BlitzBlog

About 10 years ago, my family and I used to spend a week or so on Cape Cod at the end of every summer. We usually rented a house in Chatham, about halfway out, on the outside of the elbow. About 35 miles farther out, at the very tip of Cape Cod, lies Provincetown, or in the local vernacular, P-town.

Chatham is a quaint little tourist village, with a good choice of beaches for families, but for any serious whale watching, one must get a cruise out of P-Town.

In contrast to Chatham, P-town is what could be considered the Key West of the north. It is a funky and fun hotbed of counter culture, and more specifically gay culture. It is a haven for the gay community of both genders, and everything in between. And it is all on display, from the most suggestive of t-shirts, to the tightest of short shorts and thongs (and that’s the guys we’re talking about). It is Flame City, and has probably a dozen drag clubs on it’s main, well…drag.

So this particular summer, on our last night on vacation, Kate I took the kids for a 5:30 whale watching cruise. The boat arrived back at the pier at about 7 or so, and took a walk downtown, which is along the waterfront. Kate had 4 year old Sarah, while I strolled hand-in-hand with my 7-year old boy Zac.

At about this time, on most summer evenings, dozens of drag queens start making their appearance on the downtown street, mostly handing out their show’s mini flyers, hawking tourists to come see the show (This year’s main theme was Big-boned Barbies). The outrageous neon costumes, feathers and boas and 6″ platforms, with so much make up they actually do like like women, some even kinda……well, hot.

So we’re walking in the street, which is closed to traffic and is busy with people. Zac and I are walking, and about 30 feet ahead of us we notice 3 queens in full regalia strutting their stuff, handing out flyers. Zac says to me, “Dad! Look at those ladies!”

I look down at him and say, “Look at them closer Zac.”

He peers at them as they walk, and his gaze returns up to mine. He looks at me quizzically.

I smile and say in a low voice, “Zac, they’re not ladies.”

Zac’s eyes widen and he turns back to look at them again, and exclaims for the entire street to hear, “THOSE ARE MEN!?”

I can hear about 50 people crack up, all knowing exactly what Zac is talking about. The 3 queens all stop and turn on their heels, hands on hips, in cartoon dramatic fashion, like Ru Paul on a Paris runway. They spot Zac and all scoot on their platform sandals over to us. They all squat down and start fawning over Zac- how cute he is, blah blah blah- all while he’s looking up at me and Kate, who’s seen this all transpire and had just caught up with us. Zac’s eyes were a mix of delight and confusion, and we all just smiled at him while he absorbed this onslaught of attention.

After a minute, the queens said their goodbyes (air kisses!) and went off to continue their hawking. We continued our stroll, and not long afterwards, Zac asked me, “Dad, what’s with those ladies? I mean, men. Why do they dress like that?”

I told him it was for a play and it’s called burlesque. It’s supposed to be funny. “Did you think it was funny?” I asked him.

“Well yeah, kinda, but kinda weird too.”

I replied, “I know what ya mean, man, I know exactly what you mean.”

Later on, after Kate and I put the kids to bed, we started to pack for the ride home the next day. Kate mentioned that she was pretty sure that in second grade, they still write a “what I did on my summer vacation” essay pretty early in the year.

“We’re going to be getting a very interesting phone call come September.” she said.

As I once wrote in Lawn of the Dead, I’ve probably had about three good lawn days in the time I’ve lived in my current humble abode. Well, today, I can boast, is Day Four. And it’s all because of shit.

Eh?

You see, early last winter, a plumbing condition in my house developed in which when the upstairs toilet was flushed, the downstairs toilet would burp a bubble. Nothing loud, but odd nonetheless. My rudimentary knowledge of plumbing told me that it was probably a blockage in the vent stack. The vent stack is the pipe that goes through the roof that allows air back in to the system to prevent such occurrences and to allow burp-less draining, much like the second hole in a can that allows glug-less drinking.

So I call my friendly local plumber, who comes over and examines the symptoms. He can find no blockage of the vent stack and tells me that there must be a blockage “downstream.” This means something is up with my septic system. “When was the last time the Honey Dipper came?” (The Honey Dipper, or Shit Sucker, is the septic tank draining service) he inquired. It’d only been about 2 years, and our system is normally good for 5-6 years, so it did seem odd that the tank would be full, but I suppose we better check it out.

A call to the septic guy and he was at my house the next morning. I showed him the treasure map to my septic tank’s access- I really do have a treasure map to make the search for the tank easier- and his assistant began digging. He wasn’t halfway to the tank, about 3 feet down when the foul aroma of the tank became evident. This is unusual, as normally the smell only shows itself once they pull the lid off. “Uh oh.” Septic Man says.  “Uh oh,” I repeat, “That can’t be good. What do you think it is?” I ask. He says, “Can’t tell yet, but the tank is definitely over-full if we can smell it from here.”

