The Toupee Store

By Leo de Natale

Illustrations by Vince Giovannucci

Francis Anthony “Frank” Capelli was one of those poor bastards who had the genetic misfortune of premature baldness. By age 22, his dark curly Italian hairline started heading northward. Each day as he peered at the face in the bathroom mirror, a few more hair follicles were Missing In Action.

By his mid-20’s he noticed a discernable change. His hairline was rapidly receding and panic began. Everyone in his Italo-American family – father, brothers, cousins—all possessed thick, full hair. Someone, he thought, in my family tree had passed this goddamned bald gene down to me! He became more self-conscious of his “curse” and began losing sleep. He often would awaken in the morning with hair follicles covering his pillow.

Naturally, the teasing began among Frank’s friends.  “Hey Franky, pretty soon you won’t need shampoo!,” said one wag.  This was Step 1.

          At the beach someone yelled, “Hey Frank, put on a hat.  Your head is blinding me. What, are you polishing that dome?”

          And on it went.  He became more self-conscious.  He did, in fact, begin the first phase of dealing with alopecia.  He started wearing baseball caps. He’d stare in the mirror and say, hey, that covers things up  “real good”.  But what to do while working in my office?  He had obtained a well paying job as a securities analyst in Manhattan and obviously couldn’t wear a hat while at work. He felt uncomfortable around the water cooler with his fellow employees.  Were they staring at his bald head?

By age 28, the receding hairline reached end stage. Terminal baldness. There I am, he said to himself, I’m the next George Costanza. Feeling depressed, Frank sought counseling. The psychologist was Dr. Bertram Holiday.

          “Doctor, this baldness thing is really affecting me,” he told Holiday.  “I feel as if everyone is looking at my shiny head.”

          Holiday, who was also bald, attempted to comfort this young man.

          “Frank, take it from someone who’s already there,” he said, patting his hairless pate. “Men and women perceive physical attraction from much different perspectives.  Women don’t find men unattractive if they’re bald. Or fat.  Not all men crave tall, curvaceous, busty women. Many men find flat chested or Rubensesque women physically appealing.  It sounds trite but beauty is indeed in the eye of the beholder.”

Despite several therapy sessions, Frank couldn’t shake the neurosis occupying more of his daily consciousness. After struggling with such mental calisthenics, he arrived at Step 2. He was given the name of an exclusive “salon” in midtown Manhattan. It was a by-appointment-only business called Louis XIII and located at a nondescript storefront just off Park Avenue.

He opened the store door and was greeted by a short, elderly, well-dressed portly man named Hyman Kamens. “Call me Hy”, he said with a thick Brooklyn accent. He wore an overpowering cologne that nearly gagged Frank.

Hyman “Hy” Kamens

Hy was somewhere in his 60’s, had huge baggy eyelids and held an unlit meerschaum pipe in his left hand. His soft, pasty hands were adorned with star sapphire rings on both pinky fingers. Both hands were manicured and finished with clear nail polish. His teeth were yellowed from years of smoking but he had a friendly smile and a disarming manner. He knew why Frank was there. Frank noticed Hy was wearing a jet black toupee. To Frank’s surprise, the “piece” he was wearing still had a bobbling price tag label attached around the neckline.

“Franky boy, I know you’re looking at the tag,” he said. “I do that as a joke. Just for effect, Bubby! By the time you leave here, no one will know you’re ‘carrying’ a rug”. With that comment he dramatically pulled off the toupee revealing an very bald Hy. He tossed the toupee it against a mannequin.

          Hy asked Frank to sit in a comfortable lounge chair that faced a floor-to- ceiling mirror.  He spent 30 minutes measuring Frank’s skull and from various angles photographed Frank’s head with his iPhone.  He then uploaded the data and photos to a laptop. 

          “So Frank, let’s get down to decision time regarding the style,” Hy said.

He switched to another computer program and various celebrities’ heads popped up on the screen.                           

