Too Available

     I recently spent 3 days sequestered.  For 3 days nobody could get in touch with me.  No phone, no e-mail.  Not for a long time, just 72 little hours.  What could happen?

      Apparently a lot.  Apparently everyone needed to reach me urgently.  They tried calling, and paging, and e-mailing.  Hell they even tried faxing me.  They tried me at home, on the cell.  They sent mail through my web site.  Where was I?  They tried for 3 days!  What if it was important?

     It wasn't.  They were just used to being able to get me, and when they didn't, they panicked.  It's my fault.  I'm too available.

     You can call me at home, on my office line, and on my cell.  You can page me.  You can send me e-mail at 4 addresses, plus through my website.  You can fax me.  Hell, you can even send me a letter, although nobody ever does anymore.  Unless you count bills as letters.

     "A letter?  What's that?"

     "It's like a mini personalized book sent over land or sea from one person to another."

     "Book?"

     You can send letters to my house, my office PO Box or c.o. pretty much any comedy club.  That's 13 ways to get me, before I even count getting messages through my friends and family.  No wonder we're all stressed out.

     There once was a time when if you wanted to get someone, you called.  Leave a message and whenever they got it, they got it.  Hell, some people didn't even have machines.  In fact there was a time when not everyone had a phone.

     We wonder why we get no peace,, it’s because we're too available.  The whole world is just a mouse click or speed dial away.  We know they got the message, we have e-mail delivery confirmation.  Could they be ignoring you?

     In my case, the answer's yes.  If there's one thing this panic has taught me is that I need to start training people to understand that occasionally it may take more than 11 minutes for me to return a call.  If it means that I'll have to ignore a couple of pages or messages, oh well.

     So turn off the cell phones.  Don't check you e-mail for a day or two.  What's the worst that could happen?  A little panic?

      Let them panic.  It'll give them something to do until I call them back.

It's Gonna be a Good Day

     I was born in 1964.  I say this because my tastes all hail from the generations before me.  When it comes to film I prefer Chaplin to Speilberg.  My favorite TV shows are The “Honeymooners,” “Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In, and any clip that I’ve ever seen from “Your Show of Shows.”  I can quote most jokes from “The Dean Martin Roasts,” and I have the largest collection of Sinatra records, tapes CDs, MP3s, Records, and 8-Tracks this side of Nancy Sinatra.  I know what a two cents plain is, and I can vaguely remember when their used to be a choice between a milk shake and a malt.  Hell, my dream car is even older then me.  Someday I will drive a 1959 Cadillac drop top!

     If ever their was the definition of an old soul, I’m it.  With that said, I have to point out that there is a double standard in society.  I like the things that came in the generations before me, so I’m a throwback or nostalgic.  However if there’s an eighty year old who’s into extreme sports, Britney Spears, and the latest Vin Diesel film he’s a freak.

     For me the center of my world is music.  It has been for as long as I can remember.  I grew up with two older sisters who introduced me to the Beatles before I could even sing nursery rhymes.  They had divided up the group.  Mary had John, and Liz had Paul.  Then Liz also took George and Mary took Ringo because she felt bad that nobody wanted him.  I was often called in to settle disputes between them.  Who’d have thought that a 6 year old’s negotiating skills could avert fisticuffs between 2 pre-teen girls who were deciding which one was about to marry the most talented Beatle.

     My older cousins introduced me to doo wop and Dion.  In 1972, while most of the world sang along to Elton John, I had on the oldies station, and I do believe that I was the only 8 year old boy who was singing along to “Ruby Baby.”  Later my father introduced me to Sinatra, and I was the only child who not only knew the words to That’s Why The Lady Is A Tramp, but knew what the hell it meant.

     In October of 1973 two events happened in my nine year old life that changed me forever.  First, the Mets lost the World Series which was my first heartbreak.  Then, later that month, while doing homework I heard the most beautiful noise from my radio.  It was Sam Cooke.  How did this man eluded me for all of my nine years?  This was brilliant!  Why didn’t anybody tell me about him before?

     In retrospect, I’m glad they didn’t.  Some things one needs to discover on their own.

     So I sat and listened to the song, “Bring it on Home to Me.”  At nine I didn’t fully comprehend what they were singing about.  I only know it was beautiful.  It made my day great.  In fact, one of the first truths of my life that I shared with my wife was that whenever I stumble across a Sam Cooke song on the Radio, I know it’s gonna be a great day.

     I remember on the way to my high school graduation, or as I called it, Parole, I heard “Wonderful World.”  I remember sitting on a beach in St. Thomas, just watching the sunset and hearing a distant radio play “Good Times.”

       “Get in the groove and let the good times roll.  We’re gonna stay hear ‘til we soothe our souls, if it takes all night long...”  No time was ever more perfect.

