“I think that the most important thing a woman can have- next to talent, of course- is her hairdresser.” – Joan Crawford

Intelligent words from Joan Crawford. However, mommy dearest never had to live through a virus quarantine where she was forbidden to go to a salon. I have. It wasn’t fun. Like so many other women forced to deal with salon shutdowns, I had to forego my monthly hair color appointment. Luckily, I had some root coverup spray that kept the gray at bay. But, after about six weeks, I realized the coverup was taking over more and more of my hair. It was then I decided to just stop all of the nonsense and let the gray hair take over.

After all, it’s not like my social calendar was filled. I was stuck in our Arizona condo with my husband, Tim, and our two cats. Tim didn’t seem to pay too much attention to my hair. Probably because he was distracted by the fact that I had stopped wearing makeup and shaving my legs. Every so often I would snap pictures of my hair and text them to my hair stylist, Heather. She would always respond with a different emoji. At first it was the smiling face. Then it was the shocked face. When she sent me the screaming emoji, I stopped texting her. My niece was more upfront. The first time I texted her a photo of the gray streak in the front of my hair, she told me I looked like Aerosmith guitarist, Joe Perry. She immediately started calling me “Aunt Perry.” Then there was the time Tim and I met with our friends Michael and Lori. We had been cooped up for so long that we decided to meet outdoors for a social distancing dinner. Before we got there I warned them about my hair. After greeting each other and settling down to a picnic dinner of various carryouts, Michael looked at me and said, “Your hair disturbs me.” This from a man who wears an ascot, keeps his dog in a tote bag and carries a clutch. He’s been disturbing me for about 40 years.

The quarantine experiment wasn’t actually the first time I thought about letting my hair go natural. In the past few years I had noticed that a lot of young women were purposely coloring their hair gray. I thought this might be a trend I could embrace. Still, it was shocking for me to see these high school girls getting off the school bus with their flowing gray locks. I couldn’t imagine what started this trend. Why do these young girls want to have gray hair? What’s next, Life Alert necklaces and walkers? Sure, when I was in high school my friends and I wanted to look older. But, that was so we could get into bars not nursing homes! 

I’ve never been one of those women who are terrified to change their hairstyle. I’ve been messing with my hair all my life. When I was 10, I wanted to look like a boy and I went to my dad’s barber and got a “boy cut.” My dad loved it. I became the second son he always wanted. In eighth grade I got a shag cut. It was horrible and I have destroyed every class photo from that year. My high school years were spent following the music and fashions of the glam rock scene so I cut my hair in a spiky David Bowie flat top. My sister said I always looked like I was scared. In the 80s I cut my hair all off again and grew a long braided tail down my back that was bleached Billy Idol white. My dad told me someone had asked him if I belonged to a cult. So, the decision to stop coloring my hair just seemed like another bold step in redefining a new stage of life. 

Growing up, I never saw many women with gray hair. My mother kept a year’s supply of Miss Clairol Chestnut Brown hair color in the bathroom closet. Neighbors and relatives all had colored hair. My Aunt Marcella was the only one with gray hair and years later I found out that it was, in fact, a gray wig. I was 24 years old when I started to go gray. At the time I was working at a rock radio station and in that business the only other person with white hair was Edgar Winter – and he was an Albino.

Therefore, in order to keep up my youthful appearance I started coloring my hair. At first, I needed touch ups about every two months. Then it became monthly. Then it was up to every three weeks. I feared that one day I would have to have a live-in stylist for my daily root touchups. Root sprays and root powders became a staple on the bathroom counter. Daily showers always ended with me parting my hair and looking in the mirror for the dreaded skunk line. I just assumed that coloring my hair would be a lifelong necessity. And then, the quarantine hit.

When we finally arrived back home to Michigan, hair salons were just opening up. I think I went right from the airport to see Heather. By this time, I had surpassed Joe Perry and was quickly catching up to Edgar Winter. After I sat down in the chair, Heather pulled my hair out of my ponytail and simply said, “Holy shit!” Then she quickly added, “I can fix this!” And she did. She loved the bright color of my gray hair (Tim said in the sun my head looked like a disco ball) and she cut and highlighted the rest of my hair to help blend it in. I must admit, I was terrified. It was one thing to be 16 and imitate David Bowie, it was another thing to be much older and suddenly have to admit it. Luckily, Heather was right. When she finished with the highlights and I looked in the mirror, I loved it. I only wish my nephew felt the same way.

The first time I got together with my family I was anxious to hear what they thought about my hair. My brother-in-law, who is all gray, said he liked it. My niece, who is still playing gray hair cover-up, really liked it too, but when my nephew walked in, he simply said, “I hate everything about your hair.” He has since been written out of the will. 

It has now been seven months since my last hair color. I’m still trying to get used to seeing the person in the mirror wearing the skinny jeans, The Killers T-shirt and the gray hair. But, that’s me. Even Michael has come around and now says he loves my hair. Unfortunately, my nephew hasn’t changed his opinion. He still hates it and I’m assuming Joan Crawford wouldn’t be a fan either.