Frank was overwhelmed with the technology but more fundamentally aware he was potentially agreeing to a drastic lifestyle change. In his heart he knew wearing artificial hair was a Band-Aid, quick-fix solution to his problems of physical and psychological pressure young bald men endure. After all, Hy was bald and it didn’t appear to affect his outgoing nature. Salesmen usually have that ethos.

          “Gee, Hy, there are so many styles to choose from,” Frank said. “What do you think?”

          “Frank,” Hy replied, “You’re a good looking guy, a nice Italian boy.  With your hair color and complexion, I’d go with the Burt.”

Trusting Hy’s judgment, Frank opted to become the second coming of Smokey and the Bandit. Hy said fabrication would take two weeks. Frank was to return for delivery and special instructions. Step 3 was about to begin.

          Two weeks later, Frank returned to Louis XIII for the delivery.  He was still equivocating about the $6,000 expenditure.   With theatrical flair, Hy and his overpowering cologne entered the salon. He carried a blue velvet hatbox and placed the box on a table.  The coronation began.

          “Now close your eyes, Frank,” Hy said as he opened the box.  Frank complied and suddenly he felt a soft furlike object being pulled over his head.  “Open your eyes.  What do you think?”

          Frank gazed into the mirrored wall and was taken aback.  There he was, staring at a familiar face with  black 80’s style locks adorning his head.  It was certainly a different look and, from a distance, appeared natural.  He was a different man and it momentarily threw him back into the future.  So this is what I might have resembled for the past 10 years, he mused.  He had to admit  the toupee appeared natural.  At least to him.

          Frank relaxed and actually was pleased with the transformation.

“Ok, Frank, you look terrific,” Hy said. “Now, Bubby, I want to go over some rules and regulations about your new ‘unit’. Number one: on windy days make sure the unit is really secure. If it’s extremely windy – like Chicago—try to work from home. Number two: once a week, clean the unit thoroughly, especially in the summer, to avoid TO – Toupee Odor. Number three: on hot humid days always apply anti-perspirant to you entire head. Otherwise, people will notice what we call “the drip line” – you know, sweat soaking your real hair that will make the unit more noticeable. And number four, when you wear a hat, use the two-handed approach and remove the hat very, very slowly.”

          Hy gave Frank an avuncular pat on his right cheek.  “You’ll learn to love your Burt”, he said. “Go Bubby.  Live your life. Enjoy.”

          Frank left Louis XIII and felt very positive about his decision.  He noticed passersby as he walked up Park Avenue.  Heh-heh, these people will never know what’s underneath the rug.  Of course, he had already considered how he would handle reactions from his co-workers at the office.  He anticipated there would be kidding or giggling, but he was at a point where he didn’t give a fig.  Women wear makeup, dye their hair, wear uplift bras and no one criticizes.  He knew there’d be some flak, but it would subside.  He didn’t care.  His peace of mind was the number one priority, and his family was understanding and supportive.

          For one year, Frank had no regrets about his decision.   He started joining his work buddies at the countless dating bars in Manhattan.  Wearing the toupee had increased his confidence and he became less inhibited with women.  It wasn’t long before he began dating women at the clubs.  That’s when the glitches started.

It’s one thing to party with twenty-somethings but things change as intimacy grows.  He met a tall, beautiful, blonde and blue-eyed security analyst named Melanie.  Phone numbers were exchanged.  They began having frequent luncheon dates. Beside stimulating conversations, both felt a physical attraction. Soon, Frank had replaced his original “unit” for a new, odor-free model.  Step 4 was beginning.

Frank’s job responsibility was increasing along with his salary. He was quite good at financial analysis. Finally, he called Melanie and invited her to dinner at New York’s posh Village Green restaurant. He preened in front of his bathroom mirror and made sure the unit was securely in place. He splashed on a subdued cologne – even spritzed some on his piece. Frank regularly went to the gym. Physically he was in very good shape. He still had an athlete’s body. Decked out in an Armani suit, but tieless with a designer shirt, Frank arrived at Melanie’s Upper West Side apartment and taxied to the restaurant. Melanie was dressed in a stunning spaghetti -strap dinner dress and stiletto high heels. She was rapturous and her Chanel No. 5 smelled wonderful.

