costs $89.95 (email: vwarren@steinway.com).

Using a songbook titled “Favorite Songs With 3 Chords,” we also played “Amazing Grace” (she wasn’t in the class, either) and “Londonderry Air” (which sounds like the backside of an Englishman but is actually “Danny Boy”).

The third of the five weekly sessions was a one-on-one with Vince, who told me I was doing well despite not having a piano to practice on.

Marguerite, Joe and I learned rhythmic values, rolled chords and, in the final class, glissandos, which are finger glides down the keys from one pitch to another.

When I performed mine, Vince exulted, “Jerry Lee is in the house!”

I may not be another Killer, but there was a whole lotta shakin’ goin’ on.

Copyright 2012 by Jerry Zezima

"Taken Aback"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

I threw my back out, but the garbageman wouldn’t take it. I don’t blame him. When it comes to sore backs, I bow to no man. And if I tried, I wouldn’t be able to straighten up.

That’s what happened recently when I bent over (and not even backward) in an effort to be useful around the house. I’d just had lunch and figured I would be a good guy and do the dishes. So I opened the cabinet under the sink to get some dishwashing liquid. As I reached for it, I felt something -- possibly the insertion of a hot fireplace poker -- in my lower back.

I tried to stand erect but remained at a 45-degree angle, which I know was correct because I had haunting flashbacks to my high school geometry class. When I finally stood up straight, my throat emitted a blast not unlike that of a foghorn, which was appropriate since I’m usually in a fog.

Thus began a stretch in which I couldn’t stretch -- or sit, or stand, or walk -- without experiencing the kind of pain normally associated with childbirth or having the mortgage payment extracted from your checkbook without Novocain.

So I saw a chiropractor.

“You overstepped your kindness,” said Dr. Gary DiBenedetto of North Shore Chiropractic in Port Jefferson Station, N.Y. “This is what happens when you try to be useful around the house.”

DiBenedetto should know: He once threw his back out trying to repair his car.

“I was wrestling with some rusted bolts,” he recalled. “I got up and felt like my spine had been ripped out.”

“I’m rusty myself,” I said, “so I let a mechanic work on my car.”

DiBenedetto also remembered the time he hurt his back by jumping off the top of a mountain.

“I went to Haiti with my son on a relief mission after the 2010 earthquake,” he said. “We walked through the jungle with our volunteer group on something called the Waterfall Challenge and came to a rock ledge. It was a 30-foot drop into a waterfall. My son, who was 15 at the time, kept saying, ‘Go, Dad, go!’ So I jumped, but not straight. My butt hit the water. You don’t realize how hard water is until you land on it. I blew out my back. Here’s my professional advice: Never jump into a waterfall.”

In his 22 years in practice, DiBenedetto, 45, has heard it all.

“One guy hesitated before telling me that he hurt his back when he was in an unusual position with his wife,” he related. “I said, ‘I don’t need to know the details, but now you know what not to do next time.’ I see some crazy stuff.”

Bending over to get dishwashing liquid ranks right up there, said DiBenedetto, who put me on an adjustable table and gave me an exam.

“You have a ridge on your left side that’s higher than the right, which makes one leg shorter than the other,” he said. “That can put stress on your lower back.”

“I think the only thing that works for back pain is beer,” I said.

“Alcohol is a muscle relaxant, so you may be right,” said DiBenedetto, adding that only about 20 percent of his patients have back problems. “Many people have neck pain,” he said.

“I’m a pain in everyone’s neck,” I noted.

“I can see that,” the good doctor said with a smile. “Nerves also give people trouble, so I guess you have a lot of nerve coming here.”

Because my back felt better the day of my appointment, DiBenedetto didn’t crack it. But he did give me a brief education in chiropractic medicine. I came away from my first visit to a chiropractor with great respect for the profession.

“If you get hurt doing the dishes again, I’ll be here,” DiBenedetto said.

“Thanks, doc,” I replied. “It’s good to know you’ve got my back.”

Copyright 2012 by Jerry Zezima

"A Bunny's Garden of Eatin' "

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

A wascally wabbit is wavaging my wife’s stwaberry patch.