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When I was a teen my father once told me that I was too gullible and would, therefore, be a perfect candidate for a cult. I don’t remember exactly what conversation prompted this encouraging statement, but it most likely had to do with my belief in UFOs, ghosts, and the news about how a severed thumb was found in a can of 7-Up. However, unlike the other fatherly wisdoms he imparted to me over the years, such as drive-in movie dates result in pregnancy, sitting on cold concrete causes hemorrhoids, and walking to school with wet hair could kill me, I chose to make a concerted effort to be less gullible. Unfortunately, the less gullible I got, the more cynical I became. Where I once cried watching Shirley Temple movies, I now sat dry-eyed and shook my head at the thought of a six-year-old tap dancer meeting Abraham Lincoln. I tossed out romance novels in favor of horror. I switched off sappy love songs on the radio and listened to Black Sabbath. Most of all, I stopped believing every television commercial I watched was telling me the absolute truth. Suddenly, I realized that Lemon Up Shampoo would not get boys to follow me around school. Washing dishes with Palmolive liquid soap would not make my hands soft, and drinking Coke would not bring about world peace. It’s the fantasy world of television ads that bring me to this latest tangent. With the Covid-19 pandemic forcing us to stay in our homes, shun friends and neighbors who now have the ability to kill us with their spit, I have been watching a lot more TV. And, as a result of my increased viewing, I’m seeing a lot more TV ads. Commercial breaks that were once filled with men on the golf course touting unpronounceable drugs promising erections, have now been replaced with melodramatic, feel-good, pandemic propaganda. All the ads start out the same. First you hear the slow, sad music once reserved for images of abused animals shivering in cages or ill children in wheelchairs. But now, superimposed over the music we are treated to empty hospital corridors and gurneys. There may be a still photo of healthcare workers sitting on the floor in hazmat suits and, of course, the pre-requisite shots of mask imprints on tired and sweaty faces. Then, just when you expect to see a heartfelt message about the toll this plague is taking on our healthcare workers, a graphic pops up that says, “We are all in this together. Brought to you by Frito-Lay.” Frito-Lay. The potato chip company that is probably making money hand over fist off of people who are sacked out on their sofas stuffing their mouths with corn chips, is now “there for you.” But, it doesn’t stop with Fritos. Jack in the Box, Domino’s Pizza, Tide Pods, DSW shoe store and even cheesy injury lawyers have chimed in with their pandemic platitudes. I can’t imagine that any Covid sufferer quarantined at home with numerous health problems is thinking, “I feel so much better knowing Tuffy Muffler cares.” Speaking of platitudes, haven’t we had enough already of those corny, worn-out phrases and buzzwords? A New Normal. Unusual Times. Let’s Come Together. Be Kind. And, if being kind means running over several people with your grocery cart to get the last package of toilet paper, then we’ve achieved kindness. So, let’s put those useless sayings aside and get real. I’ve come up with a few new phrases that I think express what everyone is really thinking:

• This Sucks
• Get Me Out of Here
• More Booze
• I’d Like to Rip That Mask Off Your Face
• I Hate My Family

And speaking of family, let’s discuss the nauseating ads that show happy families doing Yoga together, making backyard vacation spots, playing board games and laughing in the kitchen as they prepare gourmet meals together. This is false advertising at its worst. For example, I saw my friend bike riding with her daughters the other day. “Out getting a little exercise?” I asked. Laura looked around, and with a guilty face said, “It’s not worth fighting with Emily about where to put the fucking comma.” I understood. Another friend confided to me that she had been fantasizing about selling her ten-year-old to the Gypsies. These are true stories that can not be smoothed over in television commercials with smiling actors and muzak. The theme to The Exorcist would be more appropriate. If my father were still alive, I don’t know how he’d handle this pandemic. He’d probably question everything Dr. Fauci and his medical team says and come up with his own theories. I can just imagine him watching the news, shaking his head and pointing his cigar at the TV while saying something outrageous like, “These scientists don’t know anything. This whole virus probably started with too many people going outside with wet hair.” If only it were that simple.

Anyone who knows me well knows that I am not a fan of art museums. The truth is, art of any kind bores me to tears. I didn’t grow up surrounded by fine art. My mom bought artwork to match the carpet. And, my father once expressed an interest in “some really nice velvet paintings at the gas station.” Now, when it comes to “serious” art, I can stare at paintings of fruit bowls and hundreds of different interpretations of Jesus’ crucifixion for only so long. I just feel that my time could be better spent anywhere else than in a dimly-lit art museum. Or, as I recently discovered, better spent anywhere else than in a well-lit, famous art museum.

This summer, Tim and I spent a few days in New York. We were in town to see Bruce Springsteen on Broadway. We went in a day before the show so we could enjoy the crowds, smell, dirt, sidewalk urine and death defying crosswalks of Manhattan. The fact that the heat index was hovering somewhere around a stifling 94 degrees didn’t sweeten the cityscape. I couldn’t tell if my sneakers were melting into the sidewalk or if it was just caked urine on the soles. In any event, the morning we got there we found ourselves huddled under a small shade tree on 6th Avenue consulting our “Find Fun Things in NYC” app. “Hey, Tim said, We’re close to West 53rd. We could go the Museum of Modern Art.”

“I’d rather stand under this tree until the Springsteen show,” I replied.

“The show isn’t for another 34 hours.”

“I’ll wait. I have a bottle of water and a protein bar.”

Unfortunately, I lost that argument and once I got my sneakers freed from the sidewalk I followed Tim to the museum.

As “luck” would have it the MOMA (that’s how cool NYC museum people refer to it) was hosting a special photography exhibit that I thought might actually not bore me. I have always blamed my lack of interest in art on my short attention span. Ironically, I can easily spend two to three hours in the office supply aisle in Target without ever getting bored. Now, in order to get up to the photography exhibit we had to pass through numerous other galleries, including the metal sculpture room. Everything in that room was perched on pedestals. Most of the stuff looked like the “what the hell are these parts for?” table in my dad’s garage. Although, I was intrigued by the big, gold shiny lima bean that distorted my face when I got close to it. However, after 30 seconds of seeing what my out of proportion duck face looked like, I was ready to move on.

As we moved on we walked through gallery after gallery of strangeness. One room had nothing but large canvas panels of muted ivory and cream colored stripes. “Is this gallery sponsored by Wamsutta?” I asked Tim, “because I used to have sheets in this exact pattern. And this size too.” I felt like I’d already seen this exhibit on the bed and bath floor at Macy’s. In that same gallery I found this painting.

As you can see, like me, either the artist or the museum curator thought it was garbage. One of the more puzzling displays was enclosed in circular black curtains. Inside the curtained room was what looked like black bowling pins of various sizes hanging from wires. It reminded me of hanging salami in an Italian deli. There was no description or title of this “art.” I had a fleeting thought that maybe I wandered into a curtained off area that was under construction. To add to the ridiculousness, there was a uniformed security guard standing inside. I assume he was there in case someone had a burning desire to steal some black bowling pins (of various sizes).

It’s not that I think people who understand and appreciate modern art are more enlightened than me. It’s that I think they’re suckers. Take for instance the furniture section. Trust me, you won’t see any of this stuff at Art Van. Most of the furniture pieces were spindly, uneven, three legged torture chairs. Except for this one. All I could think of was that my Aunt Kay would have had a hell of a time covering that chair with plastic. I overheard some people standing near it making comments like “conceptual, intuitive, purposeful.” I don’t know what I missed, but those were not words that even entered my brain. To me it just looked like a chair made from giant tampons. I would have called it Monthly Necessity.

