The Ihit List

I heard the stories of old folks who actually witnessed the birth of the crackling LP era, welcomed the 8 track player, survived the cassette tape scare and the latest CD revolution. Nevertheless, I stared confusingly at a handheld device given to me last year as a Christmas present. I was unsure as to whether it was a shrunken computer or the latest electronic gadget in the technology revolution. I knew nothing about how to operate the device nor did I recognize how it was about to change my life. That is how I met my first Ipod.

My oldest daughter announced, “Dad, you have no idea what this Ipod is going to do to your obsessive compulsiveness.”

Rachel could not have been more right. The more she taught me about Ipods, the more its simplicity and convenience intrigued me to take immediate action. No bigger than my cell phone, my new handheld device held cold storage for approximately 7,000 three minute length audio songs. Thousands of songs sound like more than enough tracks for the average listener but music aficionados realize its space limitations. I ruled out uploading pictures and video to my Ipod to get the most audio programming storage. I decided I only had enough room on my Ipod to cover the rock genre. I kept my favorite rap, hip hop, reggae, funk, country, pop, blues, alternative, heavy metal, easy listening and even retained stragglers of classical music and golden oldies but the rest ended up on the cutting room floor. With apologies to cover bands, I determined that only enough storage existed for one version of the same song. This created a great dilemma of personal taste and choice. Should I go with the live version over studio, the acetate vinyl over the digitally re-mastered song, the fabulous cover song over the original artist’s work, the explicit lyric version or the clean cut mainstream copy? I anguished over my tough choices, sometimes studying the different versions at nausea. The Ipod took hold of me.

My wife furthered the cause by buying me an external hard drive for my computer to permanently store the uploaded music. The first thousand hard rock songs were given to me by a musician friend. I then painstakingly burned my own personal collection one compact disc at a time. On a computer that cannot multitask, this was a tedious time consuming process. My computer cannot even handle playing track one while it burned track two of the same album. I sat at my overwhelmed taxed computer watching a bar graph move from left to right burning at a rate of about 15 minutes per CD. Days passed feeding the monster. Weeks obsessively passed in front of the same computer screen watching my library grow.

My brother in law gave me about 500 CD’s to add to my modest collection. At a buyer’s cost of $1.06 per song online on Itunes, you can imagine the treasure. On my computer desk, I stacked the CD’s in towering piles that teetered near collapse. When the towers thinned, I bought bulk CD collections off of Ebay for pennies on the dollar. In between waiting for Ebay purchases to arrive via snail mail, I borrowed the CD collections of friends in exchange for returned favors. My brother Jim then loaned me his 200 count CD collection. My brother Anthony pitched his collection. My mother in law loaned me her collection. I resorted to paying open minded co-workers $10.00 for each shopping bag full of CD’s. Like a shameless shill, I borrowed another friend’s collection before he and his wife divorced and divided their personal property. I now have started trolling the underworld of flea markets for used fingerprint-smeared CD’s. I even offered to barter my antiquated CD collection by posting to an online message board.

Short of piracy, I cannot stop my obsession. My Ipod tells me that I can now listen to music around the clock for a month uninterrupted before hearing the same song twice. I have never been happier listening to commercial free music with mega portability. I downloaded album artwork. I power rated the thousands of songs uploaded to my computer on a likeability scale of 1-5. I created playlists and mood music for various activities. I deleted the weaker songs from my Ipod so as to only be left with a solid field of rip roaring tunes. I started to make an Ihit list if you will; songs I cannot live without, tunes that preclude rest until obtaining them for my Ipod collection.

The hits kept coming until I recorded the 7,233rd personal favorite song on my Ipod. Alas, I begrudgingly ran out of storage space before I could complete my music library. Apple unveiled an 80gb Ipod that has roughly two and half times the storage space of my inferior Ipod. Christmas is coming. I just hope my obsessions can wait that long.

New to the Neighborhood

It took one year of savings from three jobs to squirrel away enough money to make adequate down payment to afford this luxury sedan. Add a rear spoiler, rad pinstriping, and a power moonroof and viola you have my tricked out push button start 2007 Nissan Altima SL. I just dream of more movie scenes with actor Mark Wahlberg laying around than dirty toilets needing scrubbing like on my third job, because I do not want the Repo man to take my baby away.

Lie to You

Pick out the isolated lie among the truth.

A bow can be taken for the lie found.

1) When I earned my masters degree, I worked full time as a custodian.

