My dad was never really big on comedians. It wasn’t that he lacked a sense of humor – he loved to laugh at funny stories and real life situations, but comedians, especially television comedians and comedy programs, generally left him cold. There was, however, one gargantuan exception, and that was Jackie Gleason.

I can recall being a boy and watching the Jackie Gleason variety show on Saturday nights with my dad – he with a beer and I with a Dad’s Root Beer. As much as I would enjoy watching Jackie portray the “Poor Soul”, “Reginald Van Gleason III” “Joe the Bartender” and “Charlie Bratton, the Loudmouth,” I got the most pleasure out of watching my dad howl with laughter. All these characters, in one way or another, spoke to him.

The variety show began doing a regular sketch about a working-class bus driver who lived in a cold-water flat in Brooklyn with this wife and their goofy upstairs neighbor. Of course, this was the Honeymooners, which ultimately became a regular network program and ultimately a syndicated series that still airs today. If standing the test of time is a critical ingredient to greatness, the Honeymooners more than qualifies.

I don’t think that there ever has been a time when the Honeymooners has not been on TV somewhere. In the New York metropolitan area, local stations run Marathon Honeymooners Weekends, which repeat, back to back, episodes that we all have seen so often that we know the classic scenes and lines by heart.It doesn’t seem to matter, though, for they are still just plain funny. One needs only sit in a tavern and strike up a Honeymooners discussion, and in no time people will quote their favorite lines or describe their favorite scenes. Here’s one of my favorites:

In a train on their way to a convention of the Loyal Order of Raccoons, in full Raccoon Lodge Regalia, Ralph and Ed Norton find themselves handcuffed together in their sleeper car because Norton was unable to open the trick handcuffs he demonstrated for Ralph. Ralph decides that they should try to get some sleep, even though they remain joined at the wrists. They spend the next few hilarious minutes each trying to climb into his berth. Once they finally managed to get into their berths, there is a moment of silence when Norton breaks the silence:

Norton (from the top berth) “Ralph?”

Ralph: (from the lower birth) “WHAT?”
Norton: “Mind if I smoke?”
Ralph: “I don’t care if you BURN.”

Gleason and TV, with its close ups, were perfect together because, among his other comedic talents, Gleason could convey a wide variety of emotions with his facial expressions alone. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone do it better. A raised eyebrow as he was approaching critical mass at Norton’s antics would start the laughter that would crescendo and ultimately erupt when Ralph finally would explode at the hapless Norton. By contrast, we would watch his pained face and false starts at an explanation as he stood behind Alice after pulling a stunt that angered her, but more importantly, disappointed her. His expressions were funny, but at the same time we felt sorry for Alice and even more sorry for Ralph, who let her down, yet again. However, we always knew that everything would turn out OK in the end, and Ralph would tell Alice that she was “the greatest.”

Jackie Gleason is gone now and so is my dad. I wonder if Jackie would be happy knowing that a few years ago, during the final days of my dad’s terminal illness, we would sit together and watch the same Honeymooners re-runs that we had watched together more than thirty-five years earlier, and as sick as he was, my dad still howled with laughter, and I howled right along with him. For those 22 minutes, The Great One took us both back to a better time.

Jackie Gleason was a big man who lived large. Somehow I was not surprised to learn that his epitaph reads, “And Away We Go.”

That’s what it said – not “Greetings,” but “Greeting.” To this day, I wonder if it had been a typo. We had always been told that draft notices opened their chilling message with the cheery salutation “Greetings.” It was one of many things we were told that turned out to be wrong. December 12th marks the 35th anniversary of my induction into the U.S. Army. It was 1968, and all hell was breaking loose at home and war casualties were peaking.

Being drafted did not come as a surprise. Several months earlier, during our senior year in college, I, along with several guys I grew up with, had been ordered to report to the Induction Center in Newark for our pre-induction physicals. Our first taste of the military was being barked at by an immense sergeant who seemed to be all stripes from his shoulder to his elbow. He hollered, “Take off everything except your undershorts, socks and shoes.” Barely five minutes in and already it was surreal. A hundred or so men looked like actors in a black and white, 35 millimeter stag film.

Back then, most college seniors were not terribly keen on the idea of being killed or maimed in Southeast Asia, so stories circulated about ways to avoid being drafted without having to flee to Canada or serve out your time in a federal prison, where we were told that the inmates just LOVED “college puke draft dodgers.”

