sleuth

As the oldest of three brothers, my main function growing up was to act as ring leader. After all, who else were the little tykes going to look up to? The parents? No way, Jose. I was the main man and they usually followed my lead. But, sometimes they challenged my authority. From the late 1950's to the early 60s’ we lived on Beach 67 St. in a section of Queens, NY, known as Rockaway Beach. We lived about 200 yards from the beach on what was affectionately known as a summer block. Most of the houses on the street were old three-story Victorian-style home with wraparound porches. They were originally built for the wealthy who vacationed in the Rockaways before the Great Depression. I guess they got greatly depressed when they saw us moving in. So they skedaddled out of there in a hurry. These mansions had been turned into rooming houses, some with as many as 30 rooms, that were rented out for the summer to mostly senior citizens looking to escape the summer heat of New York City. There were only six two-family homes nestled together near the beach and we occupied the bottom floor of one of them. We were called year-rounders on account of the fact that we lived there all year round.

One of my primary duties as the ring leader was to lead the boys, Steve and Jay, on expeditions that were designed to drive my mother crazy. My father was already there when we came along, so we didn’t have to drive him too far. As an example of our activities in these endeavors, I am reminded by my brothers of a time when we decided, for some reason since lost to history, to leave youngest brother Jay’s foot prints on the ceiling. Since Jay had not mastered the art of walking on ceilings, if we were to succeed in this venture, then we were going to have to give him an assist and a boost up. That is exactly what we did. Steve grabbed one leg and I grabbed the other and somehow we turned young Master Jay upside down and held him suspended in mid air whilst he left his mark on the underside of our upstairs neighbor’s floor. One man’s ceiling is another man’s floor, you know. I am not sure if that rule applies equally to women. And so the mysterious footprints were left where they were sure to be discovered by avid Sherlock Holmes aficionado, Esther Eisenberg.

The tricky part was for us to master the art of looking innocent. If there were Academy Awards for the best act of childhood innocence by a guilty party or parties, then surely we would have swept the Oscars in that year. We withstood an interrogation the likes of which have not been seen in New York City since before the Miranda warnings were enacted in 1966. As a historical footnote, I must inform you that the famous Miranda warnings became law when show business personality Carmen Miranda was stopped by the cops for driving with a banana on her head. It seems that there was still some old but little enforced eighteenth century law on the books about operating vehicles with tropical fruit above the shoulders. Ms. Miranda, in the waning years of her hasbeenship, was hauled off to police headquarters and interrogated ceaselessly. Since she spoke very poor English and didn’t have the equipment to communicate with the police in the way her modern-day counterpart Charo could(no coochie coochie for her), they threw the book at her. She complained all the way to the Supreme Court who agreed to hear her case. They didn’t understand it, but they were fans, being old men themselves, and they agreed that a new law was necessary. And thus the phrase, "You have the right to remain silent, please," became part of our culture. The please part was soon dropped since comedian Henny Youngman claimed copyright violations. Take me in, please.

Meanwhile, back at the scene of the crime, the three brothers were undergoing severe interrogation by the parental units, who adopted the old effective police technique of bad cop/worse cop. We went well past the third degree and were on our way to the fifth degree when young Jay cracked. Since he was nearly seven years my junior at the time, ( he has since passed me) they somehow managed to convince him to rat on his brothers. They told him that since he was the youngest, he had more to lose. After all, I was nearly thirteen and had lived a good life, while he, on the other hand, still had much to look forward to. A grisly death at his age would be a tragedy. Rumor has it that he turned us in for the reward; he was left alive, and I took most of the rap, since they were predisposed to blame me for everything any way. I have no recollection of this incident, other than I am certain that it was Steve’s idea and that he planned the whole thing and convinced us to go along for the ride.

Many months had passed before revenge was on its way, but, due to a lucky accident, we finally got the opportunity to strike back at the parental units. Well, the mother any how, as she is the one we feared the most. She could take us out with a slipper at 100 yards, and often did. She was also adept at adapting common household items as weapons of mass child abuse. A common hair brush or a broom handle became a makeshift bottom paddler.

