‘THE SORE MOUTH OF THE CUYAHOGA EATEN BY THE DAWN’*

Monday night, while I was dressing for my date with Fernando, Carl from the Schmooze rang.  Of course I gave him my phone number.  I didn’t know he was nuts.  DooWop Guy shoulda warned me before I went out for the fag.   “Yo!  Bi-polar Guy.  How’s life in the heavily medicated lane?”  We chatted pleasantly enough.  He was intrigued that I am so exotic – I am from distant Philadelphia.  “Your accent is really cute” he mumbled.  Maybe it was the Melaril or some other psychotropic drug.  “I don’t HAVE an accent” I said with my Philly ‘Tude.  Thank God for Ron and Georgia, the Cleveland Browns, the Cavaliers, the Ohio State Buckeyes (I can’t believe I actually said that) and whoever the hell the mayor is of Cleveland.  He asked me out for Saturday night.  I was able to say, truthfully, that I was away for Thanksgiving. 

 

I had a really nice date with Cuban Guy.  I think he may be a keeper.  And no, he has not said ‘You look mar-ve-lous!” to me  … yet. I kinda wish he would; what with that accent and everything.  And of course, I always do.  Look marvelous, I mean.  It just happens.

 

I bid a tearful farewell to Scary Fairy (I’m sure she missed me too).  Scary bet me five bucks that I would meet a guy in Cleveland and not come back on Monday.   The only interesting guy I met was at the airport, and he was from Topeka, which, of course, would not do at all.

 

Cleveland was positively brilliant, even though it was bloody cold and it snowed the whole goddamned time I was there.  My friend Georgia’s grandson, Roy, picked me up at the airport and whisked me to Brunswick, which is a very posh suburb of Cleveland.

 

Ron and Georgia live in what is known on this side of the pond as a ‘McMansion’.  Their house is bigger than some hotels I have stayed in.  In fact, I had a whole wing of the house to myself.  Georgia had made lunch, and then we spent the afternoon just catching up on family news and gossip.  Roy went to pick up his girlfriend so she could meet me, and then Roy’s mom and his sister came over too.  The Zinfy flowed, there was college football on telly, it was great.

 

On Wednesday, Georgia was going to do her Thanksgiving baking and, for some reason, wanted me out of her kitchen.  I offered to help.  Really.  She craftily suggested that Roy and I head for the Pro Football Hall of Fame in Canton, and stay there until it closed.  Not a problem. 

One of my favorite things – and if anyone wants to know what to get me for Christmas – there’s this painting of Chuck Bednarik.  He’s wearing knight’s armour, but in his arm, instead of a mask and plume, he’s holding an Eagles helmet.  As everyone knows, Chuck was the original ‘Sixty Minute Man’.  Note to Cheese Boy:  Don’t get depressed and pout.  Ask Jarvo or Mike to explain it to you.  Anyway, for those of you who are not springing for Louis V. for me this Xmas, a copy of Chuck would work. 

 

In the Inductees Hall, Roy and I touched Tommy McDonald’s bust and took snaps.  Like when the blokes were visiting KofP and I introduced them to Tommy, I took Roy to Tommy’s house when he was staying with us, he got to see all Tommy’s memorabilia from Oklahoma and the Eagles, he tried on the rings, and we took lots of pictures.  Roy said that whenever he sees the commercial on TV for the Hall of Fame (It shows Tommy throwing his bust up in the air and catching it) he can’t believe that he actually met him.  They eventually threw us out because they wanted to close.  “But I want to see ‘Monsters of the Gridiron’ again” I whined through my tears.

 

We got back to Brunswick to discover that Georgia had managed to bake a bunch of pumpkin pies, without any help from me.  On Thanksgiving Day, I was told to take my coffee into the Great Room, and stay out of the way.  Hmph.  I was allowed to set the dining room table for dinner and light the candles.  There were ten of us for dinner, and Georgia made an incredible meal, including First Lady Laura Bush’s Sweet Potato Puree.  She gave me the recipe.  Ha! Ha!  Anybody who laughed (and I know who you are) will be forced to eat gallons of it when I come home to Weybridge and you all throw me a big party.  Because I’m going to make it.  Where do you get sweet potatoes?  Do they come from the ground like jacket ones?

 

Friday was a day of rest and repentance.  We grazed on leftovers in front of the telly in our pjs.  There was lots more college football, of course, and way too much food.