          The dinner was elegant, the wine delicious.  Coffee and dessert followed. 

Clearly there was animal magnetism between the two.   They returned to Melanie’s townhouse for a nightcap……. or maybe more.  The apartment’s design was contemporary. They quaffed brandy and sat on Melanie’s  leather Scandanavian sofa.  The more they talked, the more they liked each other.  She was of part Swedish, part German ancestry and grew up in Minnesota.  She seemed oblivious to the thing that was parked atop Frank’s head.  They sat closer together and lovingly stared into each other’s eyes.  And then, boom, Step 5 surfaced with a vengeance.

          They began kissing and when Melanie went to caress Frank’s hair he bolted upright and moved away from her. 

          “What’s wrong, Frank?” said a startled Melanie.  And then she stared closely at his head.  It was an Aha! moment.  

          “Frank, that’s not your real hair, is it?” she queried.  “Oh my god, you poor thing.  You’re living a make-believe life.  Why can’t you be yourself and avoid such a charade?  You’re being dishonest with yourself and me.”

          Recoiling in egregious embarrassment,  Frank began revealing what an irrelevant condition, baldness, had done to his psyche and his life.

          “I’m sorry, Melanie,” he said. “I feel like such a phony.  I don’t like pretending to be someone I’m not.  This makes me feel crappy.”

          Slowly, Frank stood up, grabbed his jacket and left.   All the depression and insecurities that had washed over his youth reappeared.  He called himself a fraud and the fairy tale The Emperor’s Clothes popped into his head.

          In reality, Frank knew a day of reckoning would arrive.  He knew deep down his fake hair would eventually cause more heartache and depression, Hy Kamens be damned.

          He texted Melanie an apology and regretted he didn’t possess enough self-assuredness to appeal to someone who was clearly an honest and forthright person.

That night, he grabbed the toupee, kicked it across his living room floor and tossed the “piece” into a trash can.  Step 6 had arrived.

          Interestingly, between the onset of Frank’s baldness and his jolting experience with Melanie, norms had changed.  Male baldness was becoming cool and acceptable.  Professional athletes were going with the Michael Jordan look. Baldness went mainstream.  Even Bruce Willis embraced his natural physical appearance.  Yeah, baldness, that’s the ticket.

          The following day, Frank went to his favorite barber who had been cutting his real hair very, very carefully.

          “Ok, Vito,” Frank said.  “Let’s do it.  I want a buzz cut, right down to the skin!”

Fifteen minutes later and after looking into the mirror, Frank left the shop with nary a hair on his head. This is the new and real me and he thought to himself, to paraphrase James Brown, say it loud, I’m bald and I’m proud!

          And he texted Melanie.  Again. 

Il Doppio Standard

By

Leo de Natale

The epigram “Life is unfair” is usually attributed to Robert F. Kennedy, the most pugnacious of the three Kennedy boys. He had an intimidating personality and, because he was the scion of a ruthless, calculating father, he usually found himself beneficiary of a deep scoop of “fairness”- at someone else’s expense.

       The Kennedy family and its prodigious wealth is symbolic of how those from the middle class are raised and educated with the notion that personal or financial success is attainable. However, many people’s dreams are never realized and they often find themselves falling short of their dreams.

       In America today, our social fabric is threadbare.  Yesteryear concepts such as etiquette, politeness, humanism and kindness towards our fellow man and woman are disintegrating before our  eyes.  Gone are the days when holding open a door for a stranger was routine. That simple, polite gesture today is the exception, not the norm.   The wealthy, the elite, the educated, ivory-towered academics hold themselves to different and better, standards.  Added to this mix is the snotty, entitled generation known as millennials.  This group is one of the major reasons why we’re becoming a nation of boors.

