I recently visited an Italian restaurant with a Spanish name owned by Mexicans so I could hang out with my Jewish father who is a friend of the Irish bartender. It’s a very good restaurant and has a lively bar crowd even if most of the patrons are older than I. The “colonoscopied” crowd can have fun too. So, I am sitting at the bar, catching up with my father, when I asked him if he heard that Dino, owner of the Gateway, one of Albany’s better known Greek diners, had passed away the day before. Surprisingly, my father, who I thought knew every notable person in Albany, had never heard of him. I had met Dino years earlier through a friend who managed one of the city’s premier discos. Dino, who wore his hair like Elvis, had financed the disco. Greek diner money, apparently. http://www.gatewaydiner.com/
As fate would have it, my father pointed out that another Greek diner owner was having dinner in the restaurant. I had been to his diner a few months earlier and had the worst egg salad sandwich I had ever been served. My father advised that I should tell him about my poor dining, or should I say diner, experience.
I continued chatting with my father. Before long, Nick, the Gateway’s competitor, came over to say hello. However, rather than bring up the egg salad sandwich, I mentioned that I had read that Dino had passed away. I know that the Greek community in Albany is very tight-knit and figured that Nick was an acquaintance of Dino. Nick noted it was sad that Dino had died and told me that he offered to sing at the funeral service. Apparently, Nick is quite a good singer, at least in Greek. The family declined Nick’s offer for reasons I can only guess. Maybe some resentment exists among the various Greek diner families. Whatever the reason was, Nick continued and told me in his heavy Greek accent that a number of people had already approached him and asked if he would be taking over the Gateway. Nick then looked at me, shrugged his shoulders, and in complete innocence, asked me why anyone would think that he might take over the Gateway Diner. Sensing an opportunity, I looked Nick in the eye and responded: “Hey Nick, maybe because you’re Greek and you already own a diner.” I never brought up the egg salad sandwich.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Sid Stein's Condom Cat
I love to cook. It engages my artistic nature and releases my creative energies. For the most part, I prepare my meals on the stove rather than in the oven. I enjoy adjusting the flavors and spices as I go along and love being able to watch how my dish progresses. On the other hand, baking or preparing dinner in the oven is primarily a “wait until it’s done” affair. Once the food is in the oven, there is little to do except listen for the timer to buzz me when it’s done. However, in spite of my cooking preferences, there are simply some things that require a working oven. Making Thanksgiving is one of them. I mean, have you ever tried cooking a 15 pound turkey in a skillet? It takes forever. I assume it does anyway.
During my marriage to my Israeli-born wife, Thanksgiving became my responsibility. To her credit, she prepared all the meals for the Jewish holidays, of which there are many throughout the year. For a time, she even made Thanksgiving but ceded the meal to me at some point. I embraced the challenge and was soon making turkey, ginger chestnut stuffing, black bean soup, sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce and apple and pumpkin pies. Before long, we had a family tradition.
Life changed after my wife and I split up but Thanksgiving was still mine. It says so in my agreement. After all, I was the American in the household and had a natural duty to protect the integrity of this national holiday.
The first Thanksgiving in my new home went well even though we were missing one daughter who was studying in Israel. Even my ex-wife came. The food was delicious and it was a happy event. Last year, however, I was unable to make Thanksgiving. At some point during the year before the holiday, the thermostat in my oven broke. Without a way to control the temperature, there was no way I could roast a turkey or make an apple pie. It didn’t matter too much because most of my children were in Israel anyway. So, instead of a big dinner at my house, my parents and I, accompanied by my one daughter who was still in the country, ate our Thanksgiving dinner at Jack’s, one of Albany’s oldest and finest restaurants. http://www.jacksoysterhouse.com/
For a long time, not having an oven didn’t bother me. I made my meals on the stove and was content with that. This year, however, I wanted Thanksgiving back in my house. I needed to have it here. My 18 year old daughter would be in town and she keeps kosher. Besides, her long-time boyfriend, also kosher, was coming and planning to ask my permission for her hand in marriage. I had two choices. Get my oven repaired or get a new oven. I went with the second option. The house I live in was a rental property for a long time and only had a cheap, simple oven. It was time to upgrade to a respectable cooking machine. So off I went to the local appliance store. http://coccasappliancestv.com/
Mike, an appliance salesman with a friendly face and a very big belly, showed me around the store. He pointed out a scratch and dent model which had been marked down from $1,000.00 to $500.00.
