ASKING BILL BUCKLEY TO MY SENIOR PROM

"Hmmm...I must remember to tell Pat to have my tux cleaned so I can wear it to take Ann to the prom."

In 1981, while other 15-year-old girls were hanging pictures of rock stars on their bedroom walls, I was amputating the perfectly chiseled face of William F. Buckley from newspapers and magazines and scotch taping it with random precision to my floral papered bedroom wall as if Bill Buckley might just stroll one day through the pastel garden of my boudoir.  Bill Buckley smiling; Bill Buckley in tuxedo; Bill Buckley with his hair askew standing on the bow of his yacht. This was the collage of the man who spoke to me every week with such elegance and erudition.  I was simply in love with a man who was in love with language. 

          Our cerebral love affair (mine and Bill’s, of course) began when I first sat down to watch Firing Line with my union president father.  The first majestic note of Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No. 2 in F Major, Third Movement, (allegro assai) ushered me into the cerebral cathedral of Compassionate Conservatives.

          Listening to Bill debate with his guests the sturm und drang of world politics; the responsibility of our leadership to retain our position of dominance while extending the rewards of our capitalistic philosophy to Third World countries—all this, made me fall in love with him. 

          Despite the great divide of our ages, I knew that Bill and I could form a perfect partnership. It’s because of Bill that I studied Latin at Paramus Catholic Girls Regional High School. As I sat imprisoned in my archaic wooden desk, diligently concentrating as Sr. Helen Rita dryly lectured on declensions and etymology, my thoughts ebbed and flowed with imaginings of my future with Bill.  Sitting elbow-to-elbow in a darkened corner of Elaine’s fluently whispering our private Latin to each other while Norman Mailer eyed us with drunken jealousy.  I wanted to be Bill’s muse, his tabula rasa, upon whom he could impart the worlds of his knowledge while Pat and Bill Blass did the Paris fashion shows. I didn’t want to have his name, or his child--only his vocabulary.  

          In the spring of 1983, my political science class was awarded an opportunity to attend a taping of Firing Line. As we walked onto the darkened set, I noticed the overflowing pile of notes by Bill’s chair. I lifted one of the notebooks and stared at the hieroglyphics of Bill’s handwriting with the same rush of discovery of a National Geographic explorer who has just unearthed the new tomb of an old pharaoh.

Then there he was, striding confidently into my life. The stagger of his swagger suggested he had sipped one too many gently shaken dry martinis at PJ Clarkes for lunch. He gently collapsed, rather than sat, into his chair. His broad smile metastasized into an annoyed grimace, his lips emitting a barely audible grumble, as he shooed away the make-up person, who was hovering directly above his face with a large black-bristled powder brush that dripped its incandescence all over his dark blue suit. His eyes looked beyond the bright overhead lights as he adjusted his tie—focusing his gaze on the black space beyond the lights, beyond the audience, to that space that held no reflection, only darkness.

After the show, Bill came over to our group. Overwhelmed with anxiety, I stood off to the side. After answering questions from my classmates, he strode away from the circle, approached me and asked about my future plans. I told him that I wanted to be a writer and was reading the ancients, classics, and my monthly subscription to The National Review.

 With a wry eye he proposed that while the ancients would impart to me substantial intellectual footing, his works would endow me with gravitas. And then, utterly charmed, I was moved to ask him to my senior prom.  He tossed his head back and released a sincere laugh while his eyes stared above me in the act of great consideration.

“Yours is the best invitation I’ve had in a very long time; but an old man like me escorting such a vibrant thinker as yourself would be a bore to both you and your friends.

 Before walking away he placed his left hand upon my shoulder and said, “Keep reading and writing and thinking. I expect to be reading you one day.”  And then as quietly and undisturbingly as he had walked into my life, he was gone.

EXPLETIVES DELETED (AND SO WAS THIS COLUMN!)

The First Amendment is Overrated!

(Hey Folks, here's the column that my editor at the Bergen News, Doug Hall, refused to print because it would upset the readership. All the news that's fit to print except mine. So, if I offend, please read no further. Otherwise, I'd love to hear from you.)

In 1972, George Carlin immortalized himself through his “7 Words You Can’t Say…” monologue and talk of it trickled down to the schoolyard as a topic of conversation at recess. I remember the outrage provoked by George’s monologue, but none of the older kids would let me in on what exactly those seven words were. I pleaded, I begged, I eavesdropped on the upper classes at recess. Nothing. I mean, even in my Tween years, words were my bag, man. The good, the bad, but most especially, the ugly. If only someone would tell me what they were!

          Unfortunately for me, I was born into a house where swearing was less a part of the vernacular and more an inadvertent slip of the tongue. The dropping of potent potables were limited to emphasizing physical pain, as in “son of a ***** my toe!” or, to exhibit frustration “********* listen to your mother!” or, the trigger that released airbags of anger “Wipe that ******* smirk off your face right now!” There was an occasional slip of a ****, or a temperate ***-******, but nothing operatic or symphonic.

          On the other hand, my friend’s mother, who was a waitress at the Fort Lee Diner, crafted curse words with the same artistic precision that Michelangelo carved his masterpiece, the Statue of David. Her accomplished and pointed tongue demonstrated extraordinary technical skill that displayed the strength of her symbolic imagination. I would spend hours at my friend’s house following her mother around, my ears the tuning fork for her *-*’s and her go **** **** ****’s that she tatted into her conversation like finely webbed heirloom lace.

          So, imagine my surprise when while visiting the newsroom last week, my editor took me aside and informed me that I could not use the word **** in my columns anymore. Frankly, I don’t even remember typing ****, but it sounded like me. And I never considered **** to be an expletive especially since a priest I know regularly peppers his conversations with it. However, he said, there were complaints. People were offended. Really? Complaints? Well, I’ll be—that means somebody other than my mother is reading! (Wait. Mom, did you lodge a complaint?)