 

 

Also in the furniture gallery I found this unique piece.

Look closely, it’s just a tangled mess of wire hangers. An homage to Joan Crawford, I guess. I didn’t need to come all the way to the MOMA to see jumbled wire hangers. I see this same sculpture every time I drive by the dumpster behind the One Hour Martinizing on the corner. Enlightened art enthusiast or sucker?

When we finally made it to the photography gallery, the first exhibit we encountered were two walls completely covered with photos of women in various stages of giving birth. There must have been close to a thousand photos captured in different mediums. Black and white, Polaroid, 70s faded, and even some in living Kodak color.  All were taped to the wall. All were gross. I saw parents hurrying their children past this graphic display of vaginal openness. Who takes these photos? Who collects them? Who thinks they’re art? I could have lived the rest of my life without ever having seen that display of crowning heads, tangled limbs and umbilical cords spilling out of some strange woman’s woohoo.

Needless to say, we hurried through the photography exhibit. The top floor was one that I felt much more comfortable in. In fact, Van Gogh’s Starry Night was on display.  It looked much better than the one I got at Pier One Imports. At least on the top floor there were artists that I’d heard of and paintings that made sense. I was especially taken with the paint splatters of Jackson Pollock and Picasso’s odd view of what women look like. Two eyes on one side of the face. A nose precariously dangling off a cheek. Jawlines with right angles sharper than a knife. After studying these paintings some of the women started to look familiar. And then it hit me.  They looked like most Hollywood actresses after plastic surgery! Picasso – not so odd anymore.

Our last stop was to the outdoor garden sculptures. There was a snowman in an ice chest, a yellow Virgin Mary that everyone was taking selfies with and this. Is it a droopy seven? A kicking leg with no body? Something that fell off the roof? I have no idea. All I know is that by the end of our visit I was tired, my feet hurt and all I wanted to do was plop down in the giant tampon chair and rest for Bruce Springsteen.

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It seems no gathering of friends, or conversation, is complete today unless someone says, “Have you seen BLANK on Netflix? It’s great!” With their hundreds of shows, there is not enough hours in the day, days of the week, or months of the year to see all of the programming that Netflix has to offer. And, furthermore, not all of it is “great!” In my opinion, Netflix has become the number one contributor of stress and social anxiety in the world today. It used to be one felt he or she had to Keep Up With the Jones’ in order to complete. Now, one must Keep Up With Netflix.

I don’t want to just single out Netflix because other streaming networks like Amazon and Hulu and premium channels like HBO and Showtime also have their fair share of original “must see” programming. Even basic cable networks like AMC and FX have jumped on the bandwagon by offering limited series. Networks will draw you in with a tantalizing trailer that gives just enough information and shows just enough action and skin in one second edits to make you think, ‘Wow! This will be the best show ever!” Usually, it’s not. Unless, of course, it’s Breaking Bad.

Breaking Bad was a cable triumph. An unusual storyline that tested the boundaries of morality and questioned if the end justified the means. Dexter was another original series that found you cheering for the serial killer. I watched both shows faithfully and was sad when they came to an end. But, I wasn’t sad for long. Soon, I found Mad Men. And after Mad Men came Downtown Abbey, and then the pressure started. House of Cards, Game of Thrones, Orange is the New Black, Boardwalk Empire, Homeland, Ray Donovan, Sons of Anarchy, etc. The floodgates opened and new shows spilled out of my flatscreen like a digital tsunami. How will I ever find time to watch them all? “Binge, them,” my friend said.

To me, binging has only one meaning. Middle of the night, sitting in a dark kitchen, eating an entire box of Ding Dongs. Now, however, binging means to watch entire seasons – if not a whole series – in one sitting. Since I have the attention span of a gnat, I’m lucky if I can sit through a two-hour movie let alone eight seasons of The Walking Dead. Netflix will routinely release a show with all episodes airing at once and they will advertise it as “Binge-worthy.” This is where the pressure comes in. Let’s say the show is released at 12 noon. By 10pm my friend, Michael, will have already watched all episodes, sent out an email to everyone he knows and posted reviews on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and even his MySpace page from 2005 about how GREAT the show is! If by 11pm that night I tell him I haven’t seen it yet he immediately sends me a text with just one word – “Loser.”

I may be a loser, but like a good book, I want to savor good television shows. Right now I have 23 episodes of Judge Judy on my DVR. Every night after dinner I sit down on the sofa, unwrap some dark chocolate and watch two episodes in a row! I consider that binge watching and my ass doesn’t go numb. While some people may find Judge Judy on the lower side of cultured viewing, I also watch shows from other countries. Recently, I watched The Terror on AMC. A British import based on a true story about two ships stranded in the arctic. “What’s this show about?” Tim asked me one night. “I have no idea.” I said. “I can’t understand a word. They’re either stranded on these ships or it’s a UK version of The Deadliest Catch.” Everyone sounded like they were talking through turtleneck sweaters with ice cubes in their mouths. It wasn’t until about the fourth episode that I resorted to Closed Captioning. I had to do the same thing with Peaky Blinders and Broadchurch. With the exception of Broadchurch, I dumped out of the other two shows for extreme lack of interest. But don’t tell anyone or I’ll be ridiculed for not watching “The BEST show ever!”

Admitting that you didn’t like a current fave will open you up to public humiliation and verbal assaults. I made the mistake of telling someone that I didn’t like House of Cards. I watched the first season and never went back. “What? How could you not like House of Cards? That show is GREAT. You must not have understood it.” I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been accused of being ignorant because I didn’t like a show. I only watched one episode of Game of Thrones and I hated it. However, that hasn’t stopped my friends from insisting that I go back and watch it again because I probably “didn’t understand it.” I understood it. It was stupid. Although, if I’m in a crowd and everyone is talking about Game of Thrones, I just join in. I toss around words like dragons, swords, game, thrones, winter is coming and no one knows the difference. Television viewing was so much simpler when there were only five or six channels.

