Don, The Ungrateful Jesus

It was a Halloween party where everyone was dressed in all kinds of exotic costumes. There were scarecrows, ghosts, witches, political figures, men dressed as women, and one guy dressed as Jesus. His name was Don. Don had white sheets draped over his body to make it look like the flowing tattered rags Jesus might have worn during his heyday. The whole outfit was complimented by Don's already scraggly beard, a pair of leather sandals, and his hairy legs poking out from under the sheets. Don is no woodworker, but for dramatic effect, he carried a crudely made six-foot tall wooden cross in one hand.

My costume was simple: a tea bag. This had nothing to do with the bee-headed political fringe group; it was a home-made costume comprised of thin white interfacing material filled with dried leaves to simulate tea. It's worn like a sandwich board. And I attached a stop-sign-looking piece of cardboard with the word "LIPTOP" printed on it. I could have used the word "Lipton," but wanted to avoid any copyright infringement litigation from the corporate bigwigs at the Lipton Tea Company.

The party was held in one of those hipster lofts where the owner is knowledgeable of trends that few of us know are even trends. I was glad it was a costume party, as I'm sure whatever else I decided to wear would not be considered even remotely current. This was pointed out by a woman sporting wooden clothespins clipped to her hair. She casually remarked how her father had some jeans just like the ones I was wearing under my tea bag. Then she said the clothespins were not part of her costume, but rather her everyday hairstyle. I resisted telling her that my long-departed grandmother used the very same clothespins to hang out her underwear in the backyard. Instead, in a desperate attempt to appear contemporary, I inquired about the possibility of a Bananarama reunion tour.

The loft was decorated with black and orange crepe paper and candles. Candles like you wouldn't believe; candles all over the place. The shadows bounced off the walls and gave the place a genuine creepy feel, just right for Halloween. Those hipsters know how to decorate. There was a long buffet table with a variety of foods, some of which were unfamiliar, so I played it safe with potato chips and the recognizable dips. I stayed around the buffet table, casually moving in for an occasional swipe of dip. This was a technique I adopted years ago, to appear busy when, really, no one was finding me particularly fascinating.

Don was also hanging around the buffet table, trying to nonchalantly emulate my dipping technique. But instead of making a graceful pass at the table, he chose to hover, creating a general nuisance for anyone else attempting to access the food. At one point, he hovered a little too close to one of those squatty candles on the table, and his sheets caught on fire. A woman screamed, "Jesus is on fire!" And people began stumbling over each other in an attempt to get away from the table.

I'm probably the last one people would run to in case of an emergency, but I make an effort to live by the "What Would Andy Do" code (Andy Griffith from Mayberry. Whenever there's a decision or crisis, Andy is my moral compass). The hipsters scattered, and there was Don, stunned like a statue; flames creeping up the front of his costume. I threw a glass of red wine at Don's navel, but it didn't put the fire out, so I grabbed him, hugged him tightly and we both fell to the floor. His cross went flying across the room and there I was, a tea bag, flopping around on top of Jesus, smothering the flames. If a headline was written about it, it would have read "Tea Bag Saves Jesus."

The fire was extinguished, and someone helped Don to his feet. Aside from a singed beard, he was not hurt. The sheets covering his chest and the front of my tea bag had big holes burned in them. Soon, the party resumed its cadence and Don wore his burnt sheets like some sort of badge. He became the center of attention and, using dramatic gestures, went on to explain to anyone who asked, his version of the incident. There were jokes made about the red wine stain and the miracle of his rising from the ashes. He went from table-hoverer to party-butterfly in a matter of minutes.

Don was too busy with his new-found celebrity to notice, but I maintained my place in the shadows, making only an occasional graceful swipe at the dip. I couldn't help but think that the real Jesus would have taken a moment out from his grandstanding to say, "Thank you, Tea Bag, for saving me from a burning hell." I know Andy would have at least mentioned it.

Pia Zadora Film Festival

The Pia Zadora film festival is coming up very soon. Hard to believe that a year has gone by since the last one. Being that I am an official Pia Zadora fan club associate in the Illinois chapter, number TWO, I'll be attending the festival. The Illinois chapter, number one, was disbanded due to accounting improprieties, which is why I stress number TWO. The Pia Zadora fan club number TWO is, and will be, free of the scandals that rocked the other fan club, of which I am no longer affiliated. Any former member of number one can register with number TWO and receive a t-shirt and hat indicating their new affiliation.

The new hats are very tasteful; the black sequined logo simply says: PZ TWO. Again, it's a red baseball hat trimmed with the signature black piping, just like last year's hat, so anyone who knows anything will know immediately what the hat represents. Every effort has been made to assure a seamless transition while remaining faithful to the club's colors, red and black and still remain respectful to the legacy of Pia.