Sorry, it must be all those Bugs Bunny cartoons I watched as a kid. What I meant to say is that a rascally rabbit is ravaging my wife’s strawberry patch.

The strawberries are the prizes in the various gardens that my wife, Sue, has planted around the house.

She would never let me plant a garden because I have a green thumb. I think it’s a fungus. I really ought to see a doctor.

In the 14 years we have lived in our house, I have killed virtually every form of flora I have encountered. It’s a good thing I don’t know anyone named Flora or I’d be in jail right now.

I once had my own herb garden in which I grew parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. (I apologize if you can’t get the song out of your head.) Herb, Sage and Rosemary had a menage a twine, which I used to tie up the tomato plants in the adjacent vegetable garden. It was pretty kinky. My deadly touch tragically put an end to their love nest.

The only thing I couldn’t kill was a humongous butterfly bush that grew about 12 feet tall and threatened to engulf the side of the house. Sue wanted me to remove it (the bush, not the side of the house), but my pathetic little handsaw had about as much effect as a plastic knife would have on a giant sequoia. So I had it chopped down by a landscaper whose name wasn’t Paul Bunyan but should have been. I played the role of Babe, not because I’m as strong as an ox but because I’m as dumb as one.

It was, therefore, a pretty risky proposition when I recently asked Sue if she needed help planting flowers. Maybe it’s because she had been out in the sun too long, but she kindly accepted.

“My Gerber daisies are doing very well,” she noted as we began our work.

“Gerber? You mean like the baby food?” I wondered. “You must have bought them in a nursery.”

I could tell that Sue regretted accepting my offer, but it was too late to do anything about it.

“I want to plant these flowers,” she said, indicating the flats on the patio, “so you have to dig some holes in the bed.”

“How will we get to sleep?” I asked.

Sue gave me a look that explained why the flowers are called impatiens.

I dutifully dug, but the holes weren’t deep enough, so Sue took the trowel and showed me the right way to do it. “You can just hand me the flowers,” she said. “I don’t want you to kill them.”

One thing that Sue trusts me to do is the watering. It is often my job to provide liquid nourishment not only for her flowers and herbs but for the strawberries in the side yard. They are sweet and succulent. Unfortunately, the rabbit thinks so, too.

“That bunny is eating all my strawberries,” Sue lamented. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Why don’t you put up a sign saying, ‘Silly rabbit, strawberries are for people’?” I suggested.

“Silly man,” Sue responded, “rabbits can’t read.”

Most mornings, when I am heading off to work, the rabbit will be sitting in the front yard, twitching its nose. Then it will look at me like I have two heads. Or one head with two very short ears.

One day I said, “Our friends have a pet rabbit named Stew.”

The bunny hopped away.

But it didn’t stay away for long. It came back later that evening, presumably for a strawberry dinner. Sue and I have actually grown fond of the little critter, so we don’t really mind sharing our bounty.

It’s a good thing I’m not responsible for the strawberry patch. The poor rabbit would starve.

Copyright 2012 by Jerry Zezima

"A Timeless Tale"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

I was born more than three weeks past my due date and haven’t been on time for anything since. I don’t even wear a watch because I don’t care what time it is.

So I was delighted recently to meet a woman who feels the same way. She works in a watch store.

“Before I got a job here about two years ago, I hadn’t worn a watch since 1989,” said Brenda, a sales professional at a Tourneau shop where I had gone with my wife, Sue, who needed a slight adjustment on her otherwise steady and stylish timepiece.

“I’ve had only one watch in my life,” I told Brenda. “It was one of those digital things. You needed two hands to tell the time.”

“And the hands weren’t on the watch,” she said helpfully.

“Right,” I replied. “Anyway, our place was burglarized many years ago. The crooks made off with my wife’s watch, but they left mine behind. It wasn’t even good enough for thieves. I was so insulted that I haven’t worn a watch since.”

“How do you know what time it is?” Brenda asked.

“I ask my wife,” I answered.

“I found myself having to ask people what time it was,” Brenda said. “More often than not, they were wearing watches that didn’t have the right time.”