***

When I was a kid, we had only the three national networks, two UFH channels and since we border Canada, we also got a Canadian channel. Even with six channels we still didn’t have a choice. We watched whatever my father wanted to watch. Dinner viewing was the news, after dinner viewing was whatever televised sport was in season (including Curling on the Canadian network) and at 9pm we had our pick of westerns or FBI dramas. Fortunately, my mother had a small TV in the bedroom and we would crowd around that to watch game shows and sitcoms. Even though my father was alone in the family room, that didn’t stop him from shouting out to me every half hour to come and change the channel. I was the human remote.

I loved television. In our home, the TV Guide always has a revered place in the center of the coffee table. The family Bible used to be there but at some point the Bible disappeared. The first thing I always checked the guide for was to see who was on The Ed Sullivan Show Sunday night. My fingers would fly through those newspaper print pages and pray that Ed’s musical guests were The Stones and not The Lennon Sisters.

Now, TV Guide has been replaced by the cable network’s onscreen programming guide. It’s not nearly as fun. I have to scroll through about 700 channels to find something to watch. I usually pass by about 689 of the networks and settle on the same ones every night. Although, last night I found an old rerun of The Ed Sullivan Show. I was instantly transported back to the Sunday nights of my childhood. I saw some acrobats, Shirley Jones singing something from a Broadway musical, Mama Cass sang a duet with Johnny Mathis and then, much to my dismay, The Lennon Sisters. Luckily, I still had 23 episodes of Judge Judy on my DVR.

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I just cancelled my subscription to People Magazine. I’ve had the subscription so long that I can actually remember when they used to feature real celebrities. Lately, I’ve had to resort to Google to try and figure out who’s on the cover. Not surprisingly, I find that even when I delve into the heart of the magazine, I’m still at a loss. I’ve now decided that unless I have a burning desire to find out the latest news about Lil Yachty, I don’t think I’ll miss much.

***

Celebrity magazines have been a staple in my life ever since I was a child. My mother devoured Photoplay, Modern Screen and Screen Stories whenever they showed up in the mail. She loved movie stars and once confessed to me that when she was a girl she wanted to run away to California and marry Mickey Rooney. Since Mickey Rooney ended up with eight marriages, she definitely had a chance. It was not unusual to find her cooking dinner with a magazine spread open on the counter in front of her. She also took great pleasure in sharing her newly gleaned Hollywood gossip with me. I was treated to the sordid affairs of Desi Arnaz, Jr. and Patty Duke, Elizabeth Taylor and whoever she was married to at the time. When Frank Sinatra married Mia Farrow, well, my mother couldn’t say enough nasty things about an old man and a 19 year old starlet. Of course, no matter what salacious gossip was said about Dean Martin, she always forgave him. On the other hand, the magazines my father got in the mail arrived in plain brown wrappers.

I loved thumbing through the pages of my mom’s well-worn magazines to see the stars sitting poolside in the backyards of their beautiful mansions. It was a lifestyle far removed from the three-bedroom ranch houses in our middle-class suburban neighborhood. Hungry for news about the television and music stars of my generationI

i had my own subscriptions to 16 Magazine, Tiger Beat, and a frightening true crime magazine that kept me up at night.  My teen magazines were filled with important information that my friends and I would pore over for hours. David Cassidy’s favorite color, Davy Jones’ dating secrets, behind the scenes with The Brady Bunch. We never cared what the Osmond Brothers were up to because we didn’t give a flying fig about those do-gooders. Now, The Jackson Five was another story. The purple felt hats, the wide bell bottoms, and their huge afros. We loved them! Most of my friends went crazy over cute little Michael Jackson. Not me. I always felt that Tito was the deep one.

My mother also looked through my magazines. She had a thing for The Beatles and she always thought Mick Jagger was cute. Sharing celebrity gossip was our bonding time. I’m sure some of the things I learned were really not age-appropriate for my tender ears. But, when my mom explained to me about Patty Duke having a baby without being married, it gave me something to think about. It also terrified me that, if I liked a boy too much, I too could end up with a baby and have to leave school in the fourth grade. Obviously, my mother should have told me more about the birds and the bees and less about Debbie Reynolds and Eddie Fisher. Besides magazines, her extensive knowledge of Hollywood gossip also carried over into old movies.

Every Sunday we would watch old movies together. My parents had a little color television set in their bedroom and my mom and I would plop down on the bed in the afternoon to watch films. If the movies were in color my mother would turn off the color on the set so it was in black and white. “Why can’t we watch this in color?” “Because I get too distracted by the colors of the clothes and I miss what’s happening.” If she were alive today I can’t imagine what an 80 inch, LCD flat screen would do to her. Whenever someone appeared on screen that she didn’t like or she knew something really juicy about she would make a “tsk” sound. “What? What’s wrong?” I would ask. “Well, that’s Loretta Young. She disappeared for a while and then came back with an adopted daughter.” “What’s wrong with that?” “The little girl ended up looking a lot like Clark Gable. Tsk.” I had absolutely no idea what this meant, but somewhere in my head I had filed away that Loretta Young deserved to be “tsk’d” whenever I saw her.

***

I’m sure much of the same troubles and pitfalls that the old stars experienced are being repeated today. The big difference is that there are no more secrets and anyone can be famous. People Magazine is filled with stories about people who make YouTube videos, “Everyday Heroes” like the elementary school teacher who buys her own supplies, and internet cats. These stories are hardly worth reading let alone discussing with friends. And then there are The Real Housewives Of (insert city of your choice here). First of all, these women are not even remotely famous and they are the furthest thing from being real housewives! My mother was a real housewife. All of the women in my neighborhood were real housewives. They didn’t spend their days going to the spa, drinking mimosas at expensive, trendy restaurants or scheming to take each other down. They cleaned house, cooked dinner, raised kids, sat on the front porch drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes and complaining about their husbands. And the only backstabbing that went on was if someone forgot to pay back the 35 cents she owed you for a can of creamed corn.

I guess with the internet and everyone’s business being broadcast 24/7, not many people even read magazines anymore. The days of hiding one’s scandals are over and, in fact, the people involved will be the first ones to post photos and comments. There’s hardly anything to “tsk” at anymore. However, there was something special about going to the mailbox and seeing that shiny magazine rolled up and waiting to be opened. I have a box of 16 and Tiger Beat magazines stored in my basement. Sometimes, I pull them out and smile at the innocence of that fluffy news. By the way, David Cassidy’s favorite color was blue, Marcia and Greg Brady went out on dates, and I was right about Tito. He was deep.