2) I once was on a Tv show that aired against SpongeBob SquarePants.

3) I was engaged to a print media model who later appeared nude in a porn magazine.

4) I have witnessed UFO’s.

5) As a teenager, I could drink a half gallon of beer in ten seconds.

6) I can eat a whole pizza pie in one sitting.

7) I once watched Star Wars The Empire Strikes Back six times without interruption.

8) In a court of law, I am undefeated as my own pro se attorney.

9) I have seen ghosts.

10)I once held two full time jobs and the hours coincided.

11)I played in a ping-pong tournament with my opposite hand.

12)A US patent is in my name.

13)I went out on a first date on Friday the 13th and saw the movie Friday the 13th.

14)My BA degree parchment reads from a school that wasn’t in existence the year I graduated.

15)I was featured as a newspaper comic strip.

Sickening Feeling

So I worked myself sick at work trying to get my caseload in order before I went on vacation this week. Not feeling my best, I kept pushing myself but gradually only felt worse. It took me eleven days to admit to myself that I needed to see a doctor. The doctor quickly identified the problem. I have bronchitis.

Now I enter the well-earned vacation with barely enough lung capacity to string together two grammatically incorrect sentences. I had planned to take the week off by myself to complete home projects. Now a crucible awaits. Can an obsessive compulsive personality scrub charted home projects for a wellness program or will he risk pneumonia by trudging through the physicality of the chores just because it will be more maddening to interrupt the schedule and not accomplish his goals? I feel like the ignoramus of a man planning his own funeral. It makes me sick every time I think of it.

Darkness on the Edge of Town

In 2002, I completed a two year long immunotherapy program at the University of Pennsylvania Hospital. Graduating to a maintenance model enabled me to shed the beekeeper’s suit I wore outdoors and resume a relatively normal life.

Among other things, I looked to resume playing outdoor tennis, a game I had basically given up for two years. After not discovering the game of tennis until my adulthood, my passion to return to the game had no rival.

They say you can control everything but the weather. The weather made a believer out of me. Every time I went to play tennis, inclement weather interfered. I had been forced from the hard courts by pouring rain that wasn’t in the forecast, drizzle that was in the forecast, aggravating sun showers, puddling on the courts hours after the rain stopped, and high winds that kicked up suddenly. Name a force of nature and it interrupted my plans.

I harbored resentment and disappointment at forces beyond my control. My skin disease and the beekeeper’s suit had limited my outdoor activity the last couple of years so I had gained extra weight that I now wanted to shed through vigorous exercise. By the tail end of summer, I still had little tennis under my feet. I was determined to right the inequity and put the love back in tennis.

My partner and I picked an absolutely gorgeous night for tennis underneath the lights of Bethel Mill Park. A comfortable seventy degrees and emerging stars in the night sky had me certain that Mother Nature would not doom play. An end summer’s night dream, it looked to be a can’t miss opportunity for tennis. In fact, the ideal weather had invited everyone outside and into the night. Couples walked arm and arm. Bicyclists, roller skaters, and skateboarders took to the illuminated paths. Basketballs bounced on the blacktops.

Early in the first set, the cool perspiration sliding down my torso felt invigorating. I was pounding the felt off of the ball. My faulty knees felt spry and I covered the baseline with reckless abandon. Nothing but a sandstorm could stop me! While volleying break point in a pivotal game, the screech of tires could be heard from the road. Crash! A flicker ensued before every street light went out in the park. The switch to pitch black proved quite startling. Coal miners enjoy better lighting underground. We couldn’t even locate the stray ball we had been playing with. We found our way back to bunk on the courtside bench. After a few minutes of utter darkness, the gravity of the moment came full circle. I wasn’t meant to play tennis.

My friend asked, “Joe, do you think the lights will come back on?”

“This must be a sign from God. I think we’re done playing tennis tonight.”

AAA Roadside Assistance - The Waiting not Wading is the Hardest Part

God bowled in New Jersey on August 8, 2005.

I pulled into the Hess gas station today riding on fumes. I felt on top of the world. My car didn't run out of gas. I took out a $20.00 bill and waved it at the approaching female attendant.

"Please turn off your engine." she politely ordered.

Perhaps I am used to a female barking orders at me because I silenced the engine like never before. With the price of gas at $2.29 a gallon I gave the sarcastic reply."Fill it 1/4 of the way up."

