Joe Cool

Thank you Joe Cool


“He’s just such a cool guy. All my life, I never got to hang out with a cool guy.”

Seinfeld fans will recall this George Costanza line from the episode where Dan Cortese guest stars as Elaine’s boyfriend, Tony. Tony is cool. He’s good looking, athletic, confident, likable. George becomes enamored with Tony, begins to mimic his mannerisms. Sitting in a booth at Monk’s diner, Tony is telling a story and he takes his baseball hat off and puts it on backwards. George does the same. George’s admiration for Tony becomes obvious and Kramer says, “You’ve got a male crush on him.” Watching this I always squirm with George, I see myself, in George.

I think about, as the oldest boy in my family, how important those “relationships” were in my life. I look back and I laugh at Jimmy Spinner, the puppy dog, looking up with admiring eyes at various “cool guys.” Guys who taught me stuff, good and bad, about being a guy...

My first exposure to cool...Sitting in my 7th grade classroom listening to Sister Mary Pat drone on at the end of the day. I am distracted by gathering teenagers in front of Gino’s Pizza across the street. It’s leather jackets and t-shirts, cigarettes and punches in the arm. The bell rings and my friends and I walk over to the pizzeria. It’s a mob scene, kids dying to spend mom and dad’s money on a slice or a Coke. My buddies and I are younger, we are relegated to the fringes. I observe. I notice Charlie Lumia. (Lou me ah) There’s something about him. Slouchy in his leather jacket, leaning against a parked car, hands in his pockets, black hair parted in the middle. He’s funny, he’s got that look in his eye that says, I know just a little more about what’s going on than you do. Cathy Cavanaugh is there, the cutest girl in the 7th grade, in her maroon plaid skirt and white blouse. She’s talking to Charlie, wrinkling her pert, freckled nose at his jokes. She sees it too.

Over the next couple of months, my friends and I begin to hang out with the guys in front of the pizzeria. Sometimes we go to the park and play football. Most of our time is spent making each other laugh and showing off. As 7th graders we are newbies, learning the ropes from the older guys. We begin dressing like the older guys, talking like them. At some point, my buddies and I are walking down East 3rd Street, after hanging out all afternoon. I have my hands in my pockets, my fake leather jacket on, (derided by most as pleather) and one of my best friends, Jimmy Quinlan, says,
“What are you doing Spinner?”
I know I’m nailed, Jimmy doesn’t miss a trick. “Nothing, what are you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about! Look at him Tweety, he’s walking like Charlie Lumia! You don’t walk like that! That’s Charlie’s walk.”
Switching back to my normal gait I say, “What? This is how I walk.” I want to say, “So what, I think Charlie’s cool and I want to walk like him. He gets all the hot girls. You noticed that I was walking like him. That means you know how he walks too.” But in 7th grade you don’t stand up for yourself all the time.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Writing in my journal after watching that Seinfeld episode, I wrote about how important those “relationships” are for us. These were our role models. That’s how we learned how to handle ourselves in a fight, how to talk to girls, how to smoke a cigarette. We watched and we learned. The guys who were successful, we mimicked, and the guys who weren’t, well they were models too.

I have had a few of these, cool guy friendships, (sounds much better than male crush don't you think). And one of the most important was Neil O’Callaghan. Neil was to be a senior when I was entering my freshman year at John Dewey High School in Coney Island. Late August in the summer between 8th and 9th grade , my friends and I on East 4th Street were in the middle of a touch football game. Neil appears, hovers over the game for a second and says, “Spinner, I hear you’re going to Dewey.” Turning my head as I walk up to the line of scrimmage I say, “Yeh.” Neil glances over his shoulder as he walks away and says, “Meet me in front of my house at ten after seven tomorrow. And don’t be late, Freshman.”

He says freshman with a little edge to it, poking fun at me. He wasn’t being mean, he was busting on me while inviting me into his club. And this is the thing about someone who is genuinely cool, Neil could pull it off.