 

 

ROCK & ROLL IS HERE TO STAY

First off, to that person, and you know who you are, enough with sending me MP3s of ‘Fernando’.   I’m not even a big ABBA fan.  It was funny the first five times, then it got old the next ten.  Are they in the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame?  Threats were exchanged about somebody getting an ABBA shirt for Christmas this year anyway.

 

Steve called me on Sunday morning.  “I have bad news” he started off.  “I already know” I told him.  “Hyski O’Roonie McVoutie O’Zoot  died.”  He was gobsmacked.  “How did you hear already?” he asked.  I explained that I religiously read the Sunday Inquirer from front to back on Sunday mornings.  Well, sort of; it’s on-line.   It was one of the headlines.  Obviously, I am not going to read a New York or Jersey paper; I am not remotely interested in what some Puerto Ricans in the Bronx are up to, or what Michael Strahan said about Eli (unless he agrees with me that Eli sucks).

 

For the uncool people across the Pond or not from Philly, Hyski was THE DJ on Wibbage, WIBG.  He and Jerry Blavat defined what was ‘in’ back in the day.  I mentioned to Steve that during my date with South Jersey Guy we had talked about ‘Saturday Night Dance Party’ and about Wagner’s.  Wagner’s was Jerry Blavat’s club and the place to go on Friday nights.  “Did you do the ‘Wagner Stroll’?” he asked.  “Of course, and I still can” I boasted.  I put on ‘Once in a While’ by the Duprees (perfect for the stroll) and demonstrated.   At supper after the Schmooze, Steve kept passing me his mobile to read the tributes to Hi on the DooWop sites.

 

Israeli Guy did not turn up at the Schmooze.  Gail, who is a friend, told me that ‘Moshe is very upset’.  Well, yeah.  I guess so.  He was weighed in the balance and found wanting, and I dumped him.  I don’t know if I mentioned that last phone call.  We got into a testy little exchange about “You are ….; You don’t …; You never …”  Just fill in the blanks. “Well, I’m sorry” I said, even though I wasn’t.  The poor sweetie went “It’s too late to say you’re sorry!”  I am almost embarrassed to confess that I came right back with the next line.  “Well, I know.  Why should I care?”  I thought we were playing that ‘Don’t Forget the Lyrics’ show that Scary watches on telly.   Kudos to Moshe for snapping “The Zombies; ‘No one Told Me About Her’.”

 

There was a new guy at the Schmooze this time, at least I had never seen him before.  He was absolutely to die for – drop dead gorgeous.  I’m sure I would have remembered.  He came out for a meal with the group afterwards, and when I went outside for a cigarette he came with me.  “Are you with Steve?” he asked.  “No” I said with a straight face.  When Steve and I left, he said “Did Carl ask for your phone number?”  “No” I told him.  “He gave me his.”  “Jean, he’s infamous at every JCC in Jersey.  He’s bi-polar and has issues.”  Big Sigh.

 

Fernando had to cancel our date on Sunday afternoon; he had a crisis at work.  In fact, we are going out tonight because I’m leaving for Cleveland in the morning, and he would have had to survive a whole week without seeing me again.  Bigger Sigh.

 

Scary Fairy really took the piss on this whole situation.  She was horrified that I had two dates organized for the same day.  Words like ‘slut’ and ‘harlot’ and ‘slag’ were tossed about.  Wait a minute.  I must have said ‘slag’; Mary doesn’t Brit-speak.   We compromised on ‘indiscriminate’.   She got a few extra digs in by saying that my hip bones were jutting out of those very tight brown slacks I was wearing and that I could injure people if I turned suddenly without any warning.  She also said I don’t have a tushie any more.  What she said was that I am now seriously ‘derrière deficient’ and need to buy a fake one from Frederick’s of Hollywood.  I think she might be a tad envious.

 

I doubt that I’ll be blogging whilst in Cleveland.  There are just so many exciting things to do in Ohio. 

 

To American readers:  Happy Turkey Day.  To British Readers: Another Bloody Boring Thursday, but maybe Robbie Lee will be playing at the Grotto.

A DAY IN THE LIFE

I woke up yesterday morning, and realized that I desperately needed a pair of red boots.  I don’t know… maybe I had a dream.  I don’t remember dreaming about red boots; I clearly remembered dreaming about Moshe unshaved and rubbing his stubble on my …   Sorry; too much information.  I just knew that I couldn’t go to Cleveland without red boots.  They stop you at the Ohio border and check.  Hey, this is me, Jeano.  I now meet the entry requirements for Ohio.  The boots are stunning.