The attendant responded with a defiant stare like she knows the price of gas is outrageously high too. Talk about fuel for thought. She waited for clarification with a hand on the hip.

"As far as $20.00 will take me." I obliged in a quieter tone.

She gasses me up and I donate the proceeds to a nameless Arab country that has the United States over a barrel literally and figuratively. I turned the key in the ignition but my car won't start. After about a half hour, the attendant returned to my immobile car and asked me if I wanted anymore gas.

"What are you kidding?" I say astonished.

I can't tell if she is providing comic relief until she smiles. "At least you're running on all cylinders." I joked.

I waited another half hour while periodically trying to start the car. The ignition choked an Ergh-Ergh-Ergh sound but refused to start. Without the air conditioner running, my pampered body sweltered like a clam in a clam bake. My shirt became drenched from the humidity. The attendant passed by the front of the car, hesitated for a moment, then waved goodbye to me. She crossed the busy circle with relative ease.

I began to talk to myself in the car. "She is done her shift and is walking home. She is going to beat me home. She is mocking me. Why that wisecracker."

But I had bigger problems that weren't so pedestrian. I called Automobile Association of America's emergency roadside assistance. I don't know about anyone else but I have AAA's number as a speed dial option on my cell phone.

"Where are you and the car at?"

"That's an easy one. Brooklawn, NJ. Brooklawn Circle. Hess gas station."

"Sir, we usually tow to gas stations. Don't they have a mechanic on duty?"

"No, they don't have a mechanic. Not since 1945. I'm not busting your balls trying to inconvenience you to tow a car that I could push a few feet. I need a legitimate tow off the premises."

She advised, "That will be 45 minutes."

"That long?"

"Unless you are blocking the gas pumps in which case I can tag this a priority."

"I'm definitely broken down in front of the gas pumps causing a slight disturbance of the peace in liberal terms of course."

"Of course. Okay, then the window is inside 45 minutes. You are a priority."

I checked the time on my cell phone and began waiting. Tick Tock. It gets to be so stifling hot inside my car that I get out and pace. More time passed. I look around at my surroundings. The gas station might not have a mechanic but I'll be darn, there is a restroom when you need it. I walked over to the unisex defacatorium but the door is locked. For no known reason, I gave a male attendant the Universal Sign Language sign for toilet.

He sees me from the distance. "It's out of order, buddy." I think of the irony that the first thing I did when I got out of bed this morning was plunger a stopped up toilet. Shit happens.

So now I am not only uncomfortably hot but my Jethro Clampant size lunch is working its way through my intestinal tract and I don't have a bathroom. I am thinking about the female attendant who is home probably sipping her third Budweiser by now. That is when I heard a voice behind me.

A trucker says to me. "Can you fill it up and I'll take a pack of Marlboro?"

"I don't work here." I denounced.

The case of mistaken identity causes me to retreat back inside my car. I glimpse a AAA flatbed truck rounding the circle and coming towards me. No car is on the bed. This has got to be my tow. I leave my car and run out to the road and wave down the driver. The indifferent driver gives me a who-are-you-kidding brush off wave and heads up Route 130 North.

I am seething at the absurdness. I call AAA headquarters. They check with the dispatcher. "Just a liittle longer." she insists. "Help is on the way."

A few minutes later, I see another AAA flatbed truck rounding the circle. About time. I have been flying standby for too long. I wave to my rescuer. He blows right by me without stopping. I feel like a jack ass waving to people on a merry-go-round. A huge storm cloud gathers to my left. I can feel the barometric pressure dropping as my blood pressure rises. I get back on the phone to AAA.

I hear the same voice on the other end of the receiver. "If this is priority service, what do the common folk settle for - same day service?"

"Who is this?"

"Joe Tornatore. I have been waiting for an hour and forty minutes. People are asking me to pump their gas. AAA trucks keep passing me by on the road while I am doing my best approximation of an SOS wave. Can you tell the dispatcher to alert drivers in the vicinity that there are no hitchhikers trolling the Brooklawn Circle? It's just one unhappy AAA member. Now, I can't stress this enough - an awful storm is heading this way, my bowels hurt, and my car still needs a tow. Do you copy?"

"I'm sorry about the delay. Hold on."

While every part of my body is on hold, a tow truck pulls up on the pumps next to me. His signage says Delran Mobile. I think nothing of it. He does not move from his parking space by the pumps. He does not leave the vehicle. He looks to be getting gas.