The evening will be chocked full of Miss Zadora's films, and memorabilia will be available for sale. There is a very large quantity of the rendering of "Pia on a Butterfly," painted by Mr. Larry, the artist who wears a beret, even to the store. Also, from last year, I still have the gingerbread cookies in Pia's likeness. It hasn't been determined whether they're edible, but they could be shellacked and used as keepsakes or wall hangings. As always, for an effervescent snack, there will be Pia's favorite pretzel-laden party-mix and a fizzy fruit punch.

In keeping with tradition, Borden Binkley will be on hand to read from his provocative "Adventures with Pia" anthology. He extends his sincere apologies for breaking into sobs during last year's reading of the very heart-breaking story, "Pia at the Homeless Shelter." It truly was a moving tale that saddened everyone. This year, however, Borden promises to control his emotional outbursts while reading a more upbeat adventure entitled "Smoke-Jumping with Pia." We all look forward to this exciting installment in his "Adventures with Pia" series.

Iris Fancher will enlighten us with her report on her committee's efforts to get the PEZ corporation to issue a PEZ dispenser in Pia's likeness. Most everyone agrees this is a natural evolution, especially if we can persuade Miss Zadora to change her middle name from, as we all know, Alfreda, to Electra, making her initials P.E.Z., a shoe-in for the possibility of a PEZ dispenser in her honor.

Unfortunately, Miss Zadora will be unable to attend this year's festivities. Her phone number, which all PZ associates shared, and promised not to use after midnight unless absolutely necessary, has been disconnected, and efforts to reach her have been unsuccessful.

Let's hope that, as in years past, the frenzied pace of the Pia Zadora Film Festival whisks everyone into an orbit that returns, like the special planet it has become, year after year.

One More Cookie

Every fall, the people across the street have a harvest party. It's an outdoor party that lasts well into the night and often spills onto my front lawn. The party-throwers disapprove of my Pia Zadora affiliation, so I suspect my invitation is for the use of my property. People make, bake, and bring all kinds of food which is carefully presented on card tables of various sizes. And the always-aproned Mardell Harp, who could give Martha Stewart a run for her money, shows up with a heaping mound of her legendary chocolate chip cookies. She guarantees a chip in every bite.

Aside from the cookies, a big reason for attending the party is to hear the smooth sounds of Valerie Dunk and her husband, Stuart. Valerie sings while Stuart accompanies her on a nylon stringed guitar. They are a couple of classically trained Mods who live at the end of the block and perform the same five songs every year. Their harvest party repertoire is just enough to leave an audience wanting more:

--These Boots Are Made for Walkin'
--Have You Never Been Mellow
--Do Ya Think I'm Sexy
--Blame it on the Bossa Nova
--Let's Get Physical

Sometimes they change the order, but their encore is always "Let's Get Physical." There are no upsetting surprises with the Dunks. It's comforting to know some things remain constant, like Valerie and Stuart and the L.L. Bean catalog.

The unpolished Patty Tater is always at the party, fishing for crumbs of information. Keeping an oar's-length away from her is often the only way to curb her mismannered gossip. When she sidled up to me at the cookie table, the prying began. She started by talking about the unusually large number of chipmunks seen scurrying about this fall, and asked what precautions I take to avoid running over them with my bike. So I revealed my technique, which is "bark and swerve." When a chipmunk darts out in front of me, I bark like a dog and swerve at the same time. There is no telling how many chipmunk lives have been saved by the bark and swerve principle.

That bit of information satisfied her craving for what she calls "news," and she quickly hurried away to inform others of her treasure. Throughout the evening she delighted several guests by occasionally pointing at me and announcing, in her cackle-voiced-fashion, loud enough so everyone could hear, "Hey there, Bark and Swerve."

After the third person called me Bark and Swerve, I went home, hoping my disappearance would give the name a chance to dissipate and not become a permanent moniker. Then around 1:00 am, while watching an episode of My Friend Flicka, I got to thinking that I'd like one more of Mardell's chocolate chip cookies. I peeked out my front window and could see the enticingly displayed treats. They were on a table, right near the entrance to the commotion. Not wanting to be recognized, I donned a baseball cap and put a belt around my pajamas (the ones with the red peppers) and silently eased back onto the fringes of the party and grabbed a cookie.