This is not a class warfare rant, but an examination of who we are as a nation today.  As the country grew during the 19th Century into a world power via the industrial revolution, vast numbers of the wealthy emerged in major Northeast cities, the Midwest, especially Chicago and California.  Many of that era dreamed of being the next Rockefeller, Carnegie, Wrigley or Huntington.   A growing middle class which would eventually include European immigrants were included in the pursuit of happiness.  Unfortunately the rise of African Americans, many of whose ancestors have lived here since Revolutionary times, has routinely been truncated.  This condition still exists.  Life continues to be unfair.

The beauty of this country, however, is there’s still opportunity for the dreamers who have sufficient intelligence and drive to succeed.  Of course, luck is always an ever-important ingredient.  Being at the proverbial right place at the right time.

There are several groups who are the contemporary robber barons.  Included are the superannuated Yankees and WASPS whose fortunes are old and well protected and who live off the estate’s interest.

  There are many images of this group:  the Ivy League educations, “cottages” in Newport, Rhode Island or Bar Harbor, Maine, debutante balls, yacht clubs and exclusive country clubs.  That was yesterday.

Today the millionaires still reside in Manhattan where stock brokers and financial money market traders are Wall Street denizens.

However, with the creation of the computer and internet, a new group emerged: Silicon Valley, home of software and hardware multi-millionaires.  Another group includes the most venal of the groups:  career politicians.  They are the parasitic hookworms of society.  Governance has devolved.  A common adage is a Congressman or Senator never leaves office impoverished.  Featherbedding has been a historically common habit among this group.

The changes have changed personal behavior.  Elitism is running rampant with these groups.  The Kennedy family fortune, for example, was based on Papa Joe’s bootlegging days and manipulating Wall Street to his advantage before the 1929 crash.  Kennedy established and improved  his wealth during the middle third of the 20th Century.  He crushed and ruined many in his ascension to success.  He purportedly coined the phrase “Do you know who I am” and his progeny have embraced it ever since.

The country has been balkanized.  There will always be the haves and have-nots.   The good old middle class has been a stabilizing force throughout the country’s magic carpet ride.   Citizens have been chugging along between and among the various Presidents who come and go. 

Unfortunately, we have undergone during the past five months  a seismic change in society and lifestyle.  The class distinctions among the elite has never been more blatant after the introduction of a bioterror virus made in, where else?, China.

The current pandemic has served to accentuate the differences between the publicans and Pharisees.  In this current situation, the governing class –local, state or federal – has assumed the mantle of de facto dictators.  They invoke arbitrary interdicts that have affected Americans financially, physically and emotionally.  It’s all in the name of protecting public health, they say.  Masks, social distancing, self-enforced isolation have been imposed.  Any yet many of these buffoons are card-carrying members of Il Doppio Standard, the Double Standard.

In Massachusetts, for example, Republican Gov. Charlie Baker and his sidekick, Lt. Gov. Karyn Polito have heightened fear by requiring the ubiquitous face mask be worn. While some states are relaxing various interdicts, the pandemic is real but the feeling here is statistics have been massaged. Meanwhile, thousands of workers have lost jobs, many businesses will likely close. All of this leads to financial pandemonium.

People cannot resume their lives.  Except, perhaps, if your last name is Polito.  In a highly publicized internet gotcha, Polito was caught at a large gathering at her family’s ritzy “compound” on Memorial Day, a holiday where parades and group festivities were canceled or outlawed.  Polito, known for hustling campaign funds to the highest bidder, was interviewed and so flummoxed she mimicked comedian Jackie Gleason’s “hamana, hamana, hamana” stammer.

Across the country politicians were also caught breaking the rules by engaging in activities that contradicted their draconian rules and regulations.  To wit, harridan Nancy Pelosi posing with her designer $12 ice cream located in a $25,000 Sub Zero freezer.

Hence, Il Doppio Standard.  Do as I say but not as I do. Both political parties engage in such arrogance.   Many Americans are becoming intolerant of such obnoxious elitist behavior as “Do you know who I am?”. 