In case you were wondering, this is Lil Yachty. Feel free to read more about him on your own time.

 

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Does anyone remember what it was like to go to a rock concert when the only hurdle was coming up with $10 for the ticket? I do! And that’s why I’m pissed off. I can’t believe all of the pre-planning and hoop jumping you have to go through today just to see your favorite artist. You would think ordering tickets online would be simple. I beg to differ. How many times I’ve sat in front of my monitor, hands poised over the keyboard, staring at that slow, death march timer ticking away the last cell of my sanity. Then, at 10am frantically clicking on the Ticketmaster link only to be disappointed in the seats or, worse yet, the Sold Out message flashing across the screen. I long for the days when I worked at a rock radio station and I only had to wear tight jeans to get free tickets. While I’ve been relatively passive about today’s unfair ticket trade, I can no longer stay quiet. The last straw, for me, was the announcement of the Bruce Springsteen shows in New York. Trust me, it would be easier to get a roundtrip ticket to Mars than to see the Boss on Broadway.

Let’s start with something called Verified Fan. Now, Verified Fan is supposedly a way to ensure that you have a fair shot at getting tickets before all of the scalpers scarf them up and resell them on Stub Hub. All you need to do is go to the Verified Fan website and fill out an online form. They need your name, address and phone number, blood type, driving record, credit score, criminal record, infectious disease risks and SAT score. Once you send all of this information to the Verified Fan site they put your information into a big database (or hat) and randomly select people who can try to purchase a ticket. Two hours before tickets go on sale you will receive a text and a secret code to gain access to the Verified Fan website and try for tickets. For weeks I would get emails telling me that I was “Verified” and to stay close to my phone because that text could come at any time! Did I mention you have to register online a few weeks before the tickets go on sale? I didn’t? Here’s why.

Verified Fan wants to actually verify that you are, in fact, a fan. Their disclaimer says that they will check your social media accounts to see if you post anything about the artist and how much of his/her music you have downloaded. I’m glad I read that disclaimer because I immediately went to my Facebook page and started posting everything and anything I could about Bruce. I put up photos, quotes, funny memes, song lyrics, and pictures of his kids and then changed my name to BruceLover4Ever. I changed the names of my cats to Bruce and Little Steven (even though they’re both female) and put a headscarf on Zoe – I mean Little Steven.

                    

The scratches have almost healed. I even wore my old concert T-shirts just in case Verified Fan had installed cameras in my neighborhood. And then I waited. And waited. And waited. Needless to say, I never got a text, a secret code, or a ticket. So I checked out Stub Hub.

Stub Hub, for those of you who aren’t concert connoisseurs, is where people can resell (scalp) tickets for a higher price. In other words, it’s where suckers who didn’t get a text or a secret code or didn’t post enough Bruce love have a chance to get tickets. Stub Hub usually has really great seats available if you don’t mind taking out a second mortgage on your house or selling a kidney to pay for them. So, Stub Hub was my first stop for the Springsteen tickets. There were a lot of tickets available at an average price of just over $1,200 each. Now, if I’m going to pay over $1,200 to see Springsteen, he better write a song for me, call me on stage, sing it to me, take me home and then cook me breakfast in the morning! So, I gave up on Bruce and turned my attention to another band I love, The Killers.

I have been a longtime fan of The Killers ever since their first CD and I have faithfully attended all of their shows. I joined their fan club and became an official “Victim.” I have the shirt to prove it. The morning I opened my email to see a Preferred Fan – not to be confused with Verified Fan – message from The Victims Fan Club I was thrilled. Tickets were going on sale in two days. I had a secret code, which would enable me to get a VIP package that included early admittance, an official tour gift and a laminated lanyard that said “The Killers.” All of this concert goodness could be mine for the mere price of $260 for a GENERAL ADMISSION ticket. No reserved seats. Now, I love this band. I know all of their music, I’ve seen them many times, but believe me my mosh pit days are far behind me. Crowd surfing could now cost me a hip. I miss the easy days of my youth when all it took to get a concert ticket was skipping school and sitting in front of an empty arena at 5am.

***

I was 13 when I went to my first concert and this was back in the days before MTV. Parents had no idea what went on in those theaters and arenas. At 13, however, my mother was worried when I wanted to see Alice Cooper. “He wears a dress, Joe,” I heard her say to my dad, “And eyeliner. I saw the album cover.” In a last ditch effort to convince my parents that Alice Cooper was not the devil, I had them stay up late one night to catch the band on a televised concert. My mother was outraged, but my father simply said, “He’s putting on a show. Let her go to the concert.” And that was that.

From then on I would devour the Entertainment section in the Sunday paper looking for concerts. Tickets were usually about $5 or $6 and you could purchase them at a local department store or they were “Mail Order Only” for really popular shows. All that was involved back then was sending a self-addressed stamped envelope to the arena with a money order and your written request. And, lo and behold, your tickets would arrive about a week later. If an abnormally large crowd were expected, tickets would go on sale at the box office. Those were the days when you had to get down to the arena by 5am to stand in line. This caused some problems for me at home because getting tickets would involve driving downtown with a friend who drove, brother of a friend, someone I casually knew through my cousin, or a complete stranger and then skipping school. Once the school office informed my parents of my frequent absences, my father took drastic measures. He forbade me from skipping school and then he decided that he would go and stand in line for me. “Joe, are you insane?” my mother asked. “You’ll be downtown with a bunch of drugged up hippies. Who knows what could happen to you!” My father just shrugged his shoulders and went about his business.

The first time my father went to stand in line for tickets was for The Allman Brothers. I only wish I could have seen him in his shirt and tie with his trademark felt fedora standing alongside all of those “drugged up hippies.” When my dad got home from work that night and gave me the tickets he had a lot of stories. Apparently, more than one person asked him if he was a nark. Another guy wanted to know where he got his hat, and my dad was most excited that one of the local radio stations handed out coffee and donuts to everyone in line. “It wasn’t so bad,” he said. Word quickly got around school that my dad was now the “ticket man.” Requests poured in from the art room to the biology labs for tickets. If only I had the foresight, I could have started the first High School Stub Hub scalping service.