A porcelain pot or wooden hanger was a convenient head basher. She once hit me in the head with a pot and then punished me for chipping the porcelain with my head. She made me go back into my room "Until you learn how to act." After a few hours, I really wanted to come out of my room which, unlike today’s kids rooms, had no TV, stereo, video games, or any other modern amenities. It merely had beds. When I finally begged her to let me out, she said, "Have you learned how to act yet?" to which I replied in an Olivier like voice, "Yes, I have. To be...or not to be." That got me another whupping and that is why I never continued with my acting lessons. The stage’s loss is your gain.

The day of big revenge came quite by accident. It had its antecedents in 1959 when my parents bought their second television. Our first TV had been a Motorola purchased in 1950, when I was only two years old. It was a sixteen-inch, black and white console. Ironically, our lower eastside New York City tenement building on Ludlow Street was so old that it had DC current. I think it was wired by Tom Edison himself just to prove that DC was the way to go. So popular, even poor immigrants in tenements could afford it. It was the current choice of slum dwellers. Especially those that weren’t being electrocuted in the electric chair powered by rival Nicola Tesla’s AC "Killer Current." A fine marketing strategy that turned out to be. So my father bought an AC TV, since that was what all of them were in that day, and then had to buy a converter box for $50 in order to watch an AC TV in a house wired for DC. More than fifty years after New York City had begun electrification and there still were buildings wired with DC current. If you can imagine what it is to buy a $7,000 plasma digital TV today and then have to spend another $500 in order to get a converter, so you can watch Jay Leno in HDTV format, then you have some idea of what this cost in 1950 to a man earning about $45 per week. We got our first modern TV in 1959. It was a twenty-one-inch Zenith table model with "Space Command" remote control. It cost approximately $400, which was still several weeks’ salary for my dad at that time, and it was still black and white, as he did not believe that color TV was perfected yet. It was only four years after RCA introduced the first color TVs, and they were expensive and not as good as today’s sets. Besides, you were forever fiddling with the colors in order to try to get them right.

The most advanced feature this TV had(and the one that would allow me and my pirate brothers to get a bit of revenge on mom) was the "Space Command" remote control. First of all, it had a cool name, "Space Command." After all, it was only two years earlier that the Russians beat us into space with the launch of the first satellite, Sputnik. We had yet to get our Echo into space, but we had "Space Command" TVs. Something the Ruskies didn’t have. It was interesting how the system worked. The tuner was linked to a motor. So you manually changed channels by pressing a bar to go up or down. There was only seven channels broadcasting out of a possible twelve. There was no UHF yet either, which would come into existence a few years later. Just in case the system broke, there was conventional TV knob in the back for changing the channels manually. In order to activate the remote control, you had to flick a switch in the back of the set. Then you pointed the four-button remote toward the set and you could change channels up and down, turn the set on and off and the volume on and off. The set on and off was not what it appeared, as the set was not really turned off when you used the remote. It appeared to be off but the picture tube was still lit, so you would have to manually turn the set off at the set to turn the set off. Sounds really complicated, doesn’t it? As a footnote, my brothers and I were not allowed to change channels on the set or to use the remote because, as my mother so tactfully phrased it, "You animals will break it." If we were caught touching the tuning bar, we had to go back to our room and continue our acting lessons, if we were lucky enough to avoid death by a blow to the head with a pot. If we were caught touching the remote, then the death thing was almost a certainty.