“So you were always late?” I inquired.

“Yes,” said Brenda. “I was notorious for it. At family gatherings, my relatives would place bets to see what time I would arrive.”

“My family says I’ll be late to my own funeral,” I said.

“What do you tell them?” Brenda wondered.

“I’m in no big hurry to get there,” I said.

“Is this true?” Brenda asked Sue.

“Yes,” Sue said. “He’s always late.”

“From the day I was born,” I said, “I’ve been the late Jerry Zezima.”

“I’m more punctual now,” said Brenda. “It makes good sense to be on time when you work in a watch store.”

Brenda’s watch, which said 2:47 p.m., because that was the time, was like Sue’s, a nice but not extravagant timepiece that looked good on her wrist. It was similar to the watch in the large photo on the wall. That one said 10:10.

“It’s always 10 after 10 in a watch store,” Brenda explained. “It’s the same time in newspaper and magazine ads. It’s where you are supposed to put your hands on the steering wheel when you drive.”

“What happens in the spring and fall when the time changes?” I asked.

“You make a wrong turn,” said Brenda.

“You know the old saying: Even a broken watch is right twice a day,” I told Brenda, who gave me a candy watch.

“I give these to little kids when they come in with their parents,” she said.

“It says 5 minutes to 8,” I noted.

“It’s not good at keeping time,” Brenda said. “But at least it’s edible. And it’s free.”

That’s more than she could say for the other watches in the store, the most expensive of which were Rolexes.

“They start at $5,000,” Brenda said. “It depends on how much bling you want. They’re made of precious metals. You can get a platinum watch for just shy of $60,000.”

“That’s the cost of two cars,” Sue said.

“True,” said Brenda. “But you’d never keep a Rolex in the garage.”

A good, reliable, more reasonably priced watch costs about $300, Brenda said, adding: “A watch is good for your self-esteem. You have the ease of knowing what time it is instead of having to ask.”

I didn’t buy a watch, but I told Brenda I’d think about it and come back.

“If you get one,” she said, “you’ll never be late again.”

Sue looked at me and said, “It’s about time.”

Copyright 2012 by Jerry Zezima

"Batter Up!"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

I don’t like to brag about my athletic prowess, mainly because I don’t have any, but I must say that I was a pretty good baseball player in my day. Unfortunately, that day was June 4, 1965, when I got a double in a Little League game. It was the highlight of an otherwise unremarkable career.

I never did realize my dream of making it to the big leagues and becoming the all-time home run champion. And now I know why: I didn’t wear jasmine-scented wristbands.

They’re better than steroids because they’re safe, they’re legal and they don’t have to be injected into your butt. And they were developed by my favorite mad scientist, Dr. Alan Hirsch, the founder and neurological director of the Smell & Taste Treatment and Research Foundation in Chicago.

In his latest study, “The Effects of Aroma of Jasmine on Major League Baseball Players,” Hirsch worked with the Chicago White Sox before a game last August. Six players in a batting cage alternated sniffing regular cotton wristbands and those that smelled of jasmine.

“They were independently assessed regarding the mechanics of their swings, including trajectory, ball flight, bat speed and bat swing zone,” Hirsch said in the study. “Compared to the no-odor trials, jasmine significantly improved all batting parameters.”

Seeing this as a chance to restart my baseball career, I called Hirsch to discuss strategy. But first I wanted to know why this Cubs fan chose to study his team’s cross-town rivals.

“I’m not sure anything would work with the Cubs,” said Hirsch, noting that they haven’t won the World Series since 1908. “At least the White Sox have potential.”

He’s right: The Sox are enjoying the sweet smell of success; the Cubs stink.

As for the study, Hirsch found that the scent of jasmine is relaxing, which helps calm players and improve hand-eye coordination.

“I didn’t think they should come to bat wearing scented masks, so we used the wristbands,” said Hirsch, adding that he doesn’t believe the bands have been used in games. “I suppose a team could have jasmine air fresheners in the dugout. And I can see a player with the sniffles being put on the disabled list.”