John Dewey High School was a world away from our Irish/Italian working class neighborhood. Neil decided to attend Dewey I am sure for the same reasons I did, the local catholic high school would have been expensive. Neil was one of ten O’Callaghan children, and I was one of four Spinners. Truth be told, I was closer with Andrew O’Callaghan; who was closer to my age than I than I was with Neil. If we were to choose up teams for stickball or touch football, Andrew was more in my circle of friends than Neil. Neil hung out with the older guys on Ronny Lopez’s porch. Guys who occasionally beaned us with snowballs or maybe asked us to play roller hockey only if they were short a guy. Usually our groups were like two ferry boats in New York harbor, we saw each other a lot but rarely did we connect.

All of the guys in Ronny Lopez’s crew were good guys and I love them like big brothers but there was something charismatic about Neil. The fact that he was a senior and he took me under his wing when I was a freshman always meant something to me. He was fun to hang out with, he made stuff exciting.

First day of school, I show up on time, aware this senior is doing me and my fellow freshman, Vinny Tomasi, a favor. Neil’s best friend, Bobby Slesarcik, another senior and a great guy meets us in front of the O’Callaghan’s house. We walk over to take the “F” train for the 50 minute trip to John Dewey. “Now freshman, the way you know the train is coming is you look down the tunnel towards Fort Hamilton Parkway, you can see the lights way before you hear the train.”

“Now freshman, the train always comes at the same time and it lands in the same spot. If you want to get a seat, you gotta line yourself up with where the door will land so you beat the other riders into the train.”

Neil and Bobby taught us to cut through the Marboro Projects and into the back door of John Dewey. Something a cool guy would know, a short cut. That first day Vinny and I were escorted to our respective homerooms and I figured that would be the last we would see of Neil and Bobby. I knew seniors didn’t want Vinny and I tagging along. But that’s where the coolness factor comes in. After a matching up of schedules, Neil and Bobby tell us to meet them in the caf for lunch.

Like I said, they taught us stuff. Two wide-eyed freshman, Vinny and I were prepared to follow all the rules. I was assigned a locker in what amounted to Siberia. Neil gave me a combination lock, put it on a locker right near his and said, “Don’t worry about it freshman, nobody uses their assigned lockers after freshman year.”

Walking to class a few weeks into the school year, I find out I have a substitute teacher. As I head into the class, Neil grabs me by the collar. “Mr. Wolfson’s not here? You have a sub? You don’t have to go to class.” Free period!

Watching Neil and Bobby I learned about women. I learned not to run after them with my tongue hanging out. Neil and Bobby seemed to be surrounded with beautiful upper classman. Two who come to mind, Helene Halperin and Lisa Goldglit, I swear that was her name. These girls were my first exposure to (JAPS) Jewish American Princesses. They were exotic. They dressed so nicely, Jordache jeans! They had perfect teeth. After a month or so of Neil and Bobby flirting with Helene and Lisa, dancing around each other, we are on the train on the way home. Vinny and I watching the conversation like a tennis match.
“Alright, so Helene gave me her number Bob, when should I call?”
“Well you knew this was coming. Don’t want to seem too eager. Wait a few days, call Wednesday and try to set up something for the weekend. What are you going to do with her?”
“ I was thinking ice skating at Sky Rink and then dinner and drinks in The Village.”

Vinny and I were in awe. These girls were untouchable. And Neil and Bobby had their choice. They were in charge, they were deciding when to call! I would have melted if Helene Halperin gave me her number.

Both Neil and Bobby worked. Neil was an actual soda jerk at a local luncheonette. He made the best chocolate egg cream I have ever had. Bobby worked in a local pharmacy. Vinny and I learned, if you had more money than the next guy, you buy. Those guys treated us all the time, and to this day I appreciate that.

