E.R.A. A NEW ERA 1968
The other day I made the mistake of opening a store door for a young lady. “I am quite capable of opening my own door,” she said, giving me a withering look. I apologized, and slunk away, my tail between my legs.
Last week at a party, a woman challenged me to an arm wrestling match. Something told me to resist the temptation. I mean a woman does not challenge a guy with bulging biceps like mine unless she is into body building “I’ll pass,” I said with a nervous laugh.
“Chicken,” she said derisively.
“You’re on,” I said, rolling up my sleeve.
I was down in less than 10 seconds. What could I do? I congratulated her, a weak smile on my face. Was she originally a man --- a her who had been a he in this life or some other one?
The morning after my ignoble defeat, I was traveling down 80 west, singing in my bass baritone voice, while making sure I was not moving faster than sixty or sixty-five.
Suddenly, I heard what sounded like a train whistle, directly behind me. I almost hit the roof. A van trailer, a mile long, pulled abreast. Behind the wheel sat this teeny girl weighing maybe ninety pounds. She gave me the finger and was gone in a flash.
“My gawd! I said out loud, “they’re taking over.”
That very night I got into bed with a good book and my good wife. I was enjoying the book immensely, when I heard my wife say, “Put the book down.”
“In a moment,” I said, thinking she wanted to have me close the light.
“Put the book away,” she repeated softly. Her voice carried an unmistakable suggestion this time.
I am always open to suggestion. The thing is, the last time my wife indicated proceedings was just after the repeal of prohibition.
I put the book down. “My god,” I said, “It’s a revolution.”
At two a.m. the phone rang. I hopefully waited for my wife to answer. She did not budge. I crawled out of bed, my eyes still shut and groped for the phone.
“Hello,” I said crossly.
“Now, now, don’t be cross my great, big man,” the distinctly feminine voice crooned.
My mouth flew open. The voice continued to purr. “I would love to jump into your arms and caress you all over. And then I’d ……
I interrupted. “I can’t believe it,” I said, “Is nothing sacred?”
Sunday, November 1, 2009
OH THOSE NAMES
As a rule, names of foreign tennis players do not phase me. I can rattle them off correctly, foreign accents right on key.
I breeze through Helena Sukova, Yannick Noah, and even Claudia Kohde-Kilsh. However, I have extreme difficulty with the names of two tennis greats, namely Martina Navratilova and Hana Mandlikova. For some inexplicable reason I cannot make them come out right unless I see them in print.
A ‘few’ years ago I had the good fortune of seeing Martina finally succumb to Hana, a nifty little tennis player, who finally came through after losing all seven of her previous matches to Martina. My head was still moving from left to right and from right to left as I drove home after the match.
Inspired by what I had seen, I arranged for a game of singles. While warming up, my friend asked, “Say Oscar, who won the match?” Hana,”I answered quickly, hoping it would end there.
“Who did she play?” He was relentless.
“Martina,” I said, as I lofted a warm-up lob purposefully behind him. It was no good. He persisted. “Martina who?” he shouted from the base line.
Go slow, I cautioned myself. “Naravlotiva” I finally sputtered.
“Repeat that please,” he said. I was anxious to get at his throat.
“Natralova,” I managed to squeeze out. He let that pass, for a moment, but only a moment and then he pounced again.
“Natralova?” he queried innocently. “Who is that?”
My hands were ready to kill. “You know,” I said desperately, “The one who played Malindovaka.”
He was on the ground a full five minutes, holding his stomach, while great gusts of laughter came bursting forth. I took him in three straight sets. He was silent as a lamb all through.
I breeze through Helena Sukova, Yannick Noah, and even Claudia Kohde-Kilsh. However, I have extreme difficulty with the names of two tennis greats, namely Martina Navratilova and Hana Mandlikova. For some inexplicable reason I cannot make them come out right unless I see them in print.