The scratch was on the side of the oven and wouldn’t be seen once installed, so, recognizing a good buy, I bought it. Mike told me that his delivery people wouldn’t be able to install it because it was a gas oven and they no longer carried insurance for installing gas appliances. He suggested I contact a plumber, which I did once the oven was delivered. Although part of my deal with the appliance store included removal of the old oven, the delivery men wouldn’t touch it until it was disconnected from the gas line. I would have to wait for the plumber.
Perhaps you are wondering what this story has to do with a cat or condoms. I’m getting to that. Maybe a few words about my cat are in order before I make the connection. When my eldest daughter graduated from the eighth grade, we bought a golden retriever. Her name is Buffy, after the television show, which was popular at the time. Buffy is a happy dog who likes to play Frisbee. She’s a good catch too. Years passed and my son went off to college. In his senior year, he bought a kitten and named him Monk after the jazz musician. As circumstances would have it, my son had to move into the dorms for his final semester because his friends with whom he shared an apartment had to move out. He asked me if I would take care of his cat. Buffy, who was about 6 ½ years old at this point, had never lived with any other animals and had never liked other dogs. I told him I would give it a try. At first, Buffy and Monk were like oil and water. In fact, I had to keep them separated. One morning, however, I woke up to find Buffy sitting by the door to the laundry room. I went to the kitchen to make coffee and realized that Buffy hadn’t budged. It seemed unusual to me, so I went over and asked her if she was okay. And no, I wasn’t expecting an answer. Still, I was curious as to why she was sitting there so patiently. So, I opened the door and out walked Monk. Apparently, I had locked Monk out of the house. As Monk sauntered into the house, he went over and rubbed up against Buffy, seeming to thank her for coming to his rescue. They became fast friends after that, and now, even play together.
Monk is a curious and sometimes naughty cat. He especially likes to knock things off counters and tables. Although he sometimes does this to get my attention when he is hungry, there are other times he does it for no apparent reason. My daughter thinks it’s his concept of feng shui because he usually knocks things off which don’t necessarily belong. He also loves to bat things around the kitchen floor.
So, it was no great surprise when the plumber pulled out the old stove revealing a number of things which Monk had batted underneath it. There was a toy car, a couple of caps from Snapple bottles, a red pen and two condoms. Actually, I was surprised to see the condoms. Momentarily, I thought about being embarrassed by this discovery, but hey, it was just the plumber and why should I care if he learned about my social life. Still, how did condoms get under my stove? And, they weren’t even my regular brand! I picked them up and examined them. I found two small pinpricks in one of them. Monk! Apparently, Monk snagged them out of my bedroom and brought them into the kitchen so he could bat them around the smooth kitchen floor. At some point, as with everything he plays with, they ended up under the stove.
As easy as it was to figure out how the condoms got there, I was left with one mystery. These were Durex condoms, not Trojans. http://www.trojancondoms.com/For the life of me, I cannot remember ever buying Durex condoms. Was it possible I picked them up while out one night at a club? It would have had to have been a gay bar. If it was, what was I doing in a gay bar? And why would I need condoms there? I am still straight as I am sure you know by now if you have been reading my stories. It remains a mystery. I know one thing though. Monk didn’t buy them. But, there is no denying. He is the Condom Cat. Or should that be Condom Kitty? Prophylactic Feline? Maybe he heard about feline AIDS. Curious but cautious!
After I wrote this, a friend added that Monk's adventure gives a new meaning to Cat in the Hat!
During my marriage to my Israeli-born wife, Thanksgiving became my responsibility. To her credit, she prepared all the meals for the Jewish holidays, of which there are many throughout the year. For a time, she even made Thanksgiving but ceded the meal to me at some point. I embraced the challenge and was soon making turkey, ginger chestnut stuffing, black bean soup, sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce and apple and pumpkin pies. Before long, we had a family tradition.