According to some of these stories, you could avoid being drafted by showing up for the pre-induction physical in a dress. However, given the choice between being drafted and possibly being shot or blown to bits in some godforsaken place like the Mekong Delta and showing up at the Induction Center in drag, most men, myself included, took the easy way out and opted for possible death or dismemberment There was, however, that ONE GUY who wore a dress.

I hadn’t noticed the guy in the dress, and I suspect that not many others did either. After all, he was not wearing sequins and a boa, but rather he sported a tasteful, rather understated cotton shirtwaist number. But once we all got down to shorts, socks and shoes, as ordered, we couldn’t help but notice the Dress Guy, because despite the unmistakable order to “take off everything but shorts, socks and shoes,” the Dress Guy remained dressed.

We all buzzed, “Holy shit. Check it out. There’s a guy over there in a DRESS!!” Virtually every eye in the room was fixed on the Dress Guy – that is, until Sergeant Bulldog re-entered the room. We looked back and forth between the Sergeant and the Dress Guy as if we were watching two gunfighters squaring off on Main Street in Dodge City.

The crusty lifer scanned the ridiculous looking, scared shitless array, until he spotted the Dress Guy and placed him in the crosshairs. We all held our breath, for this promised to be a moment of high drama and the confirmation or refutation of all the “beat it by wearing a dress” stories we had so often heard. Would Sergeant Bulldog ridicule the Dress Guy? Would he smack hell out of him? Maybe he would drag the Dress Guy off to a special room reserved for dealing with guys who show up in dresses?

None of the above happened. Sergeant Bulldog looked directly at the Dress Guy and said, “ Hey you!”

The Dress Guy pointed at himself and said, “Me?”

Sergeant Bulldog matter-of-factly replied, “Yeah you. Take off the dress. Shorts, socks and shoes.” The Dress Guy, who probably had mentally rehearsed his lines for months in anticipation of a major confrontation, was so caught off guard that he sheepishly removed the shirtwaist and instantly became just another guy in the shorts, socks and shoes crowd. And, just as instantly his plans to beat the draft evaporated.

For my part, I held tightly to the note from my podiatrist certifying that I had “second degree pes planus that sometimes became symptomatic.” In other words, I had (and still have) flat feet that sometimes hurt. I was hoping that the Army would have no need for a guy with second-degree pes planus, for Heaven’s sake.

My chance would come at the final step in the physical when each man was to get a one on one with a doctor, at which time we would be able to explain all the reasons why the Army might not want us. This is the time, so the stories went, that you could beat the draft by telling the doctor that you are gay, schizophrenic, depressed, or who knows what. None of that for me. I was going with pes planus, second degree.

So, I endured the “bend over and spread ‘em” indignity, I dutifully peed in the bottle, I turned my head and coughed (twice, as some of you know), and cooperated with the Army guys who herded us around like cattle, but cattle wearing shorts, socks and shoes.

When I finally got to the doc, I proudly presented my flat feet note. He read it and, showing off either his knowledge of medicine or Latin, said, “Flat feet, huh?” I nodded in the affirmative. He told me to take my socks off. Great sign, I thought. Here is a guy who appreciates how serious pes planus, second degree is. He said, “Stand on your toes,” which I did. He muttered, “Uh-huh,” stamped something on my note, kept it, and said, “Put your socks back on and move on. Next man.” So much for pes planus, second degree.

I found myself in a large room with all the other guys who were found to be healthy enough to be shot or blown to bits in the Mekong Delta. I couldn’t believe it was all happening to me. Oh yeah, the Dress Guy was there too.

A few weeks later, we got our “Greeting” letter, and a month or so after that, on December 12, 1968, we reported again to the Induction Center, this time to be formally inducted and transported to Fort Dix, for basic training, which made the pre-induction physical seem like a day at the beach.

But that’s a story for another day.

How about ordering up some Christmas Fries? Ding, they’re done!

Although a walk through this is probably a valuable learning experience, do you think some people may come out feeling like a piece of shit?