Remember, as Bobby K said, life is unfair.

My, How Neighborhoods  Change

By

Leo de Natale

In the winter of 1978 an infamously historic blizzard swept through New England and crippled the region, especially Boston, for weeks. The killer storm arrived swiftly and deposited nearly 30 inches of snow. Cars were stranded on highways. About 100 persons died and another 4,500 were injured. It wreaked havoc and caused approximately $520 million in damages.

       Anyone who experienced that cataclysmic event has a story and remembers where he or she was during the mega-blizzard.  Its impact has been seared into the memories of all who survived.  For seven days residents experienced back-breaking work of removing monumental snowdrifts.  All businesses were closed.  Only essential occupations, specifically hospitals and emergency health facilities were allowed freedom of movement.

Most people stayed at home and waited until an all clear announcement.  They were isolated and many experienced cabin fever.  An unusual phenomenon occurred.  Neighbors found themselves helping each other.  People who’d never acknowledged neighborhood residents said hello.  It was a strange silver lining to a frightening natural disaster.  After about one week conditions were improving.

       Of course comradery evaporated once the crisis had subsided.  Everything gradually returned to normal.  That evanescent period of neighborliness vanished.  No more hail fellow, well met.

Until this day, however, the mere mention of the word blizzard precipitates panic that is manifested by people elbowing each other at crowded supermarkets and grocery stores. Milk, bread, water, toilet paper, shovels, paper towels are usually sold out. No winter storm has dumped such gargantuan amounts of snow but the reaction is always the same: survival.

Fast forward 42 years. We are five months into the year 2020 and a different form of apocalypse has arrived. It is one that arrived in late January/early February. It is a far more ominous apocalypse and has instilled greater fear than an isolated blizzard. It is known as Covid-19, a virus exported from Communist China. Its origin is unknown but bioterrorism seems to be the most likely cause. The virus has infected the entire planet and has been labelled a pandemic.

       During winter 2020, countless died, jobs were lost, the nation’s economy suffered and Americans were forced into self-incarceration.  Panic arose, and, just like the Great Blizzard, people began raiding grocery and big box stores for, you guessed it, toilet paper, milk, bread, etc.  Oh, but throw in hand sanitizer and rubbing alcohol.  In the Northeast, the weather was unusual.  Significant snowfall and/or blizzards did not occur but the weather was miserably cold and extended into May.  It was easy to stay indoors. 

Homes with parents and children became trying because school systems – elementary, middle and high schools were closed. Higher educational institutions also furloughed students. It was a year where students were home-schooled and relied upon online education. College students were paying $50,000 tuitions for a University of Phoenix education. No one knows if this will be tenable. America has too many colleges and universities. Perhaps second and third tier institutions will suffer the same economic fate as many Roman Catholic churches were forced to close following the pederasty sex scandals.

It’s also unknown how long wearing masks and rubber gloves will continue.  Ditto for “social distancing”.  In the meantime, however, history is repeating itself.  We’ve reverted to 1978.  In neighborhoods in New England and presumably across the entire country, neighborliness has returned.  More people are walking in the ‘hoods.  Behind the masks, pedestrians will stare at strangers and offer a friendly wave or a muffled “hello”.  It’s a “We’re all in this together” subliminal message.

Behind the various colored and patterned masks are eyes of strangers who are yearning for human contact.  Walking and running are the most common forms of exercise.  All gyms and fitness clubs are closed.  Most folks don’t own indoor treadmills or similar exercising equipment.  For most of us it’s been walking, walking, walking.

This fraternal experience, however, does have limitations. Yes, the walkers are there but there has been an explosion of dog walking, too, and that’s the difference between 1978 and 2020. During the blizzard, walking the family dog was quick and dirty. Out for pee and poop, then back inside. It was cold and all were snowbound. Most dog owners didn’t have the inclination to walk Fido any longer than necessary. But now, the canine factor has raised ire among persons living in towns and cities. The problem? Some dog owners lack manners and etiquette. You’ll see them walking their dogs, using the “Flexi-lead”, a spring-loaded leash that allows dogs to walk farther distances from a typical six-foot leash. These owners are multi-tasking. Many walk their dogs while gazing hypnotically at cell phones. They are oblivious to their locations or their dogs. To varying degrees, we’ve all become “blast victims”.