"Mr. Tornatore, the dispatcher insists the driver is at your location now."

"Wait a minute." I approach the tow truck from the driver side and see that the driver momentarily stopped his vehicle to talk to the dispatcher, while the dispatcher was talking to AAA who was also conferencing to me. The biggest travel agency in the country has four phones chirping and nobody can find a wildly waving man at one of the biggest intersections in South Jersey. Go figure.

"Disregard this call. He's finally here. I see you sent me a driver just about from North Jersey."

That's when the darkened skies opened up with a battery of lightning and rain. For five bucks, I earned a dry ride in the tow truck. The driver was personable and real cool. We talked a lot about the Wendy Williams radio show in between lightning bolts. About TWO inches of torrential rain fell in some areas in less than a half hour. The deluge reduced traffic to a snarl. My snarl. The storm got so bad that we talked about nothing else but the weather.

"I have never seen rain coming down so hard or lightning bolts so thick." The tow truck driver confessed.

"This is like a scene in the movie The Day After Tomorrow." I commented. "Seems like a smart move to have tipped you when we were in the eye of the storm."

"Wow, feel that rolling thunder!" he said with amazement.

"That was God bowling. Did you see that? He just got another strike. " I quip with play by play commentary.

Before we got to the auto repair shop, we ran into road closings, detours, and police activity. We crept by the Bally's gym which I knew from experience was taking on water right about now(see post dated July 28th Bally's Gym Never a Rainout ). I smirked at the watered down irony. The driver again admitted to his fear of lightning. I quoted lines from the movie The Day After Tomorrow to amuse myself. He never saw the movie so I all but convinced him I worked as a climatologist. Just about every driver had pulled over their car to the side of the road to wait out either the bad weather or the end of the world. My Ford Taurus might have been broken down and riding piggy but it passed every last car on the runway. It wasn't the end of the world but it sure as hell felt like it.

Twist on a List

Five major things I detest about the world:

1. acts of war for political reasons or religious persecution

2. bureaucracy in any form

3. blatant prejudice

4. parents surviving their children

5. lack of ambition in the gifted and talented

Five idiosyncrasies that I do not like:

1. tasting adhesive from the stickers on fresh fruit

2. witnessing a person litterering in the proximity of a trash receptacle

3. hearing nails drag across a chalk board

4. feeling sand between my toes

5. hearing an alarm clock in the morning

Nineteen Lies and an Isolated Truth

Weed the truth from fiction. Post your answer.

1)I shook the hand of President Jimmy Carter

2)I got an autograph of Ben Stiller in person

3)I was treated for bulimia

4)I have been married three times.

5)I own firearms including an assault rifle

6)I made over $9,000 in Ebay sales last year.

7)I have three children.

8) I have been aboard a UFO.

9)I ran out of gasoline in the Nevada desert.

10)I was attacked by a shark while the original movie Jaws played in movie theatres.

11)I own a United States Patent.

12)I am a Jehovah’s Witness.

13)Lightning has struck me not once but twice.

14)I was born in Italy.

15)I have a photographic memory.

16)I dated a midget who guest starred on Seinfeld.

17)I am valedictorian of my high school class.

18)I was grand marshall in a parade.

19)In a truth or dare, I held my breath underwater for over 6 minutes.

20)My master’s degree is in parapsychology

A Left-Handed Compliment While Punking a Friend

Tennis anyone?

Dinner with friends can lead to all kinds of trouble. My wife has her share of male friends and I am not a jealous man. Last autumn, Diane came home from happy hour and dinner with friends saying she wagered my tennis skills against a psychologist in a three set match on the court of his choosing. That was the only proposition that went down so I considered it an innocent night out with my wife.

"How much did you bet?" I asked.

My wife set the playing field. "Thirty bucks to you. I got to just take Gunther to dinner if you lose."

"Now those are fighting words. I lose; he gets dinner alone with my wife."

I have such a competitive tenacious nature about myself, the challenge was impossible to turn down. Gunther was equally competitive and a betting man by the likes of it. Before the match was even scheduled, I heard scuttlebutt that he was taking drill lessons at the Cherry Hill Racquet Club. I had thoughts to send out a scout with high powered binoculars. My opponent was a student of conditioning through long distance running and had athleticism in his dossier. I, on the other hand, have coordination. I am like a bull who can balance china in a china shop. But in competition against superior athletes, I needed to rely on my will to win, refusal to lose at all costs.