Truthfully, I owe a debt of gratitude to Neil and Bobby and all the cool guys who "mentored" me along the way. Right around 8th and 9th grade I started to get into what we today call “high risk behavior.” These guys were there to corral me. To show me that roller hockey was better than rolling doobies. That an adrenaline rush was better than any other rush. That going to college was a realistic option. And I thank them for that every day of my life!

Coerced by Quaint

Einstein defined insanity as, “Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” If there was any doubt, by that definition, I am insane.

Around Valentine’s Day, about every three years or so, I surprise my wife with a romantic weekend at a Bed & Breakfast. Coerced by quaint, and waylaid by warm muffins, it’s once more into the breach my friend. When I do come to this decision I envision it sets in motion some cosmic Candid Camera. And I turn into Chevy Chase in National Lampoon’s Bed & Breakfast.

Our first time..“The Inn at Lareau Farm is a classic Vermont farmhouse nestled on the banks of the Mad River.” Nestled? How can you resist nestling? After a long drive, Kira and I pull off Vermont 100 North and are greeted by the soft-spoken owner of the inn, “Welcome to the Lareau Farm Inn, I am Sue, my husband and I bought this place 15 years ago and fixed it up. This is the main sitting area, feel free to come downstairs in your pj’s and sit by the fire and read your book…This is your room...Tomorrow’s breakfast will be Canadian Bacon and Vermont cheddar cheese omellettes, served with….”

The first night goes fairly well, and in the morning the breakfast is unbelievable. We spend Saturday skiing Sugarbush. Satiated by skiing and enlivened with an après ski buzz we go back to the inn. Kira opts for a nap. I don my sweatpants and sweatshirt and head downstairs. There are a few guests reading around the fire and looking very New Englandy. Cheese and crackers are laid out, hot chocolate and cider, are available. Sue and her husband are flitting in and out of the room. I hear them snipping at each other in the kitchen. A few door slams and some sharp words later, Sue comes in.

The other guests head off, eventually it’s Sue and I. I can tell by her unsteady gait, and ruddy complexion, she’s been drinking. I figure her for 60. Her faded Levi’s and work shirt, show me the flower child still in her. She lies on the rug in front of the fireplace, and begins to pet her gorgeous, golden retriever, Orvis. She’s snuggling with the dog, and feeding him crackers. We chat about the Mad River Valley area. She suggests we have dinner at American Flatbread. Sue begins to feed the dog crackers from her mouth, slowly, teasingly. “Did you know that a dog’s mouth is cleaner than a human’s?” She says. I have seen people feed their dogs like this before and it always strikes me as odd. At some point she lays on her back, tilts her head and Orvis begins to lick around her mouth. I can see the pooch knows the routine, reacting to her cues. Next, she opens her mouth wide and sticks her tongue out. Orvis was rounding first and heading for second as I high-tailed it upstairs.

Dinner at American Flatbread almost cured my “hair of the dog.” It was that good. Sunday morning we were up and out early for the long ride home. I swear Orvis was checking Kira out as we crossed the parking lot. On the way home we recounted the weekend, the pros and cons of the B & B. Kira, not wanting to ruin my little gift, tip-toes around the issue but she keeps saying, “Do you really think we are B & B people?” Not picking up on the clues, I keep saying, “What’s not to like? Beautiful house, nice bed, great food?” To which Kira says, “Yeh it was nice and all but I just couldn’t shake the feeling that I was in someone else’s house.”

Valentine’s Day a few years later, always the optimist: the inn I chose was recommended by a friend. It’s another ski trip for Kira and I. This time to Sunday River. I don my Chevy Chase costume and we are set for scene two of National Lampoon’s Bed & Breakfast. For brevity’s sake we’ll dispense with the description of the inn.

After a 7 hour drive, we are escorted, coldly to our room. Finally in our room I say to Kira, “Did we do something wrong? Were we supposed to be here earlier?” Kira says, “I don’t know but I definitely got the feeling we were putting her out.”