And just as I turned to leave, I heard a woman's voice say, "That guy's got a lotta nerve!" though it could have been, "There goes Bark and Swerve!" I'm not sure which one it was; I just kept on going. Either way, I was seen returning to the party for one last cookie, and I'm not certain how offensive this act may be. No one has mentioned it, but I sense that it was the wrong thing to do. This cookie may have cost me an invitation to next year's party, which will have far reaching impacts, such as missing Mardell's baking and the smooth sounds of Valerie and Stuart Dunk.

I think I've learned my lesson: always pack a spare cookie for the ride home, even if the ride is just across the street. I'm working on an apology note to which I will attach a patch-up cookie from Schmagel's, the bakery that thoughtful people use for forgiveness.

Beer Can Bra

They have an inventor's fair every year at The Holiday Inn, right across the street from Jack's Diner, just a half-mile off the interstate. On the day of the fair, Jack's is pretty crowded as, apparently, inventing makes a person hungry for sausages and pancakes. Jack says his biggest seller is pigs-in-a-blanket and when the waitresses shout the order into the kitchen, they yell "cozy pigs," which is code for "pigs in a blanket." The regulars all know this and, in a very nonchalant tone, order cozy pigs. This differentiates them from the out-of-towners who aren't aware of the secret code and order pigs-in-a-blanket, not knowing they've just revealed a piece of themselves.

A guy next to me at the counter ordered pigs in a blanket, letting me and everyone within earshot know that he's one of the conventioneers. Then, less than a minute later, he began telling me about his invention, the Beer Can Bra . It's just what it sounds like, a bra made from beer cans. He cobbles them together in his garage. I didn't know this, but according to him, this is the latest thing in recycling, a trend he is spearheading from his van. His full name is William McMoody, and it's William, not Bill. My attempt to be chummy and call him Bill set our relationship back a mostly silent, twelve minutes, peppered by a couple of surly reminders that not even his four ex-wives called him Bill. I put aside the thought of trying out Mac, for fear of a complete breakdown in communication. I suspect he lives up to the moody part of his last name.

After breakfast, my new friend escorted me out to the parking lot to see his wares. The outward appearance of William's rust-pitted Econoline gave no indication that it's owner was about to turn the world of fashion upside down, a really clever disguise that's probably kept curiosity seekers and what William calls "idea stealers" at a distance. He swung open the rear doors and a few empty beer cans rolled out and dropped to the pavement, and after rummaging around in a sea of empties, he emerged with one of his prototypes (that's what the industry calls a practice model). It was a bra, alright, made entirely of precisely-cut Pabst Blue Ribbon cans. The red, white, and blue Pabst logos gave the garment a sort of festive feel.

William is confident the Beer Can Bra will be a big hit with the environmental crowd as long as they don't lie to him about the cup size when ordering. He takes pride in his knowledge of what he calls "the female propensity for vanity," and says they always exaggerate the cup size to impress him. This results in an ill-fitting bra which, in the long run, doesn't benefit anyone. The beauty of the Beer Can Bra, aside from saving valuable natural resources, is that it can double as casual wear; that's how good it looks. One thing, though, the bra comes with a disclaimer stating that it should not be worn to the beach on a sunny day as the aluminum absorbs heat from the sun and can cause serious discomfort. It's OK, though, to wear to the beach on a cloudy day. That is clearly printed on the sales tag as a courtesy to the user.

Here's some other features that are highlighted in the sales flyer:
--On cold winter mornings, the Beer Can Bra can be gently heated with a hair dryer before wearing, making hopping into the bra a cozy experience.
--The bra is very durable and requires only an occasional rinsing and should be left to drip dry. It shouldn't be put in the dryer as this causes unnecessary denting, resulting in a hammered look, suitable only for day wear at the Renaissance Fair.

Perhaps the most unique sales feature is William's personalized warranty. He maintains that for one full year after the purchase date, he (or a qualified technician) will show up anywhere, anytime with his toolbox and make any necessary adjustments. In fact, he offered me a job as a Beer Can Bra tech-trainee, with the possibility of one day becoming a full-fledged tech, handling service calls for the entire Chicago metropolitan area.

I think this guy is onto something, not like the kook at last year's inventor's fair who sold me the Do-It-Yourself Radar Scrambler which was nothing more than a cigar box with little balls of tinfoil rolling around inside, which did not work. The Velcro strips on my dashboard are a constant reminder of the embarrassment the device caused when I presented it to the judge in traffic court. Aside from its unreliability, it is not even a good defense.

For an added hand-wrought touch, William says he personally consumes almost all of the beer in the cans he uses for the manufacturing of his product. He's a real craftsman and stresses that the cans not be dented. If a customer prefers a certain brand, they can donate a six-pack to him and he will take great care while drinking the beverage and use the empties for their personalized foundation garment. It's entirely possible William McMoody may be the next Calvin Klein, and I'm just lucky enough to call him my friend.