What happens?  The dogs wander from a grassy sidewalk strip on to manicured lawns.  These semi-untethered dogs  urinate on front lawns; some defecate, too.  Owners  haven’t a clue it’s uncool for your dogs soil on private property.  There’s a sub-group called the “Night Walkers” who walk the dogs in the dark.  These sneaky people allow their pets to defecate on lawns and don’t collect the mess.  Night walkers have unfortunately always existed, pandemic or not.  Some things never change.

When the pandemic eventually is conquered, human beings will predictably return to normal habits.  Neighbors strolling  and dogs walking will vanish.  People will resume driving off to the supermarkets or big box stores.  Traffic jams and road rage will reappear.  We’ll soon forget the moment in time when empathy for fellow men and women rose, when we appreciated the frontliners – hospital staff, mail delivery workers, trash collectors, supermarket employees, police and firefighters and all the good people who survived an evil Plague and remain imbued with the kindness that is often unappreciated or ignored. The blizzard of ’78 and the 2020 pandemic are touchstones of survival.  Never forget them.  Catastrophes always recur.

“Where Is Everbody Redux?”

By

Leo de Natale

I was parked in downtown Boston on a beautiful May afternoon. My wife had an ophthalmology appointment. I drove to the office near the city’s Government Center. Our dog, Kaiser, an aging German Shepherd Dog, came along for the ride.

       In the midst of this Covid-19 crisis, I sat in the car, windows open, but not wearing the ubiquitous mask (I wear it when walking).  Kaiser and I sat and waited.  It was a 1 pm appointment but office visits usually last about two hours, most of which is spent in a waiting room.

With the windows down I observed a significantly reduced number of pedestrians. Two panhandlers walked near my car. “Can you spare some change?” asked an obese, unmasked street person. Shook my head, sorry, not today was my terse response. Nearly all passersby were wearing masks of various design and fabric. It was a scene that had become the norm after nine weeks of worldwide panic and shutdown.

City traffic was lessened, too. I rarely find a parking spot on this busy thoroughfare. Fewer people, fewer cars. A palpable tension could be seen in body language and in people’s eyes. Kaiser, of course, merely stuck his snout out a window and enjoyed the sights and scents. Unaware of the pandemic, he was very relaxed.

I was reading a Scandanavian noir thriller and suddenly my mind began wandering. The isolation and fear that had swept across the United States reminded me of The Twilight Zone, an iconic, classic sci/fi, paranormal show televised during the late 1950’s and early 60’s. In fact, it was the program’s first episode that came to mind. It was entitled “Where Is Everybody?” and starred actor Earl Holliman. I remember watching the program. I was a young teenager who was completely enthralled. The entire Twilight Zone series, filmed in black and white, left an indelible impression on me and millions of others.

       Holliman portrays Mike Ferris, a military man, who agrees to an experimental hypnotic assignment.  When he awakes, he finds himself in an apple-pie town of Oakwood, USA.  The day is similar to the one I was experiencing: warm, a slight wind, and blinding sunlight.

Holliman is bewildered. The town is similar to his hometown with a main drag, shops, parked cars and a diner. What bothers him is the absence of people, no human beings anywhere. He enters the Main Street diner. A juke box is blaring music, the grille is hot and a burger is on its way to being overcooked. The music is the only sounds he hears. He yells to see if any employees are present. No one. Just the blaring music.

Throughout the 30 minute program, Holliman becomes increasingly frantic.  He wanders through the city.  Not a soul in sight.  The show ends with Holliman in a telephone booth (they existed back then) punching the keys, trying to call someone.