 

This is true.  (I swear.)  I combined my Power Walk with shopping for boots … and some other stuff.  I walked all the way to the Marty’s Shoe Outlet near the unbelievably horrific roundabout.  It is really scary; you can ask BooBoo.  I was waiting patiently at the pedestrian crossing when this big mother tractor trailer screeched to a dead stop.  The driver stuck his head out the window and waved for me to go.  I said to him “I wasn’t going to walk in front of you.”  He laughed and said “I know.  I always stop for cute redheads at crosswalks.”  Hmm.  I smiled (sort of) and made a mental note to tell Scary Fairy not to buy any Sargento mozzarella for a few weeks in case he had been heading to our local Acme with a delivery.  I’m sure the Italian cheese supply in Mallville is now seriously compromised. 

 

Speaking of Cleveland, Cheese Boy rang me (our engagement is back on; he has forgiven me for the naked Moshe pictures) and as we nattered about my trip, he said “Why is the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in bloody Cleveland of all places?”  “Well, obviously” I replied snarkily, “Um.  Gee.  Because… How the bloody hell should I know?”  “Did any famous musicians even come from Cleveland?” he inquired.  “Sure.  Bob Dylan” I told El Cheeso.  Lou laughed.  “Dylan’s from Minnesota.”  (I actually knew that; I didn’t think a clueless Brit would.)  “John Mellencamp?”  “Indiana” he shot back.  “Okay.  Bruce Springsteen” I said.  “Jeano.  Everybody knows he’s from New Jersey, where you are currently dossing.”  “Bugger all” I said finally.  “I guess Cleveland gave the biggest bribe.”   And that, as it turns out, is the answer.  Cleveland paid 65 million dollars to get the Hall of Fame.  New York, Memphis, and Philadelphia were considered, but cosmopolitan (and sneaky) Cleveland won.   They say it’s because Alan Freed, the DJ who coined the term ‘rock & roll’ was on the air in Cleveland.  I think pledging a box of Tastykake Krimpets and unlimited cheese steaks wit’ doesn’t measure up to 65 mil. 

 

South Jersey Guy has asked me to go to the Shore for a weekend, when I get back from Cleveland.  When I booked the trip, I didn’t know I was going to be juggling four guys and the paisons.  I’m away for a week.  Larry said “This means I’m not going to see you for almost two weeks.”  Be strong, South Jersey Guy.  Well at least I know that snarling, uncommunicative cows chugging coffee at seven AM don’t put him off.  (I looked adorable. My pajamas were really brilliant; they have crowns all over them.)

 

Last night was my coffee date with Cuban Guy.  I did it again.  Honestly, I think the guard at Barnes & Noble wants to have me up for solicitation near the best sellers.  Cuban Guy said he didn’t have a recent picture.  “Okay” I said nervously, “How will I know you?”  “I’m 6’2”, I have a moustache and I’ll be wearing a black overcoat and an Indiana Jones hat.”  Okay.  This was going to be easy.  I walked in, the guard gave me a “you again” evil look, and I spotted a tall man in an Indiana Jones hat and black coat.  Shit!  Cuban Guy forgot to mention that he’s black.  “Hi” I said.  “Fernando?”  I swear that he actually said “No.  But I can be whoever you want.”  I think a lot of perverts must hang out at B&N.  Hey.  Not actually Cuban Guy is pretty hot.  Maybe I should skip the time-consuming and boring emailing and telephoning, and just troll for likely prospects right at B&N or maybe Borders if that bloody guard has me banned.  “Hi, are you Prince Charles?  No?  Let’s have coffee anyway.”

 

Cuban Guy turned up.  I had a great time.  He is really attractive (and the accent is to die for).  We had three cups of coffee.  Usually I’m out of there before the first cup cools down.  His hobbies are collecting antiques (Royal Derby) and he paints.   Don’t bother emailing me with warnings.  There are not going to be any nude portraits of me.

 

     

WE’VE ALREADY SAID … GOODBYE

It was the best of times; it was the worst of times.  Gee, I wish I’d said that.

 

Times passes slowly in Mallville, except when it passes quickly.  I said that.

 

My date with Larry was … interesting.  And long.  Didn’t dates used to be like three hours long?  Maybe that was because I had a curfew in those days.  I thought Moshe was bad; this date was fifteen hours long.  Even I couldn’t be interesting and exciting for fifteen bloody hours.  And I got the right hump towards the end.  I have to mention that Larry actually took the time to read ‘Oh, to Be in England’.  I am not sure that was a good thing.  He made more than a few references to things he had gleaned from reading about me.  I refused to divulge what was true and what was artistic license.

 

The night before, I went out with Shannon Rose Karen (not to be confused with BooBoo Blondie Sister Wife Karen).  I had explained that I was interviewing candidates for Replacement Guy, so she schlepped me to a couple clubs for Happy Hour, Even Happier Hour, and Totally Wasted for the Rest of the Night.  Her, not me; I drank coffee.  I met another eclectic mix of really boring guys from North Jersey.  Okay, one of them was originally from Scranton, Pennsylvania.  Really.  I tried not to laugh, but it bubbled out anyway.  “Do you know the song ‘Thirty Thousand Pounds of Bananas’” I asked.  He didn’t and he didn’t think being from Scranton was especially funny.  Well, yeah.  He’s from North Jersey, by way of Scranton.  What does he know?  I guess he could have been from Bordentown.  No contenders for Replacement Guy there.

 

I had a date with Elijah, (not bad), Rob (ugh! Eww! Yuck!)  and for a change, tomorrow night I have a date with Fernando.  He’s Cuban (sexy accent).  I needed a break from JDate and strange Jewish guys who live on the Garden State.  Not to worry, though; Sunday night I have another date with Steve to go for a meal and then to the Schmooze – if he finds Clifton – doesn’t get us lost in Beirut, NJ – makes it to my house before the Schmooze is over – etc.  You can be sure I will not be bringing Israeli Guy home with me this time.  That is sooo totally over.  If Moshe’s at the Schmooze, I just hope to hell he shaves before he goes.  The flesh is rather weak.

 

Now for the bad news/good news part.

 

I planned to go to Philly this week to check in with the paisons.  Lo and behold!  I called, just for fun … and by accidentally, someone actually answered the fucking phone!  A real person.  I spoke to Lea, and she gave me really bad news.  They are so far behind on citizenship applications that mine isn’t going to be done by the end of the year.  Somehow, I wasn’t even surprised.  I did immediately call BooBoo Blondie and cry.  That worked, and she, and possibly even Cheese Boy himself, are coming here for New Year’s.

 

Honestly, I really thought about hanging myself in the shower.  I wasn’t quite sure what to wear, however.  I debated about the really cool new “Jewy Vuitton” shirt I just bought…with those slinky jeans with all the holes.  But… boots or trainers?  To FleurT or Target?  Maybe J.C. Penney?  I couldn’t decide.

 

Fortunately, I didn’t do it.  Yesterday Lea from the Italian Consulate called me.  She felt bad and got permission from the Consul to personally process my application.  Maddone!  I still don’t know if it will all be signed, sealed and delivered by the end of the year, but things are moving.  Slowly…too damn slowly…but happening.  I just want to get back home to Weybridge.  The final steps are almost within reach.

 

I can’t fail to add that the Eagles beat the scievy ‘Skins.  And the Cowboys beat the G-men.  That one was tough; I wanted them both to somehow lose.

I’m ending with a joke from License to Injure Slightly, Cousin by Marriage.  Even you folks in Blighty should get it.

 

Team Owner Jeffery Lurie had put together the perfect team for the
Philadelphia Eagles. The only thing missing was a good quarterback. He
had scouted all the colleges and even the Canadian
and European Leagues, but he couldn’t find a ringer who could ensure a
Super Bowl victory.

One night while watching CNN, he saw a war-zone scene in Afghanistan.

In one corner of the background, he spotted a young Afghani soldier with
a truly incredible arm. He threw a hand-grenade straight into a window
from 80 yards away.  Then he threw another from
50 yards down a chimney, and finally hit a passing car going 80 miles
per hour.

"I’ve got to get this guy!" Lurie said to himself "He has the perfect
arm!" He brings the young Afghan to the States and teaches him the great
game of football…sure enough the Eagles go on to win the Super Bowl.

The young Afghan is hailed as a hero of football, and when the coach
asks him what he wants,
all the young man wants to do is call his mother.
"Mom" he says into the phone, "I just won the Super Bowl."

"I don’t want to talk to you," the old Muslim woman says.  "You deserted
us. You are not my son."

"Mother, I don’t think you understand," pleads the son, "I’ve just won
the greatest sporting event in the world!"

"No! Let me tell you," his mother retorts, "At this very moment there
are gunshots all around us. 
The neighborhood is a pile of rubble.  Your two brothers were beaten
within an inch of their lives last week, and I have to keep your sister
in the house so she doesn’t get raped!"

The old lady pauses then tearfully says, "I will never forgive you for
making us move to Philadelphia!"

 

 

 

THIS AND THAT

Thursday night was my much anticipated date with South Jersey guy.  We had emailed, and then chatted on the phone, finally agreeing to meet at the local Barnes & Noble for coffee.  I figured that was pretty safe, and I always find a book or two to buy. 

 

As I got there, my mobile chirped that I had a voice mail; I swear the damned thing never rang.  It was South Jersey Guy, saying “I’m here”.  He had sent a not very good picture via email, so I sort of knew what he looked like.  I see one guy, alone at a table.  Wow!  Was that picture he sent taken in 1979?  And he gained about 100 lbs.  What happened to his hair?  And 5’10”?  I think he played the Head Dwarf in Charge in ‘The Wizard of Oz’. 

 

I cursed volubly in Yiddish and Italian, debated leaving (very surreptitiously)  and then just walked over to him.  “Hi.  Are you Larry?” I ask, in my coldest ‘Jeano with Philly Attitude’ voice (you know the one).  He looked up and smiled at me.  “No.  But I can be anybody you want me to be for the evening.”  Of course, the earth did not open up and swallow me as I prayed for.  I mumbled something in some foreign language, maybe Klingon, as my phone rang.  Larry was in the mall (that’s what he had meant in the first call) but was having trouble finding the Barnes & Noble.  “Turn left after the seventh diner” I instructed. 

 

Larry arrived, finally, in one piece.  He had driven all the way from Woodbury to the wilds of North Jersey to have a cup of coffee with me.  “Any trouble with the marauding Indians near Exit 132?” I teased.  Silence.  “Are there Indians in Lodi?” he asked.  I sighed.  It was looking like it might be a long evening.

 

We got coffee and sat down to start the dating ritual.  Mr. Munchkin creepily sent me sultry looks across the B & N Café.  I changed seats with Larry.  Mr. Munchkin sent him sultry looks across the B & N Café.  “That guy is flirting with you” Larry announced.  “Yeah.  Well, I told him if you didn’t work out, he was definitely next in line.”

 

Actually, it turned out to be a very pleasant date; we even went out to dinner.  Larry is a boater, albeit a sailboater, so we had lots to talk about.  We both know the Chesapeake Bay well.  He crews in the summer on the Gazella, Philadelphia’s pride and joy, one of the world famous Tall Ships; it’s 187’ long.  And, being from South Jersey, he is an Eagles fan; not that that’s necessarily a good thing at the moment.

 

We have a date this week… on Saturday night.  He asked if I wanted to go dancing.  You can all stop laughing now.

 

Otherwise, life continues bucolically in Mallville.  This week was Jerry’s yartzeit.  I went back and read last year’s anniversary entry.  It’s sad to think that I was in Weybridge last year, and so happy there.  I did light a candle and say the Mourner’s Kaddish once again.  I had the Minyon at my local synagogue, Shomrei Emunah, say kaddish for him too.  I figured it was the least I could do after all the shit I got up to this year.   Three years… Wow, it’s hard to believe.

 

On a more cheerful note, I am going to Cleveland.  Yeah, the one in Ohio.  For Thanksgiving.  Our friends, Georgia and Ron, have been urging me to come for a visit.  What better time than the winter, when the wind whips across Lake Erie and it feels like 60 below zero?  Thanksgiving worked out well; Roy, Georgia’s grandson whom I adore, will be home from college for the holiday, as well as other family visiting.   Georgia has been busy planning activities.  I’ve never been to the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, and I’m really looking forward to it.  And how could I miss a return visit to the Pro Football Hall of Fame?  That’s one of my favorite places in the entire world.  I spent two whole days there the last time I went; Jerry read in the car.  I watched the movie ‘Monsters of the Gridiron’ eleven times, and cried at the end every single one of them.