Life changed after my wife and I split up but Thanksgiving was still mine. It says so in my agreement. After all, I was the American in the household and had a natural duty to protect the integrity of this national holiday.
The first Thanksgiving in my new home went well even though we were missing one daughter who was studying in Israel. Even my ex-wife came. The food was delicious and it was a happy event. Last year, however, I was unable to make Thanksgiving. At some point during the year before the holiday, the thermostat in my oven broke. Without a way to control the temperature, there was no way I could roast a turkey or make an apple pie. It didn’t matter too much because most of my children were in Israel anyway. So, instead of a big dinner at my house, my parents and I, accompanied by my one daughter who was still in the country, ate our Thanksgiving dinner at Jack’s, one of Albany’s oldest and finest restaurants. http://www.jacksoysterhouse.com/
For a long time, not having an oven didn’t bother me. I made my meals on the stove and was content with that. This year, however, I wanted Thanksgiving back in my house. I needed to have it here. My 18 year old daughter would be in town and she keeps kosher. Besides, her long-time boyfriend, also kosher, was coming and planning to ask my permission for her hand in marriage. I had two choices. Get my oven repaired or get a new oven. I went with the second option. The house I live in was a rental property for a long time and only had a cheap, simple oven. It was time to upgrade to a respectable cooking machine. So off I went to the local appliance store. http://coccasappliancestv.com/
Mike, an appliance salesman with a friendly face and a very big belly, showed me around the store. He pointed out a scratch and dent model which had been marked down from $1,000.00 to $500.00.
The scratch was on the side of the oven and wouldn’t be seen once installed, so, recognizing a good buy, I bought it. Mike told me that his delivery people wouldn’t be able to install it because it was a gas oven and they no longer carried insurance for installing gas appliances. He suggested I contact a plumber, which I did once the oven was delivered. Although part of my deal with the appliance store included removal of the old oven, the delivery men wouldn’t touch it until it was disconnected from the gas line. I would have to wait for the plumber.
Perhaps you are wondering what this story has to do with a cat or condoms. I’m getting to that. Maybe a few words about my cat are in order before I make the connection. When my eldest daughter graduated from the eighth grade, we bought a golden retriever. Her name is Buffy, after the television show, which was popular at the time. Buffy is a happy dog who likes to play Frisbee. She’s a good catch too. Years passed and my son went off to college. In his senior year, he bought a kitten and named him Monk after the jazz musician. As circumstances would have it, my son had to move into the dorms for his final semester because his friends with whom he shared an apartment had to move out. He asked me if I would take care of his cat. Buffy, who was about 6 ½ years old at this point, had never lived with any other animals and had never liked other dogs. I told him I would give it a try. At first, Buffy and Monk were like oil and water. In fact, I had to keep them separated. One morning, however, I woke up to find Buffy sitting by the door to the laundry room. I went to the kitchen to make coffee and realized that Buffy hadn’t budged. It seemed unusual to me, so I went over and asked her if she was okay. And no, I wasn’t expecting an answer. Still, I was curious as to why she was sitting there so patiently. So, I opened the door and out walked Monk. Apparently, I had locked Monk out of the house. As Monk sauntered into the house, he went over and rubbed up against Buffy, seeming to thank her for coming to his rescue. They became fast friends after that, and now, even play together.
Monk is a curious and sometimes naughty cat. He especially likes to knock things off counters and tables. Although he sometimes does this to get my attention when he is hungry, there are other times he does it for no apparent reason. My daughter thinks it’s his concept of feng shui because he usually knocks things off which don’t necessarily belong. He also loves to bat things around the kitchen floor.
So, it was no great surprise when the plumber pulled out the old stove revealing a number of things which Monk had batted underneath it. There was a toy car, a couple of caps from Snapple bottles, a red pen and two condoms. Actually, I was surprised to see the condoms. Momentarily, I thought about being embarrassed by this discovery, but hey, it was just the plumber and why should I care if he learned about my social life. Still, how did condoms get under my stove? And, they weren’t even my regular brand! I picked them up and examined them. I found two small pinpricks in one of them. Monk! Apparently, Monk snagged them out of my bedroom and brought them into the kitchen so he could bat them around the smooth kitchen floor. At some point, as with everything he plays with, they ended up under the stove.