***

Today, if my father were still here, I don’t think even he could score tickets to see Bruce on Broadway. He certainly wouldn’t be paying for them! Are the artists any better now that you have to pay hundreds of dollars to see an over-the-top stage show where you’re blinded by strobe lights and deafened by pyrotechnics? There are so many dancers and musicians and ramps on stage that the main act is dwarfed by the spectacle. Are they that confident in their talent that they can demand you purchase tickets a year in advance? I don’t think so.

There was something intimate about a small theatre with a stripped-down stage and one spotlight shining down on David Bowie. With my $5 I was able to enter a world that was totally separate from home. I saw things on stage that, at the time, were simply amazing. Today, kids would laugh at how my friend, Linda, and I marveled at the fog machine while Led Zeppelin played Stairway to Heaven. Or how Freddie Mercury could twirl his white satin cape. I also remember the first time I saw Bruce Springsteen. I was working at that rock radio station and The River had just been released. A whole crew of us from the station went together and when we walked into the theater the program director looked at me and said, “This show will change your life.” He was right. Sure, I’d love to see the Broadway show, but if I don’t, I can still say that I’ve seen some of the best bands without sacrificing a kidney.

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In order to escape the cold, bleak, sunless, all around crappy Michigan weather, Tim and I spent the winter in Miami Beach. After endless days of swimming and sunning we thought that we would take advantage of our extended stay and get some work done on our condo. Now, as far as being handy goes, Tim is a better figure skater, and I don’t know the difference between a regular screwdriver and the one with the pointy things on the end. In fact, I have found that there is no household emergency that can’t be fixed with a butter knife. Electrical, plumbing and tile work topped our newly compiled list and we were smart enough to realize that all of these jobs required much more skill than can be accomplished with a triple axle or a butter knife. So, I went to my laptop and pulled up Home Advisor.com-Miami.

 

Home Advisor.com is one of those websites that matches you up with vendors. It’s kind of like Match.com but none of the vendor’s photos were taken in a bathroom mirror with the toilet seat up. Our first vendor, Gabriel, came highly recommended by Home Advisor as one of the best tile men in Miami. The job we had for Gabriel was to fix the marble step in the shower of our guest bathroom. Since the step into the shower wasn’t level, it caused water to leak out onto the floor. Now, when someone takes a normal shower the leaking is minimal. But, since our friends, The Feldbergs, visit us frequently and since each one of them spends at least 45 minutes in the shower, we’ve had some major problems. The Great Feldberg Flood of 2015 warped the bathroom door, the wooden molding on the outside of the doorframe and ruined seven or eight towels. Instead of banning the Feldbergs from visiting, we decided to fix the problem. This is where Gabriel comes in.

***

It is a well-known fact in the Miami area that getting good help is nearly impossible. Vendors either don’t return calls, disappear before a job is done, or just fail to show up. The fact that Gabriel shows up at all gives us hope. Now, I don’t know what I expected in a tile vendor, but it certainly wasn’t a 120-pound guy in skinny jeans. I also notice that the only tool he has with him is a gold necklace the size of a bicycle chain. He also looks young enough to be skipping school. Tim introduces himself and then escorts Gabriel downstairs to the bathroom. “Does he know what needs to be done?” I ask when Tim comes back upstairs. “I think so. He doesn’t speak much English and he needs to borrow a screwdriver.” I just roll my eyes and shake my head.

 

During the course of the morning, I keep hearing a strange voice coming from downstairs. “Did someone else come in and join Gabriel?” I ask Tim. “No, why?” “I keep hearing a strange voice down there but I can’t make it out.” Tim and I then position ourselves at the top of the stairs to eavesdrop. Sure enough, we hear Gabriel speaking in Spanish and then we hear a stilted, monotone robotic voice respond. “It sounds like Stephen Hawking is down there with him,” I reply. Curious, Tim sneaks downstairs and spies on Gabriel. A few minutes later Tim climbs back upstairs and says, “Apparently, Gabriel doesn’t speak any English and he’s using an app on his phone to translate.” When he finally finishes for the day (using all of our tools) he comes upstairs, puts his phone in front of Tim’s face and we hear Stephen Hawking say, “Pay now. Be back tomorrow.”

 

Once Gabriel leaves, Tim and I head downstairs to inspect his work. At first glance it looks pretty good, but within hours the cement starts cracking and the silicone he used around the glass surround has seeped out in big globs. We immediately decide that Gabriel will not “Be back tomorrow.” I now have to grab a butter knife and proceed to scrape all of the silicone out of the shower and redo it myself.

 

The next vendor we need is someone from a glass company who can fix a crooked shower door. This time I go directly to Angie’s List and that’s where I find Mike. Mike the fast-talking, long-winded, (and a bit of a racist) glass vendor. Angie must have met him on Match.com. Tim calls Mike and tells him that we need a shower door adjusted because it keeps banging against the glass enclosure. “Good news,” Tim says as he hangs up the phone, “He speaks English and he said he could fix it for $200. He’s on his way.” I’m skeptical of a vendor who can come right over. I always picture him sitting in a rusted out El Camino behind Home Depot looking for odd jobs.

 

Mike shows up with an assistant, a young Cuban man who is carrying all of his tools (at least he had some) and never says a word. They are like Penn and Teller without the magic, although Mike does have a few tricks up his sleeve. He not only checks out the shower door that needs to be repaired, he also inspects all of our other shower doors and makes recommendations for them too. When he comes back upstairs to go over his “list” with me, he leaves “Teller” sitting on the steps but clearly within earshot. “Well, Mike says, “I can fix the shower door but I suggest that we remove all of the shower surrounds on all of the bathrooms and reinstall them. Now, I got a guy who will come in and do the drywall work and painting. He’s American. He’s good. He’s not like those Cuban workers. He’ll show up on time and finish the job.” I am now cringing as Mike continues his tirade on Cuban workers and their lack of intelligence and integrity. I want to crawl in a hole and take “Teller” with me. And then Mike hands me his estimate. Now, another reality in Miami is that the nicer your home, the more the job will cost. Apparently when Mike got to our building and realized we were in the penthouse, his price increased with each ascending floor. Somehow, Mike’s $200 estimate has ballooned to $1,700 – not including the cost of his guy who will drywall and paint. I very calmly slide Mike’s estimate back to him and tell him that I only want the one door fixed for $200. Mike shrugs his shoulders and says he will be back in seven days.