     I knew I loved my wife, but when she walked into my arms and danced with me to “That’s Where It’s At,” I fell hopelessly in love with her.  We reprised that dance at our wedding.  Even today, while I’m sitting here just reflecting on life and the journey I’ve taken, “A Change Is Gonna Come” wafted out of the radio, which was still tuned in to the oldies station, and I knew it was gonna be a great day.

    Who knew that I would be so moved by a man who died 4 months after I was born?  That’s the beauty of art, it has a life span greater then the artist.

     Sure, as I grew older I found artists of my generation who moved me. I spent hours on street corners arguing Ramones versus Clash versus Pistols versus Heads. I spent one too many night at CBGB’s with a fake ID listening to the music that I was sure would change the world. Then, as always, I’d go home to the oldies station and listen to the Beatles, Dion and especially Sam.

     Someday I may introduce my children to Sam, and I hope that they’ll feel his music the way I do, but they probably won’t.  They may like it, or even love it, but they will stumble into someone who touches their soul the way Sam touched mine.

     I just hope to god that someone isn’t Eminem.

VERY MARRIED

     Are there degrees of marriage?  I'm not thinking in terms of legality, but in terms of behavior.  Here's why I pose the question: I have a lot of friends who are married, but I'm very married.

    To know how married I am, you have to compare me to who I was.  I used to be smooth.  Not a player, we all have that friend who meets tons of women and seems to do well with all of them, that wasn't  my strong point.  Nor was I the guy who was the swordsman -- the one who told of his frequent conquests, and had a seemingly endless supply of women at hand.  I was just smooth.

    I was the guy who, once a woman showed interest, could strike up a conversation and keep her talking.  I could find common ground, and I'd usually get either a date, or a number.  See, smooth.
But something has happened over the decade that I've been married. (Note: Yes, I said decade, so if you had the under in the pool, you lost.)  While my other married friends speak longingly of the past, I don't.  They look at women now, and still believe they could charm them.  I don't.  Truth be told, even in my fantasy life I'm married.

    Why? Because I'm very married.

    I never knew how much so until a plane trip to Grand Cayman Island.  I was set to perform on a cruise ship, and on the flight down there I was seated next to a lovely young lady.  I'll admit this was a welcome change, because most flights I get seated next to the family with 11 screaming babies, or the salesman with the drinking problem.  Sometimes I get the zealot trying to sell me his god. This trip was different, I got the hottie.

    She sat down next to me for the four hour flight, we exchanged pleasant hellos, then she did something that a woman other than my wife hasn't done to me in years.  She smiled a devilish smile at me.

            There is a smile that women have that isn't a prelude to sex, but it is an invitation to begin the dance. While it doesn't say "do me," it does say "how do you do!" It had been a long time since someone other that my wife gave me that smile. I looked behind me just to make sure she was really looking at me, but there was no younger, more confident single guy behind me. She was clearly smiling at me. I needed a strategy!

    Flashback to my single days, I'd smile back.  Ask a question or two.  Compliment her eyes or outfit.  Strike up a conversation.  Smooth.

    My married friends would have struck up a conversation as well.  Not that they'd be trying to arrange a tryst, but as one friend put it, "You need to strike up the conversation to keep the hunting skills sharp." Apparently most of their friends are sure their wives will eventually release them back into the wild. I'm fairly certain that if mine ever ends my wife will be dropping me off at a kill shelter.

    I, being very married, panicked.  What do I do?  Do I smile back?  What if she starts to talk to me?  What if my wife finds out I smiled at and talked to another woman?  She'd know too.  I wouldn't even do anything, and I'd be in trouble.  What do I do?

    How did I, a man who used to be smooth, turn into a 14 year old boy?  What caused me to panic, and blush, and bury my face into a newspaper?  The answer: I'm very married.

    Over the course of the flight, I eventually had a conversation with this woman.  She was chatty.  Not in a flirting way, just chatty.  Very chatty.  She never stopped talking.  Eventually I put on my Ipod. When that didn't work I pretended to sleep. Where’s those screaming babies when you need them?

            I told her I was married, and showed her a picture of my wife.  She told me that all of the good men were taken, and I assured her that not all of them were.

   When the flight was over she shot me the same devilish smile she did when she sat down  I looked at her and for a moment,  was intrigued.  Then I remembered my wife is a black belt and the house are cars are all in her name. Still though, my flight companion was alluring. Her complection, her height, her shape was similar to my wife's.  No wonder I found her attractive.

    See, very married..

THE CULTURAL VOID

Written by

Jim Mendrinos

     I was born in 1964.  By the time I arrived on this orb the Beatles had already fired the first salvo in the British invasion, and the Rat Pack ruled the Vegas Strip.

     By the time I came into cultural awareness, the arts were experiencing a cultural void.  It was a time when we put on our bell bottoms and grooved to such super-groups as the Osmonds, The Defranco Family and the Bay City Rollers.

