She’s No Dan Fan

Note: Ironically I wrote this piece yesterday before I heard of the passing of Walter Becker. Let it serve as a tribute to Mr. Becker, Donald Fagan, and Steely Dan's great contribution to our music.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Wouldn't you know it, Michelle?”

“What’s that, Perry?”

“Just as we get to the concert, it’s starting to rain.”

"What a shame! Let’s turn around and go right back home!"

"Now, Michelle, you agreed to come.”

"Sure, after you plied me with gin.”

"Michelle, Steely Dan is the quintessential Boomer band. Second only to the Beatles." 

"Need I remind you, Perry, I'm post-Boomer?"

"Oh, there’s not a lot of difference between us.”

“You’re right, there’s only one difference – years!”

“It's clearing up. Let’s head on in.”

“Did you remember the tickets?”

“Of course.”

“I knew I should have hidden them!”

“Wow, look at this place! I haven’t seen so many gray ponytails since my last George Washington Look-alike Contest!”

“I don’t see anyone here my age.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, Michelle, I see plenty of folks your age.”

“Where?”

“Working the concessions.”

“Wonder if I can get some gin there.”

“Look, there’s Donald Fagan and Walter Becker!”

“They’re both kinda ugly, aren’t they?”

“I’m sorry, Michelle. Next time we'll go see David Muir of ABC News in concert.”

“What’s this first song about?”

“Everyone’s Gone to the Movies is … umm …rumored to be about child abuse.”

 “Lovely.”

“Now they’re going into Hey, Nineteen. That's almost our song.’”

“It's not about a guy who calls out bingo numbers for a living?”  

“Maybe this was a bad idea for you to come.”

“Wait, Perry! I’ve heard this one before.”

“It’s called Deacon Blues.”

“It has kind of a moody haunting quality.”

“They got a name for the winners in the world

 I want a name when I lose.

“They call Alabama the Crimson Tide,

Call me Deacon Blues.”

“Say, Perry?”

“Yes, Michelle?”

“You want a name when you lose?” 

“I guess.”

“I’d have thought you’d already had half a dozen by now.”

“Aw, Michelle!”

“I’m kidding! Know what?

“What?”

“I do like Steely Dan.” 

“You do?

 “And I like you too. In fact, you’re probably my favorite Baby Boomer!”

“Why, thank you.”

“But about those names when you lose?”

“Yes, Michelle?”

“You’ll be needing one later tonight.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Epic!

We’d only been out two times before, but I already had Shelby pretty well figured out. 

And although what I’d figured out left a lot to be desired, what I’d figured out was more than offset by the desirability of her figure.

Shelby was superficial. Her conversation was full of sales at Nordstrom’s, the latest fashion trends, and clothing she’d bought that was Epic! My attempt to discuss cinema, books, and art fell as flat as her chest was not.

But I wasn’t ready to give up yet.

So for our third date I decided to employ a clever ploy.

“Hi, Shelby.  Say …um … is that a new blouse?”

 “Yes, I just got it at Nordstrom’s, marked down from $75 to $37.50! Isn’t it Epic?

“Just as Epic as ‘Gladiator.’”

“What are we going to do tonight, Perry?”

“I thought maybe we’d take an evening and go to Nordstrom’s and check out the new sales.”

“I’d love that! 

Score No. One toward a night of fun!

As we entered Nordstrom’s, I turned on the “Shop till you Drop” charm.

“It’s so great here, Shelby!  Nothing better than being in a crowded department store on a Friday night instead of sipping Chablis at a café downtown.

“I’m headed over the Point of View Department,” said Shelby. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Buy something that’s Epic!” I called to her. “While you shop, I’m headed to the Men's Department to look for a nice Hawaiian shirt with an alligator on it.”

Score No. Two for the 67 year old Jew!

I milled around the Men’s Department pretending to look at stuff while reading the news on my phone. Shelby eventually returned with a bag big enough to pack lunch for Governor Christie.

“You didn’t buy anything, Perry?”

“I left my credit card in my other pants, darn it! I wanted to buy some loafers, Ban-Lon shirts, and Dockers with humongous pleats.”

Score Three for the soon to Get Lucky Me!

We returned to Shelby’s place where I felt sure we’d soon be modeling fashions, minus the fashions, long into the night.

“Perry,” she said bluntly, “I think we should call it quits.”

“What?!”

‘‘We don’t have anything in common.’’

“But we do. I love clothes! I love discounts! I love buying stuff that’s

Epic!”

“That’s just it.”

“What’s just it?”

“I thought you dressed the way you do because you weren’t into clothes and shopping, but now that I know you are...”

“Yes?”