Rather than enjoy the poopfog, I decide to go back in the house and await Doctor Turdowitz’s prognosis.

15 minutes later, the good doctor knocks on the back door, and waves for me to come out and follow him. My yard smells like a hot day at the Calcutta Cheese Festival. We go over to the hole and peer down. It’s obvious the tank is full and is not draining. The problem is even further downstream. “How old is your leech field?” he asks. “It’s the original field, as far as I know. 1967.” I answer. A leech field is a series of buried perforated pipes where the water from the tank goes after all the, um, solids, have settled out in the septic tank. “Well, I think we need to dig you a new field, ’cause this one is about full up.” This, I know, is a Big Job. And expen$ive.

Ouch.

We haggle a bit on the cost, and he gives me a nice break, but it’s still about a $3000+ whack to my account.

The heavy equipment starts rolling down my driveway shortly thereafter and my back yard begins to look like the short route to China. The hole is about 25′x35′, about 6 feet deep, with a series of trenches where the new piping will be laid. Long story short, they put in the pipes, some tunnel-like devices above them, and pile the dirt back in. The job is finished by the next day.

The only problem (besides coughing up the $3Gs) is that it’s December and my yard looks like Woodstock’s mud pit, minus all the hippies. It’s not like we can throw down some grass seed and I’ll have a new lawn by New Years, not when it’s 30+ degrees outside.

So for the next 3 months, we deal with the mud. I pray for sub-freezing temps, so the surface stays hard, so we don’t have to bathe our two dogs every time they come back in the house. Invariably, the mud freezes, unfreezes, and refreezes, slowly becoming an undulating mass of mud and rocks that rise to the surface. The snow comes, melts and makes a chocolate colored mosh pit.

By early March, my indefatigable wife and daughter and I (well mostly them) spend the month raking and combing the yard, hauling out long-buried boulders, football-sized rocks, and thousands of smaller ones, making stone walls and piles at the periphery of the yard that divides us from the forest beyond. In mid April, the ground was finally ready for grass seed. I spread a bunch of the stuff down, along with fertilizer (although I figured the ground was pretty well full of nutrients, considering what had been dug up). The family and I took a week’s vacation and came home to the first tender sprouts.

After a few more weeks, after the first mowing of the thin growth, I decided to overseed, wait and hope.  It’s been the wettest May on record. While everyone I know, and all the talking heads on the local news have been complaining about the rain we’ve been getting almost every day, I remained silent and thankful.

By late June, it started to look like a new lawn, albeit with some leftover broadleaf weeds mixed in at the edges of the new stuff. The new area was mature enough for some Serious Chemicals, and I got the spreader, filled it with some TurfBuilder Plus and pushed it around the yard.

Now here I am, on the second Saturday in August, and I have just pulled the riding mower into the shed. I’ve got the laptop out here in the Adirondack chair in the shade under the giant maple. The smell of fresh cut grass mingles with basil from the veggie garden on the sunny side of the house. The Stargazer Lilies cast their overpowering perfume nearby, reminding me of those on the tables at Kate’s and my wedding, 20 years ago next month. While there’s still some weed-wacking and trimming to be done- maybe I’ll ask Zac to take care of that- the grass, for once, is actually greener on my side of the fence.

All because of shit.

Without wanting to sound like I’m bragging on my own kid, my 17-year old son is gorgeous. Where he gets it from, well it’s gotta be his mother. While he’s not tall, certainly not “model tall,” he’s got a great body, fabulous hair and a classically handsome face.

Why am I telling you this? Well sure, I’m a parent, so of course you don’t really have to drag it out of me, but no, I’m telling you this as a warning.

You see, a few months ago, Z was approached at the Palisades Mall in West Nyack, New York by a woman who told him he “the Look.” That he should consider modeling, and if he wanted to, he should give her company a call, and handed him her card. The company was called Interface Talent, located in Norwalk, Connecticut.

Z came home and told me what had transpired. I figured it’d be a fun little experiment to see what this was about. So Z called the agency to arrange an appointment. On the phone, the woman was very adamant that both parents be present when we meet with their “producer,” as it was a legal matter if we made any decisions for our minor son. I told them that would be impossible, that my wife is away on business for the summer, and I would be the only one attending. She asked if I had decision-making power regarding my son’s affairs, and I told her that yes, I could make these decisions without my wife present. She seemed hesitant but we made an appointment for a week hence. We should bring some sample photos of Z with us, we were told.

Z went out with a photographer friend of his on a casual photo-shoot. They knocked out about 60 shots of him, of which we printed out about half a dozen on nice glossy paper.