After unpacking, we head down to the living room. The place is quiet, we are the only guests in a very large Victorian. The husband is stoking the fire as Kira and I sit down. “So what’s the weather supposed to be like for the next couple of days?” I ask in my friendly-tourist voice. The owner, still staring into the fire says, “Supposed to rain for the next 4 days, last time we had rain like this we had a guy from New York lose one of his ski boots in the parking lot. Never did see that boot again. If you guys get all muddy, I’d appreciate it if you come in through the mud room.” He says this with an edge, emphasis on New Yorkers and you guys. I look at Kira and gesture what gives? Kira tries a volley, “What a beautiful home you have here, I’ve always loved old Victorians.” Ethan Frome then begins to tell us that they have owned it for 15 years and that the only way they could afford the house, was to run it as an inn. Then his eyes focus right on me and he says, “And you two are our last guests. We never have to do this ever again. The mortgage is all paid for and we can have our house all to ourselves.” I could see as he looked past me that we were going to pay the price for all of the obnoxious guests who had ever stayed at the The House of Mirth.

When we are alone, Kira says, “This is ridiculous. We are paying good money for this place and these people are treating us like crap. Why don’t we go somewhere else?” I agree. At some point I pull the owner aside and I say, “You don’t really seem like you are up for guests. Maybe we’d be better off if we went to another inn?” To which he says, “You’re not getting your money back. We won’t give you a refund. We will provide the services you paid for, if you stay.”

On Saturday, Kira and I skied in the 38 degree rain, for about two and a half hours. I don’t know if you’ve ever skied slush but you really don’t ski it. And after driving 7 hours and envisioning a winter wonderland, you can imagine our moods. At some point, ski clothes saturated, a couple of drowned rats, we cut our losses and head back to the inn. Edith Wharton is there to make sure we come in through the mud room. Reluctantly, she agrees to dry our ski clothes for us as they would never dry in our room. No snacks, no hot chocolate, no smile. We slink up to our room to seethe and snooze.

Dinner that night was at some Mexican place right in The Village of Bethel. We wind up closing the place, which in Bethel, Maine was midnight at best. Back at the gates of hell, buzzed and obnoxious, we clomp and giggle our way up to our room. At the door to our room, I realize I don’t have the key. I check all of my pockets. “Do you have the key?” I ask Kira. She pats herself down. “No.” “Shit, we have to go back to the restaurant.” Off we go, 4 miles down the road and by now they’ve pulled the sidewalks in. We pull up and I realize the staff has cleaned up and gone home, already. I place one hand on the window to cut down on the glare. I place my face against the glass. There it is, right next to the napkin holder and the small bottle of Tabasco sauce, our key.

So we head back to see Beelzebub about how we can get into our room. We are in the living room, calling out quietly, hoping to wake someone. This doesn’t work and we begin to get annoyed. Kira coaxes me to explore the house. I walk through the French doors into the kitchen area. I could swear I saw a rabbit stewing in a pot. You have to know that it’s dark, really dark. As I walk I am calling out to the owner, “Hello. Hello. Can you help us? We seem to have lost our key.” I am reaching and probing my way around. Through a door, no luck, it’s the pantry. Back into the kitchen, through another door, I call out again, “Hello, anybody…” Suddenly a dog barks viciously at my feet but I can’t see him. I bump against something. A woman screams, “WHO’S THERE?” She sits bolt upright in bed and pulls the sheets up to her chest. “WHO IS IT? HONEY DO SOMETHING!!!!” I am frozen, hoping Cujo doesn’t decide to bite me, praying Ethan Frome doesn’t have a gun in his bedside nightstand. “It’s Jim Spinner, it’s Jim Spinner.” I stammer. “I’m really sorry, it seems that Kira and I left our key…..I’ll close the curtain on this scene here.

At breakfast the next morning, I apologized profusely, and they didn’t say anything, not a word. No, “Don’t worry about it.” No, “It’s happened before.” Nothing, just thrusting of breakfast plates at us. I am sure, some nights in Bethel, Maine, Ethan and Edith recount the tale of their last guest in The House of Mirth.