How the remote worked is what leads up to my part in the story. It was entirely mechanical and not at all electronic or as magical as today’s infrared remotes that are so common with most appliances. Personally, I think that remote control has gone a bit too far. We now have remote-controlled fans and air conditioners for the guy who is just too lazy to get off of his fat butt and turn them off. No wonder we are getting heavier as a nation. I can’t wait for the remote-controlled toaster to make the scene. Now if they can only figure out a way to put the bread in it and take it out without having to get up, that would be something I would pony up good money for. If they can put a man on the moon, then why can’t they keep him on earth? You see how silly that cliché can be? RCA had a remote control device that looked like a Boy Scout flashlight. You aimed it at the set and a beam of light changed the channels. Now that was mystifying. The Zenith Space Commander worked with a series of four tuning forks. When you pressed a button, you were striking one of the tuning forks that made a sound above the range of human hearing. I am told that it actually drove dogs to drink. Each tone apparently controlled one of the four functions.

The only one allowed to use this remote was my mother. We "animals" were not allowed to even look in its direction for the aforementioned reasons. Apparently, my brothers and I had some sort of super powers that we were not aware of. We had some sort of special vision that allowed us to break things with just one glance. If only I learned to harness these powers, think of the good I could have done. Never mind that. Think of the mischief we could have created. We could have made Bart Simpson look like a Boy Scout in comparison. Being somewhat observant, in a Sleuthy and not a religious way, I noticed that whenever my mother was using the remote (she was usually prone on the couch watching soap operas with a cigarette hanging from her mouth) sometimes the channels would change mysteriously by themselves when the phone would ring. It was this observation that led me to the discovery of the technology behind the Space Commander. It worked on sound waves and sometimes the telephone rang in a certain way that would set off the remote and change channels. I did not know why it did this on occasion and not all of the time, but I knew that it was possible to change the channels without the remote as long as the set was turned onto remote mode. This knowledge could be dangerous in the wrong hands, namely, mine.

One afternoon, my middle brother and I were playing in the back of the living room. Our living room was rectangular shaped with the TV at one end and two barrel chairs on the other. The couch was along the left wall and that is where my mother would lay down to watch her shows. She was watching one of those boring soap operas and Steve and I were playing swashbuckling pirates in the back of the room. Since we had no swords in order to swash buckle, we used the next best thing. We had taken two belts and were fighting each other using the buckles to actually swash each other, whatever the heck that means. Then, in one of those aha serendipitous moments, IT happened.

We were hacking away at each other with the belts when, all of a sudden, the belt buckles connected and made a pinging sound. Coincidentally, at the exact same moment the TV changed channels and "As the World Turns" morphed into "One Life to Live" or some other inane soap opera. Being the inquisitive kind, I pondered as to whether or not one could assign causality of the mysterious channel change phenomenon to the pinging of the belt buckles. I conveyed the idea to my esteemed colleague, Steven, and we set out to test our hypothesis. After mom’s minor annoyance at the sudden interruption of her program, she picked up the remote and put the channel back where it was. She did that only after casting a suspicious glance in our direction. We sat quietly in the back of the room with halos properly affixed at just the right height above our heads and patiently awaited the right propitious moment.

As luck would have it that moment rapidly arrived and on a cue from me, the experiment began. Steven and I were ensconced in our barrel chairs and as the signal was given at the right moment, we purposely banged the two belt buckles together. The magical "ping" had occurred, and just as before, the channel on the TV changed. Now my mother was starting to show some slight annoyance while we immediately assumed our innocent and angelic positions. Quietly seated in the back of the room, we appeared to be the epitome and essence of innocence. To the untrained eye, that is. We were really onto something this time, and we aimed to take full advantage or our newly acquired knowledge. This was our long awaited chance to get even for all the things we were punished for that we didn’t do and all those silly acting lessons. "To be or not to be." We were about "to take arms against a sea of troubles." And no doubt bring down a reign of terror on our heads. But hey, we had a good run. We had seen most of what there was to see in life. Nobody lives forever and we were not about to let this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity slip through our fingers. Not on your life. So, after a sufficient period of time had elapsed, we took out the two belt buckles and brought them into close proximity with sufficient thrust and force in order create the required pitch and timbre that were needed to do the job. We heard the "ping" and simultaneously the kaching kaching that the motorized channel changer made when it was doing its channel changing thing. A second successful trial was underway. This time the anger level of the parental unit was beginning to rise. Would it reach critical mass? Would we survive the afternoon? Who cared? We were on a roll and nothing was going to stop this juggernaut.

I don’t think I need to draw you a road map as to what happened next. We kept repeating the "ping-kaching" sequence. As predicted, the channel would change and the anger level was growing. She kept looking in our direction and saying "You guys are doing something. I know it." We, of course, continued to profess our innocence and fired back with, "You are always blaming us for stuff we didn’t do. I know I didn’t cause the Great Depression and World War II because I wasn’t around then." We then hit her with the clincher. The one piece of indisputable information that logically pointed to our innocence. "Besides, you have the remote control." We had her there. And each time the channel mysteriously changed, her first move had shifted from immediately grabbing the remote to immediately looking back in our direction to try to catch us in the act. We were good. We were very good.

But she was certain it was us. Finally, I bolstered our defense with a bit pseudo scientific clap trap that sounded plausible enough and was beyond her sphere of knowledge. "You know, mom, I learned in school that there is a great deal of unusual solar activity occurring at this time. Perhaps therein lies the explanation of this phenomenon you are experiencing. It can be summed up in two words. To wit, sun spots." I had her on the ropes now and I went in for the kill. "You know sun spots interfere with radio and TV communications and we live halfway between Idlewild(later renamed Kennedy) Airport and the Nike missile base at Fort Tilden. Perhaps the military is experimenting with these sun spots. You never know what is going on there. She wasn’t buying this very cleverly crafted line of BS. "I know you guys are doing something and when I find out what, you are in big trouble!"

We decided not to push our luck too far and let it go after a while. When dad came home, he was briefed on the situation and we were able to talk him out of any punishment because at no time did we have any contact with the remote control. The Space Commander was always in the hands of the accuser. He knew that she would not even let him use it, so we were in the clear. Besides, if that didn’t work, I was busily refining the sun spot theory.

And that was the first time we were able to take revenge on our parents for our dysfunctional upbringing. Of course, if one looks at the Zeitgeist of the times, what is considered dysfunctional today was SOP(Standard Operating Procedure) back then. One era’s normal is another era’s dysfunction. We did go on to bigger and better things, like the time we hid an intercom in the broiler and made mysterious voices appear out of the kitchen appliances. But I will leave that story for another time. Suffice it to say, that it is a good thing my parents were not from the drinkers or else they may well have headed in that direction. Then again, it may just have been due to some abnormal atmospheric conditions like, say, sun spots.

This week’s shot at Martha Stewart arrives just in time for the holidays via Sleuth Heidi from Firesongs Funnies.

Dear Santa

I rarely ask for much. This year is no exception. I don't need diamond earrings, handy slicer-dicers or comfy slippers. I only want one little thing, and I want it deeply.

I want to slap Martha Stewart.

Now, hear me out, Santa. I won't scar her or draw blood or anything. Just one good smack, right across her smug little cheek. I get all cozy inside just thinking about it.

Don't grant this wish just for me, do it for thousands of women across the country.

Through sheer vicarious satisfaction, you'll be giving a gift to us all.

Those of us leading average, garden variety lives aren't concerned with gracious living.

We feel pretty good about ourselves if our paper plates match when we stack them on the counter, buffet-style for dinner.

We're tired of Martha showing us how to make centerpieces from hollyhock dipped in 18 carat gold. We're plumb out of liquid gold. Unless it's of the furniture polish variety.

We can't whip up Martha's creamy holiday sauce, spiced with turmeric. Most of us can't even say turmeric, let alone figure out what to do with it.

OK, Santa, maybe you think I'm being a little harsh. But I'll bet with all the holiday rush you didn't catch that interview with Martha a while back in

USA

Weekend. I'm surprised there was enough room on the page for her ego.

We discovered that not only does Martha avoid take-out pizza (she's only ordered it once), she refuses to eat it cold (No cold pizza? Is Martha Stewart Living?) When it was pointed out that she could microwave it, she replied, "I don't have a microwave."