We made the 90-minute trek to Norwalk for 2pm our appointment.We were given some forms to fill out, asking questions of Z about what type of modeling he thought he’d be interested in. Runway? (No.) Print ads? (Yes). Acting? (Not Sure). There were a bunch of other questions about his availability and his vital stats. Once he’d finished, he handed the clipboard back to the receptionist and we waited. Every so often, one highly dressed or made up person would walk purposefully through the lobby. All very model-like, very haute couture, chi-chi and frou-frou.

After about 10 minutes, a very attractive woman, probably in her early 30s, came out and introduced herself to us. Her name was Callie Bundy and she was our Producer. We followed her into her office and sat down to talk. She began talking about how excited they were to have Z here, and how they could help him launch his career. She told us they had hundreds of agents who subscribed to their service, and they regularly have people who get jobs modeling for some of the biggest name brands in the world. She showed us a 3″ ring binder with a variety of her clients, with their head shots and ads that they’ve done. She said Z had a very “Hollister” look and she could see him doing ads for companies like them or Abercrombie. Z’s eyes lit up with enthusiasm, and I could see she was just fawning over him, shoveling compliments at him in what seemed like just part of the conversation. It was speech right out of Salesmanship 101.

Now, as an aside, I’ve worked in Advertising for over 25 years. I’ve been an Art and Creative Director for all sorts of photo shoots, and have hired dozens of models, so I know the process. I’ve also, much as I hate to admit it, been a car salesman, and I know a good schpiel of BS when I hear one.

So here came The Pitch. Interface does not charge an agency commission, so they make their money by charging for head shots and photo shoots. They have two types of head shots, both of which Z should have. The smaller ones are $1.75 each; the larger $4.00 a piece. She recommended we start with 50 of each. Interface would set up a modeling photo shoot, with makeup and wardrobe help, and include the first set of shots, with a package that started around $1200. We could schedule something within the week, sign here.

Um, no. I didn’t feel right about the deal, and even though it really wasn’t an enormous amount of money, we’d be making the commitment, and Interface was offering no guarantees.  I told Callie I’d like to think about it.

And here’s where the hard sell started. The dance was right out of the car salesman’s manual. Keep asking questions, find out what price would get the deal done today; keep overcoming objections, and if all else fails, get the Sales Manager.

So Callie excused herself, and returned shortly with Bob, whom Callie said was the company President. Bob told me he’d cut me a deal for the $1200 package for only $800 if I’d put a deposit down right there. (They had packages all the way up to $5500!)  I told him I was still on the fence. I told him I needed to discuss the situation with my wife. Each objection was met with a comeback, looking for a “commitment.” Finally I threw out an offer, that I’d give him a $100 deposit if he could come down to $600. He jumped at the offer, and I figured it’d be safe to put a “fully-refundable” $100 on my Amex. I could always dispute the charge with Amex later if it all fell apart. He stage-whispered to me, begging me not to tell anyone what a deal I just got, and that I was only putting $100 down. At this point I was so skeptical that I was ready to call Amex to cancel before we’d left the building, but I let it lay, and we signed the papers (but only after reading the parts about how/when I could get my $100 back).

Z and I walked to the car, and I told him of my doubts, and that we’d do some due diligence once we got home. He was both excited at the prospect of making some money and being a model, and disappointed about my suspicions. Undoubtedly, had he been of legal age, he’d have written a check for the full amount then and there.

A few hours later, I sat down in front of my computer. I Googled “Interface Talent + sucks.” The top 5 hits were a litany of complaints and horror stories regarding the company. They’re under investigation both in New Jersey and Connecticut. Their representatives have been banned from a number of malls, and well, basically, Interface Talent is a company to stay away from. I immediately pulled out our contract and started the refund process, following it to the letter. (Long story short, while they did give me some minor, shady push-back, I did get a check from them exactly 30 days after  they received my Certified Mail refund request, as the contract stipulated).

So to all you parents; and to all you pretty young girls and handsome young  boys, I will tell you, unequivocally, stay away from Interface Talent Agency. They are running a scam on you, and do not fall prey to their slick attempts to appeal to your vanity or their hard-sell ways.  If you want to be a model, find a reputable agency, one for which you can find independent recommendations.

If you’d like to read further, two of the links I mentioned above are:
<http://www.free-press-release.com/news/200809/1221584332.html>
and
<http://bbs.backstage.com/eve/forums/a/tpc/f/6031061/m/344106201/p/2>

Some things are great. The peak of human endeavor or creation. Michaelangelo’s David. Apollo 11. Stevie Ray Vaughn. Junior’s Cheesecake. My dog Izzy. My rib recipe.

Some things are terrible. Things that won’t kill you, but will lead to nothing but suffering. Domino’s pizza. Being a Jets, Mets, Knicks or Rangers fan. Kathy Griffin or Andy Dick. Reality TV. Country Pop.

And then there are things that prove that if one goes far enough to the right, one will come out on the left. Things that are just so bad, they’re actually good. Things that one shouldn’t partake of very often, probably only occasionally, maybe once a year, or every other. In short, my list……

White Castle after midnight.