The ride home from Bethel, Maine was a long one. At that point I was 0 for 2 on the Bed & Breakfast front. You have to understand my wife, she gets so keyed up for these trips. And truthfully she’s relatively easy to please. In the car, we replay the weekend, seething at the treatment we received. Again that phrase, “You know Jim, maybe we’re not B & B people?”

Of course you can figure out now I’m not a quick study. I must have this mythic Bed & Breakfast weekend in my head. A few years go by and I try AGAIN. In retelling this I don’t believe it myself. Back to that Einstein thing…

Another Valentine’s Day and I am going to surprise Kira. This time it’s going to work. New Hampshire is the answer. I do research, I check websites. I find, The Cutter’s Loft Inn. This is the one. I read the reviews, both of them. On the drive up, Kira is quiet, I try to reassure her, “Don’t worry Sweetie, this place is great, you’ll love it. Look at the pictures! And it won an award!”

Kira and I, playing The Griswolds again, arrive at The Cutter’s Loft around dinner time. We are greeted by our hostess, and by the smell. I look at Kira, we both notice it. Not sure what the fragrance is but my synapses recognize it. Sadie escorts us through her living room, up the stairs to a bedroom over the garage. It’s clear that this room was put there for this express purpose. I can see that our inn keeper thinks she is an entrepreneur; that she has been reading all of the B & B trade magazines. Entering the bedroom, I am expecting to see her son getting out of bed and heading to the shower in his boxers. Sadie is telling us about the gas powered fire place, which is on wheels. I am wondering why she fails to mention the pink, fly swatter hanging on a nail by the door. No need. I can see that, either someone was a crack shot or nobody has been in this room since the Clinton administration. All of the flies are dead, more than likely of old age.

As soon as we are alone, Kira gives me the look. The, you screwed up again look. “I am leaving. I am not spending our only weekend away in this place.” I don’t even try the, It’s not so bad tack, I agree. I also know that I can’t tell this woman, who is so proud of her business acumen, that after our initial look at the indoor/outdoor carpet and the upright aluminum shower with the plastic curtain, we would like to check out. I just couldn’t do it. “I don’t care.” Kira the shark says, “I’ll do it. I’ll tell her. This is bullshit. This is false advertising! We are staying in her guest bedroom! Look at the dead flies!” We sit on the bed, and it sags, Kira gives me another look. I hear Pat Sajak selling someone a vowel downstairs in the living room and I say, “Let’s go get a bite to eat.”

We go to a local pub/restaurant for dinner. Kira is fuming. You have to realize, by this Valentine’s Day we have kids. This is our first weekend, first NIGHT away in a really long time. Wild eyed she says, “We’ll tell her we got an emergency call on our cell and we have to leave. Then we’ll go get a room somewhere else.” I hesitate. I think Sadie will see through it. I feel so bad. “I don’t think I can do that Sweetie. You can see how hard she’s worked, she’s so proud of herself. She’s such a sweet little old lady. She reminds me of…” And it hits me. “I know what that smell is! It smells like your Aunt Ann’s house.” The light bulb goes on over Kira’s head, “My god, you’re right! That’s what it is!” Now this isn’t a bad smell so much as a family smell, a Thanksgiving with relatives smell. NOT the smell you want on your first romantic getaway in two and a half years.

After a nice dinner and a few drinks I convince Kira that checking out would break Aunt Sadie’s heart. She relents and we make the best of our stay at The Cutter’s Loft. On Sunday morning as we are checking out, Aunt Sadie is begging us to sign the guest book. With Kira looking over my shoulder, we read the names in the guest book, both of them. And I realize that my guess that the last person to stay at Cutter’s Loft was during the Clinton Administration wasn’t far off. Wanting to write something funny, but not wanting to hurt Aunt Sadie’s feelings I write, “Just like staying with family.”

On the way home Kira puts her foot down. Never again she tells me. “We are not B & B people. Next time you want to surprise me call 1 800 Marriot!”