Your bad taste is Epic! 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rustic Restaurant by the River (FF)

Copyright:Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

                                                                                                               FF-Friday Fictioneers

  

"You have another date!" I shouted aloud to Russell Gayer some years ago when we lived together."

"Yes, and this one's a model.  I'm taking her to that new rustic restaurant by the river. I'm expecting a special night!"

"How do you do it?!" I exclaimed.  "A new great-looking woman every night!"

"Some of us got it," he replied with his typical modesty.

"Well, I'll be here with my stamp collection.  Later I'll drink a warm glass of milk and watch Mr. Johnny Carson." 

Of course, role reversal can be fun.

Like how I completely switched roles of Russell and me in the story above!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Well, this time around I made only a tenuous connection to the picture prompt above to pull a switch and give Russell my personality and make me out to be like him. In reality my special night with the super model turned out to be super, while Russell was pleased to find a Rutherford B. Hayes stamp in his collection which he carried around for months.

The other Friday Fictioneers have hopefully been more true to the picture prompt and you can find their takes on it by clicking right here.

Yes,  poor Russell. I wonder if it's too late to give him some pointers?

Champion Sax And A Girl Named Sandra

Champion Sax and a Girl Named ... 

What the hell does that mean anyway?

"Just what are you doing on Facebook?" I asked Sandra, the woman I'd been seeing for the last several weeks.

"Same as everybody else.  Irrevocably wasting up to one-third of my remaining life span."

"That's not what I mean," I said.  "Why are you using a current picture of yourself on your Facebook page?  You're a Boomer, just like me. Even the best of us peaked over 20 years ago."

"Oh, so you're saying I should be like you, using a picture that's so old it's approaching puberty?  Don't I look okay just like this?"

"I think you look great. But why not bamboozle the virtual world into thinking you look even greater?”

"Okay, if you want I'll post a younger picture of myself. But, Perry, you're too focused on appearance. You have other fine attributes more important than appearance."

"What are they?"

"Can I get back to you on that?"

As Sandra went to get a picture of her younger self, I called after her.

"I've been wondering: why doesn't anyone call you Sandy?"

"They used to, but then back in college people started calling me Champion Sax and a Girl Named Sandy."

"That's adorable!"

"Not if you hate the Doors," she said, returning to the room. “Anyway, here's the picture." 

I looked, blinked, and gasped.  And gasped again.

"Why you ... you ... look like ...  Scarlett Johansson! You look like … Mila Kunis!  You look like …. the child of Scarlett Johansson and Mila Kunis should there be such a thing!”

"Well, thanks, I guess back in the day, people said ...”

"I don't think you should post this picture."

"Why?"

“Because there's a lot of perverts out there!  A lot of guys with thick dandruff and coke bottle glasses named Kitchell who'll be salivating over you while building full-size models of the Starship Enterprise in their parents' basements!”

"So I'll block them, no problem."

"And there's lots of radical groups and terrorists, some of which may try to recruit you!”

“You don’t think I know enough to avoid terrorists?”

’’What if they’re giving double coupons?  And there’s cool guys of Boomer age with full heads of thick gray hair who may be charming and accomplished and interested in you!”

"Well, that doesn't sound bad."

"Doesn't sound bad?!  Post this picture and before long you're engaged to some good-looking Boomer who turns out to be an unrepentant Doors Fan who listens to the Soft Parade while he dresses up like Robby Krieger!"

"First you say ‘post it,’ then you say ‘don't post it.’"

“Let's just say I’ve evolved on the issue. Like Republican presidential candidates do."

"Okay ... okay ... I won't post it."

"Good!  Now how about we go out for coffee?”

"Sure.”

"Oh, one more thing?"

"Yes."

"Can I have the picture?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

The One Who Pays

 

"This blueberry pie is awesome!" exclaimed Sandra.

"It's hands-down the best I've ever had!" I agreed, rolling another awesome piece into my mouth after initially missing and rolling the first awesome piece into my beard.

It was my third or fourth date with Sandra, the slightly younger Baby Boomer I'd met at the Bummed Out Boomers Meetup Group several weeks ago. Away from that particularly toxic environment she turned out to be a rather bright and engaging woman, and we were sitting that evening at a trendy downtown café where the pricing for coffee and pastries required use of Boolean Algebra to comfortably calculate.

“That was wonderful, Perry,” said Sandra, “and it’s on me.”

“Oh, Sandra, no, I've got it.”

"But Perry, you're a writer."

"So?"

"Unless you're Ernest Hemingway, you’re probably not making ends wave at each other, let alone meet.”

Sandra was amazing. If we went to the movies and I paid for the tickets, Sandra bought popcorn and sodas.  If we went to the art museum and I paid to get in, she bought admission for the special exhibits.  If I bought gas, she cleaned the windshield, checked the tire pressure, and paid for the gas.