     Every song was sad.  We were playing “Alone Again Naturally,” “Season's In The Sun,” and the “Wreck of the Edmond Fitzgerald.”  The songs were all sappy and sad.  Want proof?  Michael Jackson, well before he lost his mind, recorded a song called “Ben.”  It was a poignant little ditty between a boy and his rat
.
     Did I mention that cultural void?

     We tuned into one of the thousands of variety shows on TV.  Occasionally Sammy or Frank would pop up on the screen, but not until after we had to hear an opening monologue by the Starland Vocal Band, or see a sketch featuring John Denver and Foster Brooks.  More often then not, we didn't even get to see a member of the Rat Pack, we got to see someone like Lou Rawls or Ben Vereen sing “On Broadway.”

     Kids ate pop rocks and played with click clacks.   Our sisters fell in love with Keith Partridge or Bo Donaldson.  The cool kids knew all the words to “Brandy.”

     There was so much artistic sludge back then that “It's a wonder I can think at all.”

     As the decade came to a close, there was a pop culture rift.  The punk rockers squared off against the disco freaks.  By the time I turned 18 disco was dead and so was Sid Vicious.  Then MTV sprang up and the radio died as well.

     I’m amazed that I was able to make it out of the cultural mine field of the seventies unscathed.  Sometimes Though, I get nostalgic.  So I whip out my Bobby Sherman albums and reminisce fondly about my mood ring. Surprisingly, the cheese of the seventies has turned into some sort of nostalgia comfort food. "Candida" seems fun now -- I can almost see Tony Orlando's tuxedo shirt undone at the top button and his tie untied.

       Instead of dreading "Midnight at the Oasis," or changing the station when "Maude" is on, I scour the oldies station of my radio and check program schedules for all the networks on number 100 and above on the cable. last night I sat through both "Westworld" and the "Towering Inferno."

        I still miss Monty Python, Benny Hill on PBS, and don't even get me started on "Animal House" or "Star Wars." Yes, it was a campy decade in the arts, but it was honest.

     Now if you'll pardon me, I'm going to slip on my white shoes and watch me some Kojak. Who loves ya baby?

HAVEN’T SEEN MY DOCTOR

“HAVEN’T SEEN MY DOCTOR”

Written by

Jim Mendrinos

     I haven’t seen my doctor in years.  No, I’m not saying that I need a check up or have a phobia.  I’m just pointing out that I haven’t seen my personal physician in forever.  I think he may be missing.  Perhaps I should notify the authorities.
     I have health care coverage.  I joined a program, send in an obscene premium each month, and I picked my personal physician.  Problem is whenever I make an appointment with him, he isn’t there.
     It started out well enough.  He saw me the first few times.  We made jokes about my blood work results.  He whistled a happy tune while giving me unspeakable exams.  He even sent me a card letting me know I was overdue for a visit.
     We bonded.
     Not like my dentist.  Oh, there’s an evil lurking in the land and it has a license in dentistry.  See, I have a fear of dentists.  An irrational fear.  My wife has to hold my hand in the dentist’s office.  Not because I’m a coward, but because I’ve hit more then one dentist.  Well they always say to let them know if it hurts, right?
     Back to the doctor.  He and I got along beautifully.  I thought we were buddies.  Then it happened.  The missed visits.
     “Hi, your doctor has been called away.  I’ll be filling in for him.”
     Okay.  How bad could it be.  It’s just 1 time, right?  Wrong.  It’s been 11 times over the past 3 years.  I always make an appointment with my doctor, I always get a different doctor.
     Was it me?  Did I do something wrong?  Wasn’t I a good enough patient to keep him interested?  I did all I could, flu, kidney stones, a refrigerator dropped on my big toe -- varied, interesting maladies, but still he avoids me.  I feel so rejected.
     I’m told that there used to be something called the family doctor.  A person who you saw over and over again for all your medical needs.  You developed a relationship with this doctor.  They knew you and what ailed you.  It was a rock of stability for you at the time when you needed it most, when you were sick.  Not anymore.
     Now you walk into sterile offices where paperwork junkies ask you for proof of insurance before they ask your name.  You go into an exam room where someone who has never laid eyes on you asks you the same medical history questions that the last doctor that never laid eyes on you asked.  If I could get one consistent doctor my visit could be 20 minutes shorter just from eliminating the quiz.
     And above it all I have a nagging feeling that my doctor isn’t seeing me because he’s busy seeing some other doctor’s patients.  It’s like musical chairs.
     I did see my doctor, about a year ago, on the street.  We stopped and chatted for a moment.  I wondered if it was him at all.  After all, it’s been so long, I could be mistaken.
     But then, as we exchanged goodbyes and he walked away, I heard him whistle that familiar happy tune, and I knew it was him.  Keep whistling doc, even if I never get to see you again.