“I’ve been on the disabled list since Little League,” I said. “Do you think a jasmine wristband could help me make it to the majors?”

“Maybe with the Cubs,” said Hirsch, who mailed me a scented wristband.

Immediately after receiving it, I called Winner’s Edge Sports Training, an indoor facility in Huntington Station, N.Y., and scheduled a session in the batting cage with instructor Chad Ross.

“Most of our students are 8 or 9 years old, so you definitely are the oldest one we’ve ever had,” said Ross, 27, who has been playing baseball since he was 4. He was a hitting scout at Farmingdale State College and plays in an adult recreational league.

At first, Ross had me hit baseballs off a tee. Some of them went as far as three feet. Then he worked on my stance and the mechanics of my swing. After that, he pitched beach balls to me. I actually hit some.

Finally, the real test: Batting practice with baseballs tossed by Ross.

I put on a regular cotton wristband and sniffed it. Then I got in my stance and waited for the first pitch. I missed it. I missed two more, fouled one off and hit one past Ross.

“You were one for five,” he said.

Next, I put on my jasmine-scented wristband and sniffed it before each of Ross’ five pitches. I clobbered all of them.

“That’s incredible!” Ross exclaimed. “Those things really work.”

“They helped me feel more comfortable at the plate,” I explained.

“I could see that because you had a more natural swing than you did before,” said Ross, adding that the jasmine scent is very relaxing. “I might use one of those wristbands myself. Then we could both make it to the majors.”

“If,” I said, “you don’t mind playing for the Cubs.”

Copyright 2012 by Jerry Zezima

"Blowing Hot and Cold"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

Most people who work in modern office buildings are convinced there is no such thing as climate control. I believe otherwise. Here’s why: When it’s 92 degrees outside, it’s 52 inside. Add them up and divide by two and that’s how you get an average temperature of 72 degrees.

Still, I have told my wife that I don’t have to change my seasonal wardrobe -- put winter clothes away in the spring and take out summer ones, put summer clothes away in the fall and take out winter ones -- because you never know what the temperature is going to be in the office.

Instead, I suggest that you take a suitcase to work every day so you can change clothes if it’s either too hot or too cold.

To warm up to the subject, I recently spoke with a cool guy, Steve Zimmerman, director of engineering services in the building where I work.

“We do get our fair share of complaints about the temperature,” said Steve, who was wearing a long-sleeve shirt and a tie (and, of course, pants) even though it was a hot day.

“Actually, I think it’s pretty comfortable in here today,” I said, dressed in a sweatshirt (it was “casual Friday,” even if Steve wasn’t observing it) with a T-shirt underneath and a pair of jeans. I had also brought a windbreaker in case the wind in the office broke the record for the low temperature on that date. (Office conditions are not monitored by the National Weather Service, but they should be.)

Regulating the temperature in the building, which is half a million square feet, is “a big challenge,” Steve said, adding: “We have three air compressors on the roof. And we have chillers in the basement. They have a series of pipes that blow air over the coils. There’s a lot of wear and tear on the equipment. We try to keep it comfortable, but you can’t please everybody. Some people say they’re too hot; others say they’re freezing. It’s a constant battle.”

It’s also a battle at home, said Steve, who doesn’t have central air-conditioning.

“I recently put air conditioners in the windows,” he said.

“I put one in the bedroom because it gets too hot up there,” I said.

“My wife is always hot,” said Steve. “She’ll open the window in February. I’ll have five blankets on and she’ll be on top of the sheet.”

“Have you told her that you shouldn’t have to change your seasonal wardrobe?” I asked.

“If I had the space I would,” said Steve, adding that he boxes his clothes for the appropriate season.

“But you’re wearing a shirt and tie today,” I noted.

“I have to dress professionally no matter what the temperature is,” Steve explained.

In the summer, the temperature in the office can be so cold that the place feels like a meat locker.

“Maybe,” I suggested, “we can hang sides of beef in here and use them as punching bags, like Sylvester Stallone did in the first ‘Rocky’ movie. It would be a good way to keep in shape.”