The reporter, Jeffrey Zaslow, noted that she said this "in a tone that suggests you shouldn't either." Well lah-dee-dah. Imagine that, Santa! That lovely microwave you brought me years ago, in which I've learned to make complicated dishes like popcorn and hot chocolate, has been declared undesirable by Queen Martha. What next? The coffee maker?

In the article, we learned that Martha has 40 sets of dishes adorning an entire wall in her home. Forty sets. Can you spell "overkill"? And neatly put away, no less. If my dishes make it to the dishwasher, that qualifies as "put away" in my house!

Martha tells us she's already making homemade holiday gifts for friends. "Last year, I made amazing silk-lined scarves for everyone," she boasts. Not just scarves, mind you. Amazing scarves. Martha's obviously not shy about giving herself a little pat on the back. In fact, she does so with such frequency that one has to wonder if her back is black and blue.

She goes on to tell us that "homemaking is glamour for the 90s", and says her most glamorous friends are "interested in stain removal, how to iron a monogram, and how to fold a towel." I have one piece of advice, Martha: "Get new friends."

Glamorous friends fly to Paris on a whim. They drift past the Greek Islands on yachts, sipping champagne from crystal goblets. They step out for the evening in shimmering satin gowns, whisked away by tuxedoed chauffeurs. They do not spend their days pondering the finer art of toilet bowl sanitation.

Zaslow notes that Martha was named one of

America

's 25 most influential people by Time magazine (nosing out Mother Theresa, Madeline Albright and Maya Angelou, no doubt).

The proof of Martha's influence: after she bought white-fleshed peaches in the supermarket, Martha says, "People saw me buy them. In an instant, they were all gone." I hope Martha never decides to jump off a bridge.

A guest in Martha's home told Zaslow how Martha gets up early to roller blade with her dogs to pick fresh wild blackberries for breakfast. This confirms what I've suspected about Martha all along: She's obviously got too much time on her hands. Teaching the dogs to roller blade. What a show off.

If you think the dogs are spoiled, listen to how Martha treats her friends: She gave one friend all 272 books from the Knopf Everyman Library. It didn't cost much. Pocket change, really. Just $5,000. But what price friendship, right?

When asked if others should envy her, Martha replies, "Don't envy me. I'm doing this because I'm a natural teacher. You shouldn't envy teachers. You should listen to them." Zaslow must have slit a seam in Martha's ego at this point, because once the hot air came hissing out, it couldn't be held back.

"Being an overachiever is nothing despicable. It is only admirable. Never lower your standards," says Martha. And of her Web Page on the Internet, Martha declares herself an "important presence" as she graciously helps people organize their sad, tacky little lives.

There you have it, Santa. If there was ever someone who deserved a good smack, it's Martha Stewart. But I bet I won't get my gift this year.

You probably want to smack her yourself.

I urge you to use your "healthy skeptisism" when discussing conservation and other environmental issues fraught with deception, but swallowed whole by the public because THEY said so.
Sincerely Rich Winkle, East Quogue, NY

You are so right, Rich. If we are to apply our "healthy skepticism" equally, we would have to conclude that all this environmental nonsense is highly overrated. After all, why should we err on the side of caution. The earth looks much better from space now that it is brown and not the shade of blue that it used to be. Breathing clean air and drinking clean water is not all it is cracked up to be. You don’t hear the animals complaining now, do you? (-Ed.)

I was busy reading the column just now and the strangest thing happened - it started to snow - all identical snowflakes, and they dropped on the heads of identical twin great apes, both of whom had identical fingerprints and mirror image DNA.

Oh well - I guess I just have to finish reading this drivel to find out what happened. Oh yeah - there is life in the universe similar to ours, but nothing close to being similar to yours. Writers are in a category all their own - especially humorists (Humor? Shudder, shudder).

Wish I knew someone from a publisher who could read your articles and compile them into some kind of book. We can get it published and entitle it "Laugh Your Ass Off." For a humorist some of the things you write about are sometimes actually (almost) funny.