Yes, sir, things seemed to be shaping up nicely for my head, my heart, and most importantly, my wallet. 

This past week we went out to dinner at a medium priced place in town and after a friendly tug of war for the check we agreed we'd split it.

"Okay, Sandra, but next time it's ALL on me, no arguments!"

"Okay, Perry, I'll agree.  Say, could we stop back at the cafe?"

"You’re still hungry?"

“No, I just want some more of that awesome pie for later."

"Sure."

"Can we get a piece for both me and my neighbor Michelle?"

"Of course."

"And also for my friend Judith and her spouse Iris, and their son Tommy, and oh yes, my Aunt Rochelle and Uncle Sol?"

"Uh, Sandra, this is beginning to look like a starting lineup.”

“And my college roommate Amy and her boyfriend Ned and my Mom, can't forget her, and my good friends Betty and Elaine from yoga and....”

“Sandra, for chrissakes, I'm a writer!!!”

“And of course Elaine from work, and the guy in the mailroom, and my ex-boyfriend Phil, and his new girlfriend, and ...”

Maybe Sandra's a wee bit mercurial.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Quintessential Boomer Band (FF)

© Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

"Wouldn't you know it, Michelle?  Just as we get to the concert it starts really storming!"

"Sure is, Perry! I move we wait in the car until it slows a bit."

"Agreed.  Although I hate to be late for Steely Dan." 

"I still can't believe you talked me into this."

"Michelle, Steely Dan is the quintessential Boomer band!  Second only to the Beatles." 

"Need I remind you, Perry, it's only our second date and I'm a post-Boomer?"

"Okay, okay.  Say Michelle ..."

"Yes?"

"Since we're stuck here in the rain and .. um .. we're totally alone, how 'bout you and me ..."

"Wow!" I thought.  "I've never seen anyone bolt that fast out of a car and into the pouring rain!  I guess she really does want to see Steely Dan after all."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Well, it's raining, it's pouring, and it wouldn't have worked out with Michelle anyway. I'm a Boomer and she's a post Boomer. I'm formerly cute and she's currently cute. She's Jewish and I'm a Jehovah's Witness. Lots of problems.

I don't really know if Steely Dan is the quintessential Boomer band, but I think a lot of Boomers who grew up with them dig their off-beat style, intriguing lyrics, and just plain catchy music. I can't speak for millennials.  What I can do, however, is speak for the Friday Fictioneers, whose work is always quintessential and available for you to check out by clicking here.

"Michelle, wait, come out of the rain!  I'll do anything for you.  I'll even become Jewish!"

Harborside Hero (FF)

"Perry, do something!" my date Janet shouted as the two of us saw a man slip and fall in the harbor where we were having drinks at a waterside cafe.

"Me?  Why me?"  I gasped. "What about everyone else?"

"Do you see anyone else going in?  Help him, for god sakes!”

"But I'm not that good swimmer! I wore a Mae West Jacket until I was 27.  I always get severe water in the ear.  I'm a sinker, not a floater!” 

“But he's floundering!"

“Umm... do you think the water in the harbor is heated?”

“Never mind!  I’ll do it.”

And Janet dove in. Last thing I saw of her, she and the drowning man were having dinner together.

Maybe I’ll just throw myself in the harbor next.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I thought it might be time for a tale of heroism and bravery featuring me, and ... ahem ... here it is!  Only thing is, the heroism and bravery belongs 100% to Janet, zero to me. 

Well, at least I'm here today to chronicle her valiant story as my entry in this week's Friday Fictioneers' happenings and events.  Further happenings and events as chronicled by the other Fictioneers are available by clicking here.

Hey, stop splashing me!

Mark Zuckerberg, Boobs & Me

You've got to hand it to Mark Zuckerberg.  His intelligence collecting capabilities are so vast he makes the NSA look like a couple of eight year olds with two paper cups and a string. If Santa Claus had the ability to spy on his fellow man in the manner of Mark Zuckerberg, you and I would have a sufficient collection of lumps of coal today to power a small city.

How do I know this?  I simply have to click on Facebook.

Whenever I do, I find a column of ads to the right of all the posts by my Facebook "friends" whom I've never met and never will meet which looks and reads like this:


Meet Claudia. She loves unsightly wrinkles, thinning hair, and the word "flaccid." She doesn't care if you never look at her eyes. We've got hundreds of women like Claudia with no standards waiting to meet you. Join for free at www.desperateloser.com

It doesn't matter how old, desiccated, and lacking in redeeming social value you are, you'll be having non-stop sex with women like Vicki within minutes after joining www.gullibleschmuck.com.  What do you have to lose other than all your self-respect? 