There aren’t many things about music that captivate me more than close harmony, sung with letter perfect phrasing, and without any gimmicks. There aren’t many people who can do that better than the Dixie Chicks. I just watched their special on TV, and I was, quite simply, knocked out by their depth of talent. Not only are their vocals extraordinary, but they also happen to be ass-kicking musicians. I have been a fan for quite some time, having all their CDs, but tonight was the first time I really had the chance to watch them perform. What strikes me about the Dixie Chicks, and other great harmony groups such as the Everly Brothers and the Mills Brothers (more about them another time), is that they are the music. They could perform in a living room with a couple instruments and sound just as they do on their records.

One has to wonder about the odds against three such extremely talented people whose voices perfectly melt into a chord coming together. I hope they stay together and continue to make music that gives me goose bumps.

This question has become quite popular with comedians. You know who I mean. The guy who bounds onto the stage, picks up the microphone stand and swings it back and forth like one of those metal detectors, while he asks the audience, “Hey, are you guys having a good time? Great. I’m happy to be here tonight. Where are you guys from?” He hopes that some glutton for punishment in the audience will say, “New Jersey,” so he can say, “New Jersey? What exit?” Of course, what “Shecky” is referring to are exit numbers on the Garden State Parkway (here, it’s just “the Parkway”) or the New Jersey Turnpike (here, “the Turnpike”). On one level, we realize that we’ve just heard a joke because some folks are laughing. However, we’re not laughing because our first instinct is to answer what we understand to be a legitimate question.. So, amidst the laughter of those not from here, one hears numbers being shouted by audience members, “145! 151! 82! 15W!”

These numbers tell us a wealth of information. “145” means Newark/East Orange. “151” means Nutley/Bloomfield. “82” means Toms River/Seaside Heights, and “15W” (the “W” gives us a clue that this is a Turnpike Exit) means Kearny/Harrison. In addition, because the exit numbers are keyed to mile markers, we know approximately where in the state a particular location is. So, if you live off Exit 145 and you are headed for Exit 100, you know you will have to drive south for approximately 45 miles. It’s simple. No baloney. We like it.

Join me in a virtual road trip on the Parkway and other New Jersey roads. Unlike most trips in Jersey, this one is toll free. Oh yeah. One other thing. Here, if someone passes you on the right, it means that you are going too friggin’ slow for the lane you are in. MOVE TO THE RIGHT. They just don’t seem to get this in New York or Pennsylvania.

On November 29, I wrote a bit about manhole covers. I had assumed that manhole covers are something that we don’t often notice and take completely for granted. I figured that the “we” in the previous sentence naturally did not include people who manufacture, sell, buy and install the heavy metal plates, but in the ensuing days I learned that the “we” also did not include lots of people who think a lot about manhole covers. Here’s a sampling:

Some people travel the world taking pictures of manholes. Some take artistic pictures..

One can buy furniture made from old manholes.

There are jokes that involve manhole covers.

One fellow has a web page dedicated to manhole covers. This page also shows that someone has written a manhole cover book!

Another person makes amazing models of manhole covers.

People make quilts patterned after the designs on manhole covers.

There is a good reason why these babies are round.

There are special tools to lift them from the holes they cover.

I learn something every farookin’ day.

On November 29, 2002, we noted here in “Spendin’ of the Green” that New Jersey Governor Jim McGreevey resisted production of the financial records of his “trade mission” to Ireland, the Governor’s “ancestral homeland.” The Gov was accompanied by his wife, 8 staffers and a security detail. No doubt he resisted making the records public because the tab for the trip that was touted in advance as costing us $20,000 ended up costing $105,000. Nevertheless, the Gov finally conceded that the records had to be produced under New Jersey law. Having been caught trying to pull a fast one, he apologized and directed the Democrat Party to reimburse the state for $70,000 of the bill. I believe the only thing he is sorry about is being caught.

Well, today the New York Times reported that the Democrat Party will have to write yet another check to the state – this time for $18,200 for 14 personal trips the Gov took in the state-supplied helicopter. Apparently, the Gov is fond of flying, as his office reported that Hizzoner took 272 helicopter trips in his first ten months in office. Mind you, New Jersey is not exactly the size of Texas, so 27 helicopter trips per month (at $1,200 per hour) seems a bit much, no?

More Jerseyspeak. After reading “Jeetyet? No. Joo?” here (see December 2, 2002), my daughter wrote to remind me of another bit of Jerseyspeak. More specifically she described how we tend to mangle the words “all right” by pronouncing them as one word — “erright.”