Seriously, though Irv. I have seldom been bored with your work and I bore easily. That says something for your style. It's light and comfortable. May I make a suggestion? Some of the older comedians used to talk about their childhood, their home life, their early married life and stuff like that. These things might give you an idea - a Sam Levinson type of monologue, with your style and your ideas. That might come out being very funny. Why not give something like that a shot?

There’s an idea, talk about my family and childhood. Now why didn’t I think of that one? (-Ed.)

Yesterday when I was walking the dogs three identical snowflakes fell on my jacket sleeve. I rant back into the house to get the camera and photographed them but I think the film was faulty. In the picture they looked like water-they still looked like each other but the pattern was missing.

Siggy

Thanks for confirming my suspicions. It’s too bad you lost the evidence but keep yourself available as we may need you to testify at the congressional hearings on official BS passed off as truth. If they ever get around to holding them that is. (-Ed.)

I can't tell you how happy I am to be back on your list. Somehow in the move I lost your address and I have been searching for you since September. Today I found you on Papa Thorn's list. I'm just glad to be back in the fold.

I am elated to be back on your mailing list. Your 12-07-02 column blew me away. Your skepticism reminds me of Henry L. Mencken, the sage of Baltimore. In fact I believe you surpass him. He had little empathy for the "mob", whereas you seem to empathize with every man.

I am usually on Thorn's list every week, when he doesn't forget to put me in, as well as Firesong Funnies and many other humor pages. If you ever lose me again, just do a Google search for the Long Island Sleuth or Irvmeister. I do believe I am the only one that comes up with that name.

I do empathize with every man as all people are related, whether they like it or not. (-Ed.)

Another great article. You must have ESP. I was going to write to you and suggest not only this subject for one of your excellent articles but also the nonsense in Florida where the parents of some kids are suing over their kids bad soccer ( I think) league winnings. What ever happened to learning that it isn't if you win or lose but how you play the game? There is also the father in

Canada

who is suing to get his kid made MVP and have the award taken away from the kid who earned it because the dad says his son will lose scholarships or something if not made MVP. A great number of parents these days don't want their kids to earn what they get but the name of the game seems to be in how well the parents can bully whoever need be to get their kid what they want. Kids these days don't get the chance to learn how to deal with losing and disappointment. This country needs to return to the time of personal responsibility! This ‘ lawsuit as well as all the other stupid lawsuits makes ya want to take all lawyers out and shoot them! Oh and then there is the old guy in Massachusetts who sued Home Depot because each and every nut and bolt was not marked with the price. It seems there is a law about each individual item for sale must have the price on it. And the major recipients of the settlement were, of course the lawyers. It is another sad day for people with common sense. What is this world coming to?

Have a safe and happy holiday season. (And tell your parents to send up some heat!!)

Alas, you are right and you can see what kind of kids these parents are raising. I was at a birthday/retirement party for my brother last week in New Jersey. I heard some of the parents discussing how their teenaged children stay out all night and can't be reached on their cell phones. Can you believe this? I asked them why they put up with such behavior and they told me that in NJ the kids are legally responsible for themselves at eighteen and the parents cannot do anything. They seemed to be genuinely afraid of their kids. So, I said, "Then why are you paying for their cell phones and their other luxuries? If they want to be responsible for themselves, then let them be responsible for themselves." If they had done that all along, they wouldn't have the kids that they have today.

I fear that we are breeding a generation that is learning that there is no responsibility and someone else will pay for your mistakes and actions. They are ill equipped to carry on this war on terrorism that our government is bent on waging. If they do not get their acts together, I have great fear for the future of this country. Could we ever again pull together as a nation with the great resolve and personal sacrifice it took to fight WW II?

Thanks for your kind words and I hope that you have a great holiday season for you and yours. My folks are stingy with the heat and they have no control over that, so I reckon we will have to go down there and get it ourselves. I am ready to go.

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