Army of Darkness.

Hostess Snowballs.

Family Guy, especially the Ipicac Contest scene.

Mr. Creosote.

The Ramones.

Tater.

Robot Chicken.

The Aristocrats.

Pee Wee.

Rutt’s Hut.

I’m sure I could add to this list, given time. If this list hasn’t confused you (or even if it has), feel free to submit, via comments, your own list of So Bad it’s Good.

Living and loving all things natural (my affinity for Hostess Snowballs notwithstanding), we’ve had a nice wooden bird feeder hanging outside my dining room window, on a rope screwed into the soffit. Over the years, we’ve enjoyed visits from all sorts of avians, from nondescript sparrows to some brightly, beautifully plumed travelers. As with most bird feeders, the local squirrel population that lives in the woods that abut my back yard have discovered this hanging feast and its easy pickin’s.

I’ve gone on line to search for squirrel deterrents and other varmint-proof feeders. Amazingly, the ones that look like they’ll actually work all cost around $100 or more. Sorry but I’m not giving up a month of TV and Internet just so some rodents have to look elsewhere for a meal. There’s got to be a cheaper way….

Taking a cue from my friend’s horse corral with the electric fence, I grabbed a 6-volt lantern battery and tacked some solid core, un-insulated wire strategically on the feeder pan.

However, this voltage level, apparently did not deter the lil’ varmints, as they munched contentedly while perched atop the wires.

Time to up the ante.

Time for 120 volts of pure squirrel zappin’ power!

Toss the battery aside, clip the female end of an extension cord, strip off some insulation and attach to the two screws on the feeder that run to the two wires on the feeder pan.  The wires are about 4 inches apart, so touching one produces no effect, but touching two should give them buggers something to consider.  Run the extension cord in through the window and plug it in.

Sit, wait and watch.

Ok, here comes Rocky, peeking over the gutter. He climbs down the rope that holds the feeder. Climbs onto the feeder and begins his meal. He works his way over one wire, munching contentedly. He shifts slightly towards the other wire and ZAP! He jumps about a foot in the air, almost like a cartoon, squeaks what I know is a very Bad Word in Squirrelese, and lands on the rhododendron below. He then walks slowly and gingerly across my yard and climbs a tree at the edge of the woods, muttering to himself.

Not 10 minutes later, Rocky returns, with a repeat performance.

Again, though, he returns- gotta admire his stick-to-itiveness- and he is much more wary this time. He makes his way down the rope, stops atop the feeder, and then crawls down the side, and hanging by his back feet, begins feasting by using his front paws and pulling seed from the feeder pan.

I rap on the window and he jumps to the ground, only to return shortly thereafter, repeatedly.

Defeat? Never!

So I retire to my Secret Laboratory, cleverly hidden behind the rotating bookcase in my manse’s library. I put on my lab coat, dark goggles and heavy black rubber gloves (safety first, you know) and turn on the Van de Graff generator and Tesla coils. I begin cackling madly as I strategically (but decoratively) tack more wire to the feeder. On the sides, on the top, always keeping the two leads at least 2-3″ apart, making sure to cover wherever my wily opponent might sit in an attempt to purloin a meal.

I re-hang the feeder and wait.

Soon, the gray menace climbs down the rope. While atop the feeder, he touches only one of the leads, but as he begins his descent along the side to assume his previous feeding position- ZAP! Another squeal, another leap and a another gingerly skulk back to the forest.

A day of further attempts by the rodent to get at the feed pan. He tries climbing from the window sill. He tries various leaps directly from the gutter above or from the rope itself, and each time receives my my good friend Tesla’s wrath. Victory is mine!

The next morning, I awake and saunter smugly to the dining room to drink my coffee and watch the birds feed. I look out the window and sputter my coffee at the pane, aghast at what I see.

I see an empty rope swinging ever so slowly in the gentle breeze. Tiny teeth marks are evident in the frayed ends of the pathetic string that remains hanging from the soffit. I look below, and there lies the empty feeder, with opened seed husks strewn about at the base of the rhododendron. The remnants of a Rodent Feast.

I raise my fists to the heavens. Nooooooo! Blasted Sciurus carolinensis! I Shall Defeat You!!!!

I run outside to my yard and gather the feeder and scurry back to my lab. I fill my blackboard with arcane formulae and random drawings of electrified small furbid creatures. Finally, after weeks (okay, about 15 minutes) I emerge with my Ultimate Creation. The final two wires that run down along opposite sides of the hanger rope. I re-hang the now impervious feeder and sit, watch and wait.

It has now been 2 weeks and my worthy opponents have yet to figure out a way to get to their prize. I believe, yes, I KNOW that now, finally Victory is now truly Mine!

Mwahahahahahahahaaaaaa!