With Gunther's training and conditioning complete, I tried to set-up the match for Election Day since we both had the day off from work. A staunch republican, Gunther quite frankly had been voicing a little anxiety about the election. This was a guy who spent a week at Ronald Reagan's funeral and bought specially made Bush ketchup from a website to not support the Kerry/Heinz campaign. I figured Election Day might be a good day to play him trying to gain any advantage I could. I envisioned shouting out Ohio's electoral votes going Democratic if the match got close. I called him up at 9am in the morning and he had already been to church and voted Republican, although I am not sure whether he prayed or polled first. He urged me to vote Republican and then and only then did we discuss tennis. As it turned out, we both decided to play the tennis match on the coming Saturday November 6, 2004 at 9:30am at Cherry Hill East High School.

No sooner did I arrive on the court did Gunther announce the winds blowing at an easterly 10-15 mph. My wife warned me Gunther was a hyper guy but if I didn't know any better I swear he was pumped on speed. It was a grueling three set match. I won the first set 6-4 and he complained mightily about the spin I put on the ball as a left-handed player. He clocked me in the second set 1-6.

Thirty dollars and bragging rights came down to the last set. The deciding set went back and forth but I clearly ran out of gas. I carried with me a hundred extra pounds than him on every shot. At one point, I purposely hit the ball over the fence, shouted "Oops" and Gunther chased the ball across the high school parking lot as I bellied over sucking air. If my diseased body recognizes my strain as an emergency, anaphylaxis could happen. But I wanted to win. In the bitter end, Gunther won the last two games decidedly and won the final set 4-6. We walked off the court and shook hands but that is where the practical joke started. May the games begin! If someone is going to beat me in tennis and nearly kill me in the undertaking, I am going to have the last laugh.

Gunther works with my brother and my wife. I knew Gunther would spread it around to all who went out the night the bet was made. So I spoke in confidence to my wife and brother right after the match was decided. I had all the players in line. They reported back to me on my cell phone as my sinister plan unfolded.

The following Monday morning, Gunther winds up sharing an elevator with my brother Jim. They were both going to a treatment team meeting. Before they were even off the elevator Gunther speaks highly of his weekend conquest. To the spoils go the victor. To the joke goes the puppeteer.

"I beat your brother in tennis on Saturday."

"Joe?" he asked coyly. "You didn't beat Joe."

"Oh yes I did. He beat me the first set but I won the next two."

"Let me get this straight. You beat my brother Joe in tennis. There is no way."

"Yes, I just said I beat your brother." asserted the zealot Republican. "Ask him yourself."

"I will and if you beat him I am going to tease Joe like crazy because nobody beats him in tennis."

Jimmy left it alone. Gunther perseverated but Jimmy knew it was too early in the day for him not to bring up the subject again.

In the treatment team room later that morning, Gunther says to my brother. "Why didn't you think I could beat Joe in tennis?"

"It doesn't happen. Wait a minute?" Jimmy changes his posture in his seat. Methodical acting is in the Tornatore blood. "Tell me you didn't bet Joe. Tell me there was nothing on the line?"

"Yeah, I did bet. We bet $30.00, his wife put up the money on his side. Why what's wrong with that? I won fair and square."

"No, you didn't Gunther. Joe pulls this all the time with people who do not know him. He bets low and loses on purpose. Then he'll make a ridiculously high wager later and take your money. I've seen him do it in racquetball, billiards, darts, and bubble hockey. It doesn't matter what sport, the formula is the same."

"I got news for you, Joe was trying as hard as he could. He was huffing and puffing. He was cursing in the end. He wanted to win. I can't be more clear, your brother didn't throw the tennis match with me."

Jimmy let out the hook. "There is only one sure way to tell Gunther. If you were part of a ruse, I guarantee you Joe was playing you left-handed."

It was silent for a couple of seconds then Gunther lost composure. He picked up the telephone and dialed my wife's extension. I told Diane to expect his call and sure enough it was Gunther on the line, who was ballistic by now.

"Diane, tell me the truth. Is your husband left or right handed?"

My wife lied through her teeth to perpetuate the myth. "Right is his dominant hand."

"I don't believe this. Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I told you my sweetie was an athlete. Sometimes against lesser opponents, he will even the playing field and he will play southpaw."

"Why would he spend an afternoon losing to me in tennis unless there was.." he paused. "Does Joe bet on games?"

"If Joe is lining his pockets AND getting exercise I don't know anything about that."

Gunther became defensive. "I can't believe your husband thinks he is going to take me to the cleaners? To fleece me no less."

He haphazardly got off the phone with my wife and peppered my brother with another battery of tests. He made another phone call to someone who watched me play in a racquetball tournament years ago. The same question was asked. "Ambidextrous." the guy replied for some still unknown reason.

It is outstanding folly when you can dupe a psychologist with psychometrics. People who wager on athletic games do not like to be taken to the river in a flim-flam. I wasn't spastic playing racquet sports with my right hand but my left is unanimously my dominant hand bar none.

Gunther calls me and let's me know that Diane will not have to pay him the $30.00. Instead, his courtesy call is to inform me he will be soon dining with my wife at the Creole Café in Williamstown, a charming little restaurant tucked out of the way.

A week later, I left him a telephone message. "Gunther, how about a rematch in tennis? I know you are a gambling man, so what do you say we make it a Ben Franklin this time? There should be a little more at stake if you lose since you proved already to be a better tennis player than me. If you lose, you also got to dump all the Bush ketchup down the drain and register Democrat. Give me a call so we can set something up before the next election."

But the joke ended when friends and family felt sorry for the seething victor. They told Gunther of my left-handed orientation. Too bad. I like a joke to go on as long as it can without hurting anyone. Gunther, you read my Blog from time to time. If you are reading this, recognize that I had the decency of assigning you a pseudonym. I hope you have cooled your jets by now. Remember, winning always has a price with me.

Armenian Cheese an American Slice of Life

"Armenian String cheese has a mild taste and the color of the cheese is pure white. A Syrian-style String cheese is similar to regular String cheese. This cheese is used as a table cheese and also for Middle Eastern cooking."

Many convenience stores are being bought out by Middle Easterners. Not too long ago, my favorite Wawa fell into the hands of strangers. I remember my first visit to the store after it had been sold. The staff had been let go. Strange music played over the intercom. My nostrils could not detect the smell of hot piping coffee. The shelves were not barren but they lacked brimming inventory. I found only one man juggling the floor, cashier, and deli. He had no business in the deli that day. If only I had no business in the deli that day.

"May I help you?" asked the turban wearing man before walking behind the deli counter.

"I'll take a pound of American cheese."

"Armenian cheese?" he questioned.

I repeated my first cold cut order, "American cheese, thank you."

"Ah American. Good choice. How much, say again?"

"A pound." I was confused. I thought to myself, does Armenian cheese really exist or is he stringing me along?

He acted confused in a scaled down sort of way. "How much is a pound?"

"Sixteen magnificent ounces, why?"

"No. How much cheese please?" He labored in his communication and enunciated only broken English.

"A pound please."

"No. How many slices do you want?"

It was almost time to look around for the Candid Camera. "I don't care how many slices? As long as it amounts to a pound of cheese at the end of the order, I'll be happy."

Then came the real problem. "We no have no, how do you say, scale?"

"Wait a minute. The deli doesn't own a scale? That is ludicrous."

All he did was smile. He did not understand my language let alone the sarcasm embedded in it. What was a patron saint to do?

"The cheese please?" I repeated.

He held his ground, this time without a smile. "How many slices?" He made a violent chopping motion with his hand which approximated a violent beheading. I was floored. He got my dander up and it showed.

"Give me 34 slices." I barked. "That's right. 44 slices. Not 43 or 45. 44 slices of American cheese. Not Armenian cheese, Iranian cheese or Turkey cheese for that matter. I want American cheese. White cheese, not yellow or jaundice looking."

"Yes." he grinned.

I watched a Middle Eastern man slice cheese quite possibly for the first time in his deli career. He seemed timid of the precision spinning slicer. I didn't order any fingers on the side so his hesitancy worried me. Into the store walked a twenty something deliveryman coming off manning a cell phone.

"Can anyone tell me what store number is this? I have a delivery?"

The meat slicer spun to a screeching halt. The foreigner put the block of cheese down. Oh no, I thought to myself. Before he could walk out to tend to the deliveryman, I got questioned.

"Buddy, do you work here?" asked the deliveryman.

"Never." I answered.

"I have a delivery."

"...I hope it is a scale." I remarked.

"No, bread."

The deli man made himself visible. He did not introduce himself and won no leadership points as an entrepreneur. He just stood there raising that same silly smile. I will forever refer to it as a cheesy Armenian smile.

"This is my last delivery of the day. I want to get done. I got a sick kid at home. What store number is this? My chart says this the Wawa?"

The deli man did not answer. He did not move. He was as pliable as Plymouth rock.

"Sharif, are you deaf?" the deliveryman scolded.

No answer. The deliveryman stormed out of the store. His frustration literally spilled over into the streets. I figured that was the end of him but he wasn't leaving. The deliveryman marched through the parking lot and out to the road to examine the store sign. I saw his hands waving wildly. He returned to the store outraged.

"Yo. Yo." He summoned the deli man. Down went the block of cheese. "How long have you been working here, Sharif?"

"One week." he answered.

"You have been working here one week and you don't know the name of your freaking store?"

The turban wearing man raised a single gloved finger. "No, I have been in America one week."

"It looks like your sign used to say Wawa but a makeover reads Pantry. I must know the right name and number of this store so my bread can be signed for?"

No answer. The deliveryman looked to me for help. After all, I was the only one foolish enough to be doing business in the store.

"Don't look at me." I admonished politely. "He is the one new to America and he has got me conditioned into ordering a tray of cold cuts by the slice."

"Ugh, what the frick is this country coming to?" exclaimed the deliveryman before storming out of the store in a huff. He left for good this time taking his delivery cart of bread back to the truck.

My forty four slices of American cheese were ready ten minutes later. I counted aloud in English. Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen...slices. He asked me "how much" at the register.

The Mind is a Terrible Thing to Lambaste

"The mind is like an iceberg, it floats with one-seventh of its bulk above water" -Sigmund Freud

In the last six months, I have become uncharacteristically forgetful. This has become a cauldron of worry for me. Permanent memory loss is a health concern associated with my disease, Mastocytosis. So I would salute if my absentmindedness turned out to be only stress related. I cannot imagine otherwise. My brain prides itself on organization and memory. The magnetic tape of my mind seems to be running thin, worn but not overplayed at forty two years of age. I understand that Decay Theory postulates that the brain works in a diminished capacity after a certain age but I am an invigorating middle aged.

I don't get lost in the day but I search for the familiar in what seems brand new. I must heavily rely on written reminders to myself. A Things to Do List at home, a Things to Do List at work, a Honey-Do List, and a Honey Don’t List. Although it hasn’t reached epidemic proportions and I haven’t hit the panic button, the fear looms like a Robert DeNiro clinging to the undercarriage of the car in Cape Fear. I can still recognize my own handwriting on the Post-It notes. So I got that going for me. This too will pass is what I keep telling myself because I would rue the day when my family members are resigned to wearing nametags for my benefit.

How I fumbled into awareness of the problem is a sad truism but one to be plastered on a website dedicated to irony. It all started when I misplaced a short story on Alzheimer’s disease. A play on words, the story of my life disappeared for months. I couldn’t find it anywhere then one day it turns up spitting out my inkjet printer. What a demented coincidence. Some unseen forces at play must have got out the can of Intrigue to coax me into losing a short story about memory loss. It is the first thing that I lost in a decade but now these little things are happening now and again. Sure I am human but God never made me mortal in this way before. I am going to take a chill pill, perform some self-hypnosis, and see if things are not better in the morning. Good night, whatever your name is. And I pray. God grant me the serenity to not lose all the things I can, to accept the things I cannot bear to lose, and the wisdom to not lose sight of the difference.

My phone started ringing at 6am the day the story went to press. The voice on the other end of the phone said I made the front page of the Courier Post. The story spilled over into the sports section, something my athletic career never did for me. The newspaper referred to me as “South Jersey Super Fan” but I am not looking for another alter ego. I have enough nicknames to confuse an adoption agency. The Courier Post asked to come back to my house to cover a story on the day of the Super Bowl. One huge problem. I am not hosting a Super Bowl party to my knowledge. Friends please stop calling me about your invitation to the ultimate Super Bowl party. I am not missing a second of this pivotal game schlepping Eagle green martinis, hearing children cry for their mommies, or microwaving cheese dip to a tepid temperature suitable for your palettes, Boo-hoo, it ain’t happening. Can you hear me know, Angela H., Magillicutty, Joe H., Jimmy, Doug? To the general public, I stopped doing house tours the moment this article hit the newsstands. Anyway, you can check out the article. It is very cool press. http://www.courierpostonline.com/news/southjersey/m012605c.htm There is also a link for the photo gallery.