William's van is currently parked out in back of my garage until he can track down a certain hard-to-find part for the transmission. For the moment, the van only drives in reverse.

Swedish Profiling

"Vikings Strike Fear Again." That was the headline in our local newspaper, accompanied by an ample-sized photo of students wearing fake steel helmets with plastic cattle horns protruding from the sides. This costumery is, I assume, a larkish attempt to depict a Viking, the mascot of Niles North High School. The foolish, hurtful, mockery sits heavy on the hearts of Scandinavian people. People of Swedish descent, like myself, are not ruthless warriors to be feared. It's wearisome being portrayed in such a fashion and adds to the burden of being a Swedish person in a country full of Swede-loathers. All too often, I've witnessed women clutching their purses to their sides and crossing the street when they see me walking towards them. It's quite apparent what they're thinking: "Oh my word, here's one of those fearsome Viking warriors, I'd better scurry away." And who can blame them; it's not their fault, what with being barraged by the popular media portraying us as uncivilized pillagers.

It's a wonder how the Swedish bakeries in Andersonville, Chicago's old Swedish neighborhood, stay in business with all the scurrilous imagery heaped upon them. The other day, while trying to quickly eat some Swedish pancakes at Ann Sather's restaurant, I spilled lingonberries all over myself, and then, so as not to draw attention to my Swedish condiment, I exclaimed out loud, "Darn, these RASPberries are slippery!"

Quite often I ponder pretending to be full-blooded Swiss, just so people won't judge me by preconceived, stereotyped notions. Actually, I'm half Swiss, half Swedish, a half-breed, just like that Cher song. But its been a long time since I've let that cat out of the bag. Since high school, in fact. I was a proud member of my high school Swiss club until the day I wore my lederhosen to English class, and the perfectly-coiffed Shari Silverman wondered out loud why a herd of goats wasn't following me and why I didn't yodel and play the accordion. She got a big laugh at my expense. For the remainder of high school, it was jeans and a leather jacket and the refuge of a crowd that Shari Silverman wouldn't dare approach. The lederhosen remain tucked away in the back of my dresser drawer, and I've been all-Swedish ever since.

Another unsettling nettle is the police. As much as I'd like to think the police are fair-minded, they have far too much discretionary power, and it's plain as day what's really happening when I get pulled over for a traffic stop: Swedish profiling. It happens so often that I've come to expect it, even on my bicycle, with the officer offering the trumped-up excuse that there's been a lot of burglaries in the neighborhood. Translation: Swedish profiling. And I know what they're thinking when they're looking at my driver's license and checking my record: "What god does this guy worship, Odin or the regular one."

And its been a wearisome twenty years of apologizing for the ABBA craze (which, really, was entirely out of my hands). Sometimes I entertain the thought of leaving my furry vest and battle sword at home, just to avoid the uncharitable attention and the tiresome explanation that I am not one of the much-feared pillage people.

I like to say, "Don't judge me until you've walked a mile in my clogs."

Tarzan and Tong

Thai Isthmus is a Thai restaurant on Lincoln Avenue in Chicago, and I order carry-out from them about once every week. While waiting for my food, I've come to know Tong, the owner, pretty well. Our relationship is based on roughly two years worth of weekly five minute conversations. Its become a part of my life, so much so that if I miss a week we greet each other with our arms outstretched as if we were attending a reunion of sorts.

Our conversations, though brief, have revealed much about the two of us. Secrets have been told, fears revealed, concerns about family members shared, and opinions aired. It's much like the relationship between a therapist and a patient, only it's free, and neither one of us pretends to be anointed with the spurious power associated with a graduate degree in psychology.

Tong and I have made a pact that our conversations possess the same confidentiality that other professionals have with their clients. We call it the "proprietor-patron confidentiality," and after a thing is said, Tong holds his index finger to his lips (the international sign for quiet, shhh, or, in our case, secret). Tong has told me many things that I would never reveal under any circumstances, and I hope he feels the same way.

Tong's real name is not Tong. It's a nickname he's had his whole life, and he tells me that many Thai people are referred to only by their nickname, especially by close friends like we've become. It's a tradition. Tong suggested that I, too, should have a nickname, something that would foster familiarity between us. After giving the matter much thought, I chose Tarzan, figuring everybody likes Tarzan, and we shook on it. Whenever I place an order over the phone, and he says, "name please," all I have to say is "Tarzan," and he says, "see you in fifteen minutes, Tarzan." Of course I get there early so we can have our much-looked-forward-to chat.