We have 113 mature women in your area looking for a man 63 or older! Every one looks exactly like Amy except some also have large breasts. We offer free Vitamin E too. Click www.stupidgeezer.com to join!

It wasn't always like this for me on Facebook. When I first joined the site there was always a right hand column of diverse ads for all manner of random things like shoes, threshing equipment, mutual funds managed by mimes, and the best-seller "Theodore Bikel's Anti-Aging Secrets." 

Occasionally I would get an ad or two I didn't appreciate like "Falling and you can't get up?" or "Seniors! Learn to knit plaid pants ....", but I objected and the ads vanished like beer at a frat party. Facebook tries mightily to customize its advertising for each individual Facebooker's interests and preferences. 

One day I saw an ad for a dating site graced by a picture of a woman whose breasts could float a battleship.  Before my eyes could return to their sockets I saw another such ad, and soon ads for dating sites featuring incredibly large busted women began proliferating to the point every time I opened Facebook I thought my computer was going to tip over to the right! 

Mark Zuckerberg, I realized, was no doubt reading my FB posts and determining my tastes and predilections. Flattering to be sure, but how much did he really know about me? There's more to me than just a boob-crazed burned out baby boomer! 

I write about many things, like politics, books, film, and popular culture. 

True, I always write about books, film, and popular culture which feature big boobs, and I'm very much looking forward to the upcoming Mariah Carey autobiography to be made into a movie and then become part of popular culture. But I also write about politics, where ... umm... yeah ... everyone's a boob.

Mark Zuckerberg, you are amazing!  You know more about me than I know myself.

May my PC screen teeter totter forevermore.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"We'll do the teeter tottering, Perry. 

 You do the doddering."

My Dinner with Dick (Nixon)

He was this close!  

Minus the hand gesture and the helicopter

This is a story about me and Dick.

 No, it has nothing to do with sex.  Not directly anyway.

It is rather a story about me and former President of the United States Richard M. Nixon and the evening we had dinner together at a restaurant in Philadelphia in the mid 198o's. Those of you who regularly watch Fox News can stop salivating.  I didn't get to meet the man, share ripostes, or lovingly wipe his chin of butter sauce, although I was close enough to profoundly admire his bridgework.

I am somewhat of an autograph hound.  That is, I am interested in celebrities (at least those born before 1970) and possessed of a keen desire to feel in some way connected to them. Unfortunately I am not overly blessed with THE GUTS TO APPROACH THEM!  And therein lies the tale.

"That's Richard Nixon!" said my date Elise as a familiar foursome walked into the restaurant in which we were seated in the midst of our second date that evening.  Looking up, I recognized the former President of the United States, his wife Pat, his daughter Julie, and her husband David Eisenhower being led to a table not 15 feet from us. 

"Let's get his autograph!"  Elise cried. "C'mon, Perry let's go!"

"No, no, no, no!" I shot back. "He's a crook and cheat and we don't want or need his autograph!" I said firmly, lying my ass off --- not about Mr. Nixon ---but about my reason for keeping said ass planted securely in my restaurant seat.

"Perry,  he is a major world leader of the twentieth century!"

"Ellen, he's probably surrounded by secret service men. We'll be grabbed and whisked away for exhaustive interrogation by two sadistic cops straight out of central casting!  Trust me, they won't let anyone get near him!"

Now I've used this excuse many times before, including the time I failed to pursue the autograph of Rupert G, the guy who runs the deli next to The David Letterman Show. But it seemed to quiet down Elise, who thereupon settled into her French Onion Soup and our dinner conversation, the former hopefully a bit warmer than the latter.

An hour and a half later as we received the check and Mr. Nixon and his entourage rose to leave, two sweet little blond girls, about four and six years old respectively, ran up to the former President and asked for his autograph.

They were not grabbed. 

They were not whisked away for exhaustive interrogation by two sadistic cops straight out of central casting.

They didn't even look like Republicans.

Mr. Nixon flashed his jowly smile so broadly it appeared he was about to shoot his arms into the air and make the patented victory sign so often dispensed during his Presidency.  He seemed truly delighted, almost as if he now felt vindicated at long last in the eyes of history, his fellow man, and the two little girls, for whom he graciously signed autographs. They beamed with happiness.

My dinner date was not beaming so happily.

"Well, Elise," I stammered, "it ... uh ... looks like maybe we ...um .... did squander a bit of an opportunity here."

"That's not the only opportunity you've squandered here, buster!" she said.

And that's the story about my dinner with Dick.  And though I didn't actually get to meet the 37th President of the United States,  I do have this to say about him: 

Damn you, Richard Nixon! 

On that particular evening, you really were a crook!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A shorter version of this piece was published in the Broad Street Review under the title Foiled by Tricky Dick.   And I was.