She writes: “Here it is in context”

Person A: Hey, would you mind taking out the garbage?
Person B: Yeah. Erright.
(Several minutes pass.)
Person A: Would you mind taking it out now?
Person B: Erright already! I’ll do it now. Erright?!?

Or, perhaps, more realistically………

Taxpayer: “Hey McGreevey. It’s only a five-mile trip and there is no traffic. How about taking the friggin’ car?”
McGreevey: “Goddamn newspapers. Erright already!!!!”

New Jersey…….Only the strong survive.

If you are from New Jersey, more precisely, northern New Jersey (they talk funny in the southern parts of the Garden State), you can recognize the question and answer that appears in the title. The questioner asks “Did you eat yet?” or more properly, “Have you eaten?” The respondent answers “No. Did you?” or more properly, “No. Have you?”

We also are known for damned near putting two syllables in the word “dog,” so that the word comes out, not as “dahg,” but rather something more like “doo-wug.” Similarly, “chocolate” isn’t “chalk-lat,” but rather, “choo-wuhk-lat.”

Yes, Virginia, we do have an accent. Many of us, however, recognize this and can modify our speech to fit the audience, or the setting. Having said that, sometimes even when being on my best language behavior, I have been recognized as being from New Jersey by folks from other parts of the country.

Some of our accent is purely pronunciation-based, as above. However, veering a bit more towards a being a dialect, “Jerseyspeak” has some of its very own idiomatic expressions, as evidenced by the blank stares from those from elsewhere when they hear them. Foremost among them is the manner in which we refer to the part of the state, notable for its vacation spots on or near the ocean. It is not “the beach.” Rather, it is “down the shore” – not “down to the shore, mind you,” but simply “down the shore.” Actually, it is pronounced almost as one word, skipping the word “the” –“downaSHORE.” The “beach” and “down the shore” are two separate animals..” One might go “down the shore” and never go to “the beach,” the “beach” being just one of many places one could go while “down the shore.”

To complicate the matter even more, if we are going to be “down the shore” for only a day trip, we “take a ride down the shore.” By contrast, if we are planning to stay overnight or for a vacation, then we are clearly “going down the shore.”

And, while “downaSHORE” (or anywhere else for that manner) and we want to drink a carbonated, flavored, soft drink, we have a “soda.” Having a “pop” means something quite different to us, which requires proof of age. I understand that, in Boston, a bottle of soda is referred to as a bottle of “tonic.” No way. In Jersey, “Tonic” is either quinine water (always drunk with either gin or vodka) or some vile stuff one would buy in a health food store.

Oh, by the way, unless we are filling out a tax return or a job application, we rarely say that we are from “New Jersey.” We are from “Jersey.” Indeed, New Jersey is the only “New…” state that doesn’t require “New” to identify it. Saying , “I’m from Hampshire… or York…or, worse yet, from Mexico” just doesn’t work.

This introductory lesson would not be complete without a word or two about our alleged use of the word “Joisey.” I have lived in New Jersey all my life, and I have never, ever heard another person from New Jersey say “Joisey.” The closest thing I have ever heard to “Joisey” is something that sounds more like “Jaisey,” a pronunciation used by certain old timers from Hudson County (the county that made political corruption an art form). I believe our friends across the river in Brooklyn may say “Joisey,” but I will leave it to them to explain themselves.

Are you getting this? I recall laughing at the expressions on the faces of some Californians as I tried to explain all this and laughing even harder at these poor souls who never set foot in the Garden State trying to correctly pronounce “downaSHORE.”

You’re not getting it? Then, FUHGETABOUTIT!!!

Sure. Coney Island has Nathan’s and the hoopla surrounding its annual hot dog eating contest, but here, on the other side of the Hudson River in New Jersey, we take hot dogs very seriously. Here is a review, which is not even close to being exhaustive, of some of the more memorable hot dog places in the state. Of those listed, Rutt’s Hut gets my vote. Order up a couple “rippers,” although I recommend having the chili as an appetizer rather than putting it on the hot dogs. In my view, all they need is some of Rutt’s special mustard.

Special mention must be made of Italian hot dogs, which I believe are unique to Northeast Jersey, and they are simply out of this world. Here is how they are made. I strongly recommend the “double.” I never met anyone who did not like an Italian hot dog.

Enjoy!