Among the things I've revealed to Tong is the time I pretended to be Jewish in order to take one of the Jewish holidays, Rosh Hashanah, off of work. Dame Edna was appearing at the Cadillac Palace Theatre, and I needed the extra day to appear refreshed for the show. So I made up the innocent lie. Upon returning to my job, in order to add some credibility to my fabrication, I even went so far as to wear a yarmulke for a day or two. And it wasn't really a yarmulke at all, but a commemorative pot holder we picked up at Niagara Falls. I did have the good sense to turn the embroidered waterfall towards my hair, so it appeared plain black to the casual onlooker.

And that's not the half of it. One day, the very sweet and generous Holly Wogstad offered me a pulled-pork sandwich and I turned it down and was met with an embarrassed apology. The charade worked so well that I took Yom Kippur, Sukkot, Hanukkah, and Passover off as well. I did this for two straight years, and nobody batted an eye until one May 5th when Marza Delgado, the Acrobatic Accordionist, was in town. In order to attend the performance, I used Cinco de Mayo as a personal holiday, claiming it was incumbent of my Mexican heritage that I do so. It's not normal to play the accordion in such a risky manner.

When I returned to work, the snoopy Arlene Dibbens, who apparently has the memory of an elephant, inquired as to the paucity of Mexican Jews in Chicago, and how it was such a pleasure to meet someone with such a rich heritage. Then, coupled with her sarcasm, she and the others began referring to me as Hector Bernstein. The mockery soon caught on and I was not only Hector Bernstein, but to some, Rabbi Gomez.

I left that job and have put the embarrassing Hector and the Rabbi behind me, but I've been looking over my shoulder ever since, wondering if the whole incident will somehow catch up to me one day. I know Tong wouldn't reveal the episode to anyone, as he gave me the secret "shhh" sign upon hearing the story. But the other day I got a Pottery Barn catalog in the mail, addressed to Tarzan. So I'm wondering how the Pottery Barn knows that Tarzan is my Thai food-ordering nickname. I'm hoping it's just a coincidence. But when Cinco de Mayo rolls around, if I get any mail addressed to Hector Bernstein or Rabbi Gomez, I'll know there has been a breech somewhere.
Till then, though, Tarzan trust Tong.

The Fabulous Shirt

How long, I wonder, is it before a claim to fame wears off and becomes just a piece of the past to be put to rest. Maybe never. In the 1960's, my friend, Nemo Tooks, played guitar in a band called The Fabulous Cavaliers. It was a fairly good band with a local following. Every weekend, Nemo basked in the limelight, playing his guitar in front of fans (and friends like me who banked on the possibility of assimilating some of Nemo's coolness by mere association). Nemo was a trend setter and owned the first Nehru jacket in the neighborhood. He acquired his name by frequenting the submarine races along the Des Plaines River where he could often be found parked with one girl or another.

One night in 1967, The Fabulous Cavaliers opened for the Strawberry Alarm Clock, a then popular one-hit-wonder. This was at the peak of the Strawberry Alarm Clock's fame, when their hit, "Incense and Peppermints," dominated the airwaves. It was at a warehouse club called The Cellar, and after the show, fans mobbed the Alarm Clock along with The Fabulous Cavaliers as they were leaving the building. Anyway, in the mayhem, Nemo's shirt was ripped from his body. After the "gig" as he liked to call it, I offered my jacket to him, but he gave it back, saying his fans had wanted him shirtless, so that was how he must stay for the remainder of the evening. Later that night, they even let him into Bob's Big Boy ( a restaurant that had one of those "no shirt, no shoes, no service" signs in the foyer) when he explained to the hostess how his shirt had been torn from his back by screaming fans at the show. I never had the heart to tell him, that most likely, the fans mistook him for one of the members of the Strawberry Alarm Clock, because, quite frankly, who knew what those guys looked like anyway.

The Fabulous Cavaliers never achieved any national fame and broke up in 1970, over an argument about chipping in for gas money. The fellas went their separate ways and Nemo eventually carved out a small business that painted lines for parking places in parking lots. He's a good guy, has raised a family, and we're still friends, but whenever we meet new people together, he somehow manages to steer the conversation to the time in 1967 when his shirt was torn off by screaming fans. Very few people remember the Fabulous Cavaliers, but many recall the Strawberry Alarm Clock, and Nemo's torn shirt puts him right there on the same level of remembrance as the Alarm Clock.

I just wonder, is there some 60 year-old woman, possibly now a grandmother, who has a scrapbook with a torn piece of Nemo's shirt taped to one of the pages, labeled "Guitar Player's Shirt, Strawberry Alarm Clock, 1967." If so, then both she and Nemo are content with their memories, no matter how colored they may be.