A ‘few’ years ago I had the good fortune of seeing Martina finally succumb to Hana, a nifty little tennis player, who finally came through after losing all seven of her previous matches to Martina. My head was still moving from left to right and from right to left as I drove home after the match.
Inspired by what I had seen, I arranged for a game of singles. While warming up, my friend asked, “Say Oscar, who won the match?” Hana,”I answered quickly, hoping it would end there.
“Who did she play?” He was relentless.
“Martina,” I said, as I lofted a warm-up lob purposefully behind him. It was no good. He persisted. “Martina who?” he shouted from the base line.
Go slow, I cautioned myself. “Naravlotiva” I finally sputtered.
“Repeat that please,” he said. I was anxious to get at his throat.
“Natralova,” I managed to squeeze out. He let that pass, for a moment, but only a moment and then he pounced again.
“Natralova?” he queried innocently. “Who is that?”
My hands were ready to kill. “You know,” I said desperately, “The one who played Malindovaka.”
He was on the ground a full five minutes, holding his stomach, while great gusts of laughter came bursting forth. I took him in three straight sets. He was silent as a lamb all through.
WHAT'S IN A NAME? wrote in '57
As a rule, names of foreign tennis players do not phase me. I can rattle them off correctly, foreign accents right on key.
I breeze through Helena Sukova, Yannick Noah, and even Claudia Kohde-Kilsh. However, I have extreme difficulty with the names of two tennis greats, namely Martina Navratilova and Hana Mandlikova. For some inexplicable reason I cannot make them come out right unless I see them in print.
A ‘few’ years ago I had the good fortune of seeing Martina finally succumb to Hana, a nifty little tennis player, who finally came through after losing all seven of her previous matches to Martina. My head was still moving from left to right and from right to left as I drove home after the match.
Inspired by what I had seen, I arranged for a game of singles. While warming up, my friend asked, “Say Oscar, who won the match?” Hana,”I answered quickly, hoping it would end there.
“Who did she play?” He was relentless.
“Martina,” I said, as I lofted a warm-up lob purposefully behind him. It was no good. He persisted. “Martina who?” he shouted from the base line.
Go slow, I cautioned myself. “Naravlotiva” I finally sputtered.
“Repeat that please,” he said. I was anxious to get at his throat.
“Natralova,” I managed to squeeze out. He let that pass, for a moment, but only a moment and then he pounced again.
“Natralova?” he queried innocently. “Who is that?”
My hands were ready to kill. “You know,” I said desperately, “The one who played Malindovaka.”
He was on the ground a full five minutes, holding his stomach, while great gusts of laughter came bursting forth. I took him in three straight sets. He was silent as a lamb all through.
I breeze through Helena Sukova, Yannick Noah, and even Claudia Kohde-Kilsh. However, I have extreme difficulty with the names of two tennis greats, namely Martina Navratilova and Hana Mandlikova. For some inexplicable reason I cannot make them come out right unless I see them in print.
A ‘few’ years ago I had the good fortune of seeing Martina finally succumb to Hana, a nifty little tennis player, who finally came through after losing all seven of her previous matches to Martina. My head was still moving from left to right and from right to left as I drove home after the match.
Inspired by what I had seen, I arranged for a game of singles. While warming up, my friend asked, “Say Oscar, who won the match?” Hana,”I answered quickly, hoping it would end there.
“Who did she play?” He was relentless.
“Martina,” I said, as I lofted a warm-up lob purposefully behind him. It was no good. He persisted. “Martina who?” he shouted from the base line.
Go slow, I cautioned myself. “Naravlotiva” I finally sputtered.
“Repeat that please,” he said. I was anxious to get at his throat.
“Natralova,” I managed to squeeze out. He let that pass, for a moment, but only a moment and then he pounced again.
“Natralova?” he queried innocently. “Who is that?”
My hands were ready to kill. “You know,” I said desperately, “The one who played Malindovaka.”
He was on the ground a full five minutes, holding his stomach, while great gusts of laughter came bursting forth. I took him in three straight sets. He was silent as a lamb all through.
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