 

Our last task is to find a plumber to install a kitchen garbage disposal. The condo never had one and I am tired of scraping leftover spaghetti and meatballs into the trashcan. This time we decide to skip Home Advisor.com and Angie’s List and go straight to “Yelp.” That’s where Tim finds Viktor: an extremely tall, shaggy-haired, robust Russian whose mere presence takes up the entire condo. At least he shows up outfitted with his own tools and a fluorescent pair of pink socks. His pungent cologne precedes him into our kitchen where he inspects the garbage disposal we purchased. “Is good,” he says. Tim then leads him downstairs to ask his opinion on a drain plug that needs to be installed in one of our bathtubs. We figured this would be an easy job that any decent plumber could fix in a matter of minutes. Viktor looks at the tub and then holds up the plug. He ruffles his head-full of hair, scratches his heavy beard and says, “First, we take down wall. Take out marble. You go to store and get parts. I turn off water. Be back in three days to fix. Then I put plastic sheet over hole in wall. Fixed.” “You want me to get the parts? And you want us to go for three days without water?” Tim asks. “There are people living in other countries without any water! You can’t go three days?” Viktor screams. After that comment I’m not about to bring up the fact that he wants to repair the hole in the wall with a plastic sheet. Tim tells him we’ll get back to him about that job.

***

I am happy to report that Victor installed our garbage disposal quickly and expertly. Watching him squeeze his bulky body under our sink was a sight to behold and one I will never forget. As Viktor was packing up his tools and stuffing his pink socks back into his boots, he regaled us with his political leanings; his life in Russia and how most of his service calls are from women who “just want sex.” Viktor said he is a “busy man.” As for the tile worker, it might not be the best looking job but miraculously, the shower doesn’t leak and it may even be Feldberg Flood free. Mike the glass guy didn’t return in seven days and after numerous calls and threats he finally returned three weeks later. Miraculously, he was able to fix the banging shower door without having to remove any walls. I think, in the future, if we need to have work done at the condo, it will be less money and a lot less frustration if we just fly down our vendors from home. Or, I need to get really skilled with a butter knife.

 

 

 

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I recently uncovered something about myself that I hadn’t realized before; I have no patience when dealing with the general public. In fact, I’m not even sure I like being around most people. Perhaps, for the safety of others, I should avoid ever having a job where I come in direct contact with humans. I could never be a Wal-Mart greeter, a smiling Gap clerk or a medical professional. In fact, it would be best if I just stayed away from people all together. While some may see this trait in me off-putting, I like to chalk it up to one of my many quirks. As quirky as my impatience with people may be, the stark realization that I am ill-equipped to be unleashed on the public came to me a couple of weeks ago when I agreed to help out some friends who own an estate sale business.

 

My friends were facing a daunting task of selling the entire contents of a huge mansion and had asked for extra help. Since I’d only had one experience with selling personal items, and it didn’t go well, I was reluctant to volunteer. However, after agreeing to help out and spending three weekends dealing with the general public, I realized that the knowledge and insight I gained about people and myself far outweighed my initial trepidation. Trust me, this sale was nothing like the run-of-the-mill neighborhood garage sale I once participated in.

 

As I mentioned, my only foray into estate sales was a few years ago when I got together with some of my neighbors to hold a garage sale. We took over an empty house on the street and displayed all of the items we wanted to sell. My contribution to the sale consisted of some lovely framed artwork, a few flower vases, a couple of jewelry boxes, some paperback novels and assorted knickknacks. Looking back on it, I probably spent more time modeling all of the old clothes and posing for photos than I did trying to sell my goods. Somewhere there is a photo of me in a bridal gown standing next to my neighbor, Todd, who is wearing a large pair of fishing waders and holding a sword. Apparently, I should have paid more attention to selling because by the end of the weekend I had amassed a grand total of $14 and then spent $16 when someone went on a food run. I ended up two dollars in the hole and had to drag most of my crap back home. Needless to say, I did not share this story with my friends when I agreed to help out.

***

One of the reasons I’m volunteering is because this estate sale is taking place in a 1928 historic home that is really more of a castle. It boasts seven bedrooms, ten bathrooms, a carriage house, a pool house, and it is over 12,000 square feet. I have a feeling that the items inside will sell for more than $14. As I drive up to the castle, I see there are already a large number of peasants – I mean customers lined up waiting to get in. As the groundskeeper swings open the large black iron gate for me to enter, I feel a little like Queen Elizabeth without the ugly hat. Unlike the people waiting in line, I am granted entrance into the private parking area. I nod at the groundskeeper and with a smug smile and a small courtly wave I drive past him. Today, he works for me. I park my car behind the garage, which sits next to the carriage house that is in front of the greenhouse positioned across from the built-in swimming pool and pool house. I have a feeling I should drop breadcrumbs on my way inside so at the end of the day I can find my car. As impressive as the grounds are, they don’t prepare me for what awaits me inside.

 

I walk through an iron and glass door into one of the kitchens. To my right is the servant’s staircase leading upstairs and another staircase leading down. I head straight in through the small kitchen, past the butler’s pantry, three doors with signs that say, “DO NOT ENTER” and into a large foyer. The black and white marble floor reflects the sunlight streaming through the double doors on the first landing of the massive red-carpeted sweeping spiral staircase. I feel like I’ve just walked into Buckingham Palace. The first person who greets me is my friend, Michael. He is standing in the center of the staircase wearing a red, knee-length, military style jacket complete with gold shoulder braids and brass buttons. He is posing like he is the king of the castle, but in reality he looks more like a doorman at a pretentious hotel. Obviously, he has been digging through the closets and I’m sure he will be wearing this all day.

Everywhere I look there are massive pieces of furniture in rooms with murals on the ceilings and a fireplace I can dance in. Price tags swing from everything that is not a human being. In the center of the dining room sits a table that seats 17 and the room is filled with glass curio cabinets displaying various sculptures. I wander through room after room filled with oriental rugs, hand made furniture, china dishes, crystal vases and gilt edged paintings. Something tells me I won’t find any old Monkees albums here.