As easy as it was to figure out how the condoms got there, I was left with one mystery. These were Durex condoms, not Trojans. http://www.trojancondoms.com/For the life of me, I cannot remember ever buying Durex condoms. Was it possible I picked them up while out one night at a club? It would have had to have been a gay bar. If it was, what was I doing in a gay bar? And why would I need condoms there? I am still straight as I am sure you know by now if you have been reading my stories. It remains a mystery. I know one thing though. Monk didn’t buy them. But, there is no denying. He is the Condom Cat. Or should that be Condom Kitty? Prophylactic Feline? Maybe he heard about feline AIDS. Curious but cautious!
After I wrote this, a friend added that Monk's adventure gives a new meaning to Cat in the Hat!
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Viva Viagra, I Think
I just saw yet another installment of the seemingly ubiquitous Viagra commercials. It's the one where the husband is watching television, glances at his magazine-reading wife, tosses away the remote control, leading her to toss aside her magazines, after which they make their way up to the bedroom. Both are mature adults over 50. The wife, importantly, is a very attractive woman. She easily could be a cover girl for AARP magazine. Her physical beauty leads me to believe that the husband must definitely have erectile dysfunction. Otherwise, how could he not but get aroused for this woman?
After digesting this commercial, it made me think. Do so many American men really suffer from erectile dysfunction? Based on the frequency that these commercials air on television, one would think so. On the other hand, has anyone considered that the true underlying reason why American men have so much difficulty getting an erection is simply that they find their wives unattractive? The actual reason behind erectile dysfunction, then, may be nothing more complicated than the very real possibility that men are not turned on by their wives anymore. Looking around, very few women are actually as attractive as the television version presented by Viagra.
This possibility, of course, leads to another problem. How does a man, even with the assistance of his doctor, actually discern whether he suffers from erectile dysfunction or whether he is just not turned on by his middle-aged wife who gave up trying on her wedding gown 30 years ago?
Before I would start any prescription regimen, I would want to know for sure. What kind of conversation does a man have with his wife when confronted by this dilemma? "Honey, I know our sex life hasn't been that great lately. I want it to improve. Still, before I start taking Viagra, a prescription drug with potential side effects, I want to make sure that I suffer from erectile dysfunction rather than just being turned off by your 50 pound weight gain over the years. So, I am going to try having sex with a woman I find very attractive just to make sure it's erectile dysfunction and not something else." My guess is that this conversation would not go over very well.
So, until the drug companies come out with a pill which makes all women look attractive, viva Viagra and viva the marketing people who get to take advantage of this very real dilemma.
After digesting this commercial, it made me think. Do so many American men really suffer from erectile dysfunction? Based on the frequency that these commercials air on television, one would think so. On the other hand, has anyone considered that the true underlying reason why American men have so much difficulty getting an erection is simply that they find their wives unattractive? The actual reason behind erectile dysfunction, then, may be nothing more complicated than the very real possibility that men are not turned on by their wives anymore. Looking around, very few women are actually as attractive as the television version presented by Viagra.
This possibility, of course, leads to another problem. How does a man, even with the assistance of his doctor, actually discern whether he suffers from erectile dysfunction or whether he is just not turned on by his middle-aged wife who gave up trying on her wedding gown 30 years ago?
Before I would start any prescription regimen, I would want to know for sure. What kind of conversation does a man have with his wife when confronted by this dilemma? "Honey, I know our sex life hasn't been that great lately. I want it to improve. Still, before I start taking Viagra, a prescription drug with potential side effects, I want to make sure that I suffer from erectile dysfunction rather than just being turned off by your 50 pound weight gain over the years. So, I am going to try having sex with a woman I find very attractive just to make sure it's erectile dysfunction and not something else." My guess is that this conversation would not go over very well.
So, until the drug companies come out with a pill which makes all women look attractive, viva Viagra and viva the marketing people who get to take advantage of this very real dilemma.
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