“It might also make somebody want to punch you,” Steve said.

“Good point,” I replied.

In the winter, the temperature in the office can be so hot that the place feels like a sauna.

“Maybe,” I suggested, “we can make it like a real sauna on casual Fridays and wear towels.”

“If yours fell off, you might not have a job anymore,” Steve said.

“Another good point,” I replied.

I gained new respect for Steve and all the other people who, through broiling heat and bone-chilling cold, try to keep the temperature comfortable in office buildings across the land.

Now, if you will excuse me, I have to pack a suitcase for work.

Copyright 2012 by Jerry Zezima

"You'll Die Laughing"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

I am wanted -- dead or alive. And it’s not the cops who are looking for me, though they probably have good reason. The guy who wants me -- in my present condition, if you can call this living, and then after I have gone to the hereafter -- is a funeral director.

I became uncomfortably aware that my business was desired when I started getting brochures in the mail from Moloney Family Funeral Homes Inc., which has half a dozen locations on Long Island, N.Y., where I live (for the time being, anyway).

“We guarantee you will be satisfied,” it said in one of the brochures.

My immediate reaction was: “How will I know I’m satisfied if I’m not here?”

To find out, I went to the Moloney funeral home in Port Jefferson Station and spoke with co-owner Peter Moloney, whose grandfather James Moloney founded the business in 1935.

“Have you been talking with my doctor?” I asked Peter. “If so, I want a second opinion.”

“No,” he said. “But we do market research. You must be on our mailing list because you’re over 50.”

“Baby boomers are living longer these days,” I noted, adding that I’m 58. “You may have to wait a long time to get business from me.”

“That’s OK,” replied Peter, who’s 47. “But the older we get, the more we have these occurrences. I always kid my doctor friends. I say, ‘I bury your mistakes.’ One doctor didn’t like that. His wife had to come between us. Sometimes people are too serious. You have to be able to laugh at yourself a little.”

That goes for Peter, who is often the butt of jokes when he addresses senior groups. He told me, “I’ve been introduced by the president of the club, who will say, ‘Guess who we have with us today. A funeral director!’ And the members will go, ‘Oh, come on!’ I’ll say, ‘You really don’t like me, do you?’ And they’ll say, ‘No, we don’t like you.’ It goes with the territory. But we always end up having some laughs.”

The laughs began when Peter and his seven siblings were young and lived above one of the funeral homes. Their father, Dan Moloney, who had taken over the business, would tell the kids not to make noise while a wake was going on.

“He’d tell us to stop running around,” Peter remembered. “After calling hours, we’d go downstairs. My father would say, ‘Who’s touching the hands?’ He was talking about the deceased. Of course, we would deny it.”

When Dan Moloney died, in 2001, Peter recalled, “We had a Jesse James carriage drawn by two white horses and paraded him all over Ronkonkoma. He once told me, ‘Spend as much as you can on my funeral. And get a third limo for all my girlfriends.’ He was a character.”

Peter, a chip off the old block, said he told his wife, “I want my funeral at 4 in the morning so I can inconvenience everybody one last time.”

He doesn’t think he’ll have a horse-drawn carriage, but a customer could order one. “We’ve had motorcycle funerals,” Peter said. “We’ve also had slot machines at the funeral home at the request of people who liked to gamble. One guy who loved to buy ice cream for his grandchildren wanted an ice cream truck. We had it in the parking lot so everyone could have ice cream.”

“Here’s my wish,” I said. “I’d like an open casket, but I want my feet showing so everybody could say how good I looked.”

“OK,” said Peter, who recalled the “cantankerous little old lady” who was insulted when she received a brochure in the mail. “I told her, ‘If you use Moloney’s, you’ll make it to heaven a little faster.’ She laughed like hell and made an appointment.” 

When I told Peter I plan to be buried in my hometown of Stamford, Conn., he said, “We’ll ship you up there.” But, he added, not in a horse-drawn carriage.

“You’d get a ticket on the Long Island Expressway,” Peter said.

I smiled and replied, “Over my dead body.”

Copyright 2012 by Jerry Zezima