       The climax immediately occurs. He is awakened by military hospital personnel.  They explain he’d been subjected to a drug causing sensory deprivation.  He certainly had experienced the phenomenon.

We have no knowledge of when our “normal” lives will return, when we can appreciate the interaction between and among human beings. Who knew 60-plus years ago Rod Serling would write a teleplay that in so many ways depicts what is happening to our country and the world? We all wander through this strange time asking “Where is everybody?”.

So here we are today, millions of Mike Ferris’s wandering around cities and towns. We are surrounded by other humans but for many of us the effect is eerily similar to the program. We maintain our six-foot personal space and we wear masks that hide the identity of those wearing them. People are, in a modified way, non-existent. Instead of wandering through Oakwood, many of us are in voluntary isolation. We stay home, talk to only spouses, children or roommates. We are told to avoid crowds, shopping centers and, like Mike Ferris, diners. We are all dealing with self-imposed isolation. Human interaction has been reduced to computer teleconferences.

A Modest Proposal

By

Leo de Natale

Albany, NY — Boisterous Gov. Andrew Cuomo, intrepid in his fight against the Covid-19 Plague, has just announced yet another ban. From May 4, 2020 forward, all males living in the state will be forced to eliminate facial hair – beards, mustaches, goatees and sideburns.

“According to the CDC (Center for Disease Control), facial hair among males can represent a serious threat to the general public,” Cuomo declared in his usual screaming, bellicose voice. “This form of male/macho expression represents a legitimate threat to the spreading of Covid.”

          Cuomo elaborated that facial hair of all shapes and styles are “petri dishes” filled with bacteria, lice and, yes, the dreaded virus.  He said the full beards, whether a Garibaldi, Pavarotti,  Gabby Hayes or Hell’s Angels style must be removed.  He also insisted beard styles known as the Zappa (after the late rock star) and the Col. Sanders goatee  will also be outlawed.  Mustaches, whether they be filmaker John Waters’ pencil or an actor Sam Elliot’s soup strainer, must also be removed.  Cuomo, expecting some blowback, also included Orthodox Jewish beards and sideburns known as “peyos”.  They  must be shorn.

          “I know I’m gonna get a lot of heat for this,” Cuomo said. “But it’s more important to eliminate any public health hazards.”

          There have been immediate protests and condemnations for what many bearded men called Cuomo’s Covid 19 pronouncement unilateral and biased.

          “He’s gonna be paid a ‘visit’ by many of our members,” decried  Mike “The Anvil” Brockton, president of the Greater New York Hell’s Angels. “Cuomo better watch out.  He’ll get one of our club tattoos, free of charge, and it won’t be pretty.”

          Legal experts question the constitutionality of what many critics says is an infringement on their physical appearance.  Many men prefer the bearded look.  Like the Hell’s Angels, the Amish and Mennonite religions require a hirsute appearance.  Growing a beard is a rite of passage, an Amish spokesman from Lancaster, PA said.

          Rabbi Hyman Goldberg of Brooklyn, is from Temple Mishkan  Shalom. He decried Cuomo’s decision.  “This is an anti-semitic act,” he boomed in front a crowd of cheering, bearded Orthodox Jews. “Our beards are a God-given right!”

          Some gentlemen from Harlem refused the swab test and stated this was merely a racist attack against black men, many of whom sport facial hair.  What Cuomo didn’t realize from this overreach, was the effect it has had on men across New York State.  Men of different races, religions and socioeconomic backgrounds have united in the protests at the Albany State House.

          Cuomo was justifying the decision based upon tests performed by New York’s regional (CDC) office in Manhattan.  According to the governor, CDC workers randomly stopped bearded men and requested a swab test.  The beards were of varying lengths from three day’s growth beards popular  among the city’s gay population to Grizzly Adams-type full length beards. The report showed a minute percentage of men’s beards tested positive for the virus but they also found mites and  dried beer and wine deposits.  A few men had remnants from various meals eaten prior to the swab test.

          “We’re here!  We’ve  got hair! We are manly men, Cuