ROCK'N'ROLL WILL POWER

Rock’n’roll shaped my opinion of life and death. As a teenager, I adopted the mantra of my generation, “I hope I die before I get old,” never imagining back then that Roger Daltrey would be belting that tune out in his 60’s. I used to awake every morning to Roger’s taut naked chest suspended above me on my bedroom wall never thinking that someday it would be covered by layers of shirts and vests in an effort to conceal his AARP man boobs. I mean, WHO would have thought back in 1975 that someday Pete Townsend’s bursitis would get in the way of his windmill? And now Ringo turned 70? Loathe though I am to admit it, my rolling stone is gathering moss where no moss should ever grow.

The truth is that unless I live into my 80’s, my life is already half over. I’m not opposed to living that long, but only if I’m crazy as a loon because I don’t think I can handle the betrayal of my body. I don’t want to be aware that my body can’t perform the simple tasks that my mind tells it too, like putting on pants or shaking a martini without dislocating my shoulder. Also, I don’t want to shock people just by the fact that I’m still alive. I recently had a conversation with a very vibrant 90 year old woman who told me that you don’t know what freedom is until you’re 90. “The very fact that I’m still alive shocks the hell out of people. I can drop my shorts and it wouldn’t be as shocking as the fact that I’m 90 and still have my wits!”

My wishes are simple, so let me go on record so there’s no confusion about my send off. Now, I love going to parties. I love celebrating the milestones of my friends—birthdays, marriages, divorces, but I’ve never been comfortable having the attention put upon me. That changes when I die. I want the biggest, brassiest party to make up for all the ones I said I never wanted. I want Jamie, the bartender from In Napoli, to just set up shop on the hood of my coffin. Remember: Open bar, closed casket. I can’t bear to hear, “God she looks awful,” without replying, “Of course I do. I’m DEAD! Jamie, a Makers Mark, toots-sweet!”

          Let me be perfectly clear, if anyone buries me wearing pantyhose I will haunt them for the rest of their natural life, and then hunt them down in the hereafter. That goes for underwear too. I don’t want to spend eternity with a wedgie. Since we’re on the subject, sans bra as well. It’s always Saturday morning in my heaven.

          I know that this will shock those of you who know my insane shoe addiction, but bury me shoe-less. Socks are just fine. However, place a few pairs of my beloved platforms inside the casket just in case there’s Dancing with the Stars and Jesus needs a partner.   

          Now this is very important. I want to be buried with my beloved dog, Burkey, a.k.a. Bad Dog. If she has pre-deceased me unearth her and put her in the casket with me. If she’s living, smother her. Trust me, if she’s left with my husband to care for her she’ll put her head in the oven anyway.

          Even though I’ve moved from the parish, I’d like to have my funeral mass celebrated at Holy Trinity Church in Fort Lee. I began my sacraments there, it would be smoother administratively to end them there. I don’t want St. Peter saying, “Well, we received St. John’s paperwork, but we’re waiting for Holy Trinity’s. Have a seat with the Atheists.”  Also, while everyone is mourning me, I can run across the street to the 7-11 and get some scratch-off’s, a coffee, and a buttered roll. 

          I’m formally requesting that the Fort Lee Police escort my funeral procession. Not only because I know Chief Ripoli, but I fear that if I’m escorted by the Leonia Police my coffin will be littered with tickets and I don’t want my entrance into eternity delayed by having to go to purgatory to pay all those surcharges.

          Lastly, if I should die before I get old, somebody take out the recycling. My husband never remembers.

THE SUMMER MY PARENTS RUINED MY LIFE…AND HOW ONE LIBRARIAN, A MAYOR, BERNIE’S & HAAGEN DAZS SAVED IT

On June 11^th, 1980, at approximately 10:00 p.m. (with the voices of Channel 11’s Action News Team, Bill Jorgensen and Pat Harper, chatting in the background) just one day into my summer vacation from Paramus Catholic Girls Regional High School, my parents grounded me for the summer. The Whole Entire Summer!    

            In retrospect, leading your friends past your house while one of them (Wally W., are you reading this?) is swinging a six-pack of Michelob Light in each hand and E.L.O.’s Greatest Hits is blasting from Sue’s boom box was probably a really boneheaded thing to do. I tried to convince my parents that I was only months away from the legal drinking age—albeit, 36 months, but still, come on! I even fessed up that the primary reason attendance was high for Holy Trinity’s evening Teen mass was because wine was offered with communion, turning mass into an under-aged Holy Happy Hour. We stood, chaperone-less, encircling Father Donald on the altar as the golden chalice of wine was passed hand-to-eager-hand and liberally refilled by the altar boys because Father Donald could never quite remember where the circle began or ended.

           I was confident that I could successfully grieve my situation to my union president father. After all, he was a fair man who had a great deal of respect for, and knowledge of, the process of law. However, in my case, the legal process was suspended and all petitions for writs of Habeas Corpus were denied—my parents were in full “possession of the body.” Yet, there was a stipulation to the ruling; I was eligible for work-release and, when not working, I had full library privileges.

          By the next day I had secured three jobs, and settled myself into the Fort Lee Library. I never thought of not following my parent’s rules. Remember, there was no DYFUS back then; fear had a lot of mileage because every threat had follow-through attached to it.

I walked through the double doors of the library and meandered down the ordered rows as the sound of the boys from Madonna pitching coins against the wall outside floated in through the windows. I occasionally paused to inhale the musty mélange of glue, leather and the indelible scent of the passage of time. All was quiet and peaceful until my senses were abruptly disturbed by the compositioned floral powders of Chanel No. 5. Walking towards me was the blond coutured Reference Librarian. She pointedly inquired what I was looking for.

“My old life,” I replied. I explained that I was going to spend my summer honing my writing skills at the library because I was going to be a great writer.

          She let her designer bifocals slip down the bridge of her nose and replied, “If you want to be a great writer you must first be a great reader. Follow me. Take notes.” She handed me her pad of yellow-lined paper and a pencil and guided me on a literary tour of every aisle in the library.

“If you want to learn point-of-view read Henry James; if you want to learn irony read Jane Austen; if you want to learn what Hell smells like read John Milton; if you want to understand the importance of using punctuation read Virginia Woolf—she wouldn’t know a period if it got up and introduced itself to her; if you want to live among the wealthy in old Manhattan read Edith Wharton; if you want to learn how timeless are the problems we mortals face read Shakespeare; if you want adventure read The Odyssey; if you want to write history, read history.  The New York Times Book Review will make you a master of all subjects; The New Yorker and The Atlantic Monthly will introduce you to the best living writers; and mastering the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle will give you a near perfect SAT score.  

“What if I want to learn about sex?” I queried in an effort to crack her composition.

“How about starting with Moby Dick?” she offered without effect.

“Call me Ishmael,” I replied. And with that, my sentence began.

Part Two: My Three Jobs (Spoiler Alert:  I’m still grounded.)