 

After all of the workers gather in the foyer, we are given instructions for the day, a receipt book, nametag, pen and a stern warning to watch out for shoplifters. My assignment is to help people in the clothing room upstairs. I am informed that the clothing is mostly couture and designer items and that they are not priced. If anyone is interested in an item they are to bring it downstairs and have it priced at the front desk. I’m actually pretty happy about this. Since my mathematical skills leave much to be desired, I am a bit concerned about adding up merchandise and having my friends find out that they lost hundreds of dollars in the clothing room.

 

As for the clothing room itself, it is actually one of the bedrooms where racks and racks of clothes have been brought in. Before the sale starts I am given a quick lesson from my friend, Lori, on how to distinguish the designer from the couture from the simply expensive. To me, it just looks like a lot of stuff Cher would have worn in the 70s, mixed in with some Blanche Devereaux from the Golden Girls of the 80s. And for some reason there is a full-length, beaded, deerskin dress more fitting for an extra in Gunsmoke. “And watch out for shoplifters,” Lori warns. “People will try to stick clothes down their pants or roll them up and put them in purses or under jackets. Just be aware. Oh, and one final thing. The owners don’t want anyone to use the bathrooms. They are all off limits.” Right now, I don’t realize that the no bathroom rule is going to haunt me for three weekends.

 

Once the sale starts I stand by the door and nod to people as they file in. I make myself busy by rearranging the clothes and trying to put some order to the chaotic collection of cashmere, silk, knits and deerskin. One thing I notice is that the previous owner of these clothes is very tiny. The majority of the items are sized four to six in both the American and European clothing. As I survey the women now filing into the room, I can see that this will be a problem.

 

“How much is this leather jacket?” one woman wearing sweatpants and Crocs asks me. “All items will be priced downstairs at the desk. Just be aware that these items are designer and that’s a Gucci bomber jacket,” I tell her. “I’ll give you $7,” she says. And this exchange begins my endless speech about costs, designer goods and the fact that I have no authority to price anything. Not to mention I have to find a million different ways to tactfully let women know that the clothes are sized small and very fitted. At first I try to be discreet when I see a clearly, not-size-four woman trying to stuff herself into a quilted blazer. Her giant linebacker shoulders are stretching the expensive Italian fabric to within an inch of its life and just before the material gives away completely, I make an announcement to the entire room that the woman who owned these clothes is a very petite size four. With that announcement one-third of the room clears out and the remaining women are still convincing themselves that they are a size four. I lean up against the door surveying the various women as they struggle with blouses and pants and the benign smile on my face belies my actual thoughts that are, “Put down the stretch pants. They don’t stretch THAT much.” I am afraid that the woman with the 38DD chest who is trying on a tiny Givenchy silk blouse will fire a missile-like button my way and put out an eye. And, I desperately want to tell the wide-hipped woman who is holding up a small gold skirt that the fact there are eight inches of her hips showing on either side of the skirt means it WILL….NOT…..FIT! But, instead I smile and try to direct these women over to the accessories table where there are some nice handbags and scarves.

 

Besides trying to be friendly to the women in the clothing room, I also field at least 10 requests per minute from women who want to use the restroom. “I’m sorry,” I say, “but the owners have requested that no one use the restrooms.” Of course, that doesn’t stop me from finding the best bathroom in the house to use myself. I marvel at the imported tile and gilt fixtures while feeling no guilt at all about the crossed-legged, bladder exploding women looking for empty cups to pee in. Which brings me to my other pet peeve, doors bearing signs that say, “DO NOT ENTER.” I have come to the conclusion that a closed door with a Do Not Enter sign on it is more tempting to the general public than an unaccompanied bag of money lying in the middle of the street. What do they think is behind these doors? Is there a hidden hallway to a magical world? Is there a mystic waiting to tell them the secret meaning of life? The Beatles? I have no answer. All I know is that every time it gets quiet in the hallway and I hear a small, elongated squeak, I know someone is opening a Do Not Enter door. I like to sneak up behind them and just stand there until they feel my breath on the back of their necks and then I say, “Looking for something?” I suppose I could be nicer about it, but then that would be going against my natural inclination.

 

I think my father was the first one who noticed that I was not what one might call, “A people person.” I distinctly remember overhearing a conversation he had on the phone with a neighbor once who called to ask if I ever babysit. “You don’t want her watching your kids,” my father said. I did kind of smirk to myself that my father who had less of a filter on his thoughts than I do was so honest about my love for children. My dad was also concerned when I got a new job as a server at Red Lobster. “You will be dealing with people all day,” he warned me. “These people will be tipping you on your service and how friendly you are.” He paused for a moment, shook his head and said, “I’m afraid you’ll be broke.” I am happy to report that my father was wrong. I was a wonderful server at Red Lobster. I made a lot of friends and a lot of tips and aside from the occasional platter of raw oysters slipping into a particularly nasty customer’s lap, and one empty coffee pot hurling across the dining room, I was a pro. In fact, I was named “Server of the Month” many times and when I left, the manager retired my server number. I like to think that my people-pleasing days at Red Lobster must have been a brief opening into a parallel universe.

***

As my time at the estate sale comes to a close, I am relieved to say that I enjoyed the experience. I ended up talking with some very nice people, I actually escorted one woman (and her dog) to an off limits bathroom, and I helped another woman happily walk away with a full-length, beaded, deerskin dress. I didn’t encounter any shoplifters, although I did keep an eye on one shifty-eyed man who kept coming in and looking at the knit Christmas sweaters. My friend, Debi, always tells me that she meets the most interesting people just by simply speaking to strangers. I’m not there yet. None of the strangers I met at the estate sale impressed me enough to want to further a connection.

 

At the end of the final weekend, when my gig was over, I straightened up the clothing room, grabbed a lovely Ralph Lauren cashmere sweater that I had purchased and took one last look around my lovely private bathroom. As I headed down the sweeping staircase I saw Michael, now wearing a too large, loudly striped Versace sports coat and schmoozing with some customers. They were all laughing and thoroughly enjoying themselves as Michael wrote up a ticket for an expensive grand piano. As their laughter reached me, I smiled to myself and shook my head at Michael’s easy way with people. Clearly, he has a gift. Perhaps I should see if Red Lobster is hiring.

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