Standing there I felt like I was back in Junior year at Paramus Catholic Girls Regional High School being publicly excoriated by Sr. Lawrence wishing she’d just give me the demerit for whatever archaic rule I had violated and save the “Hell hath no fury” sermon for a Freshman. Here’s the rub: no one can curse quite like a Catholic School girl can. Some of the girls in my class could hold their own with any salty sailor; in fact, most our tongues were tinged with Tourette’s. We could profanely roll our tongues as adeptly as we could roll our skirts. And with the same minimal amount of effort.

If he thought the word **** was a profanity, he should spend an afternoon with me or any overworked, overtired, overstressed, underpaid mom on her way to pick up this kid from his friend’s house, drop that kid off at soccer, and take another kid and his friends to the movies at the same time her husband is calling to ask what she’s cooking for dinner. Better yet, stand next to a mom at the check-out line at Shop Rite when she finds out her debit card has been declined and she has 18 bags of groceries sitting in her shopping cart and her screaming toddler is poised to impale himself onto the pointed bag of frozen shoestring French fries. Or accompany a mom to Model’s and witness her reaction when while purchasing her son’s cleats, socks, and shin guards is informed by the 17-year-old sales clerk that she is no longer the Master of her Card when he announces to the entire store, “Oh great! Your card is no good!” I’m going out on a limb here, but I’m going to guess that “darn-it” isn’t quite the descriptive word these moms are reaching for.    

          So, from mom-to-mom, I apologize if I’ve linguistically offended any of you. I’m going to **** (hint: that’s the word that got me into trouble!) on a bar of LifeBoy to clean up my language. But for old times’ sake, here’s a final “*!@??%%??%??@??@?%****” to all my saucy-tongued stressed-out sisters!

MY FAVORITE INDEPENDENTLY OWNED ICE CREAM SHOPPES IN BERGEN COUNTY

                                                        (Van Dyk's in Ridgewood)

To kickoff summer, I thought it would be great to do a column on ice cream shoppes—not just any ice cream shoppes—independently owned ice cream shoppes. In my search, I visited as many places as I could, and ate more ice cream than I can tell you—let’s just say it was a fun family adventure! I was shocked to discover that there is such a thing as bad ice cream. When it comes to ice cream there is no in-between—it either tastes great or it doesn’t. Here are my top three favorite places. I hope you take time this summer to try all of these places and, as always, support our local independent owners!

Van Dyk’s Ice Cream, 145 Ackerman Ave, Ridgewood:  VanDyk’s will spoil your taste for ice cream forever. Without a doubt, the most delicious ice cream I ever have or ever will taste. Their ice cream is homemade (made on premises), their prices are cheap, and the portions are HUGE! Take-out only, they have an extensive selection of distinctive homemade flavors such as Strawberry Oreo, German Chocolate Crunch, Cotton Candy, Cheesecake Crunch, and so much more. If you like Strawberry, VanDyk’s is sublime—as if you’re eating fresh strawberries and cream. How is it that you never heard of VanDyk’s? They’ve been around FOREVER, but they don’t advertise so unless you live in Ridgewood, got lost in Ridgewood, or someone told you about it, you’ll never find it. It’s located smack in the middle of a residential area, and has one wooden sign that’s not lit at night. Many moons ago I ran cross country and track for (pre-co-ed) Paramus Catholic and VanDyk’s was on our training course. Can you believe that I never went there for ice cream??? To get there take W. Ridgewood Ave. until you can go no further; turn right at N. Broad St, turn left at light and go under train trestle (this is Garber Sq); stay on right side of road (it turns into Godwin Ave) and turn left onto Ackerman Ave. VanDyk’s is on your left.

The Local Scoop, Schaler Blvd, Ridgefield (across from Café Tivoli): Independently owned by Jeff DiSimone, and having the nicest, most attentive, most polite servers, The Local Scoop is my new “close-to-home” go-to. Serving Hershey’s Ice Cream and 12 flavors of homemade Italian Ices, The Local Scoop is reminiscent of an old-time ice cream shoppe with small tables and chairs, and besides scooping great tasting ice cream, it’s kept meticulously clean. They offer custom made ice cream cakes, egg creams, frozen hot chocolate, sundaes, banana splits, ice cream cannolis, and so much more. They have a great selection of ice creams—in fact, my daughter is now a devotee of their “Playdough” ice cream. (It’s yellow vanilla ice cream with colored cookie dough. If you can get past the fact that it really looks like playdough—it tastes delicious!) Other flavors include Cotton Candy, Candy Bar Overload—(a must-have for the over-stressed), Cappuccino Crunch, Birthday Cake, Scout Mint, ‘Smores, and more. They also host birthday parties so if you’re looking for something different that you know the kids will love—give Jeff and his fantastic staff a call!

Bischoff’s, 468 Cedar Lane, Teaneck: A traditional old fashioned ice cream parlor and candy shop, Bischoff’s is the place to go if you want to completely satisfy your confectionary cravings. Their ice cream is homemade and made on the premises, but whereas VanDyk’s is a hidden treasure, Bischoff’s is a beacon on Cedar Lane. You can either eat your ice cream at the counter sitting on a swivel stool or you can sit at a table. Walking into Bischoff’s is not reminiscent of an old-time ice cream parlor—it’s been around so long that it is an old-time ice cream parlor. If you’re in a decadent mood, or just having one of those days, order the Battleship Sundae—words just can’t describe…Bischoff’s is a place that newer establishments try to emulate—do yourself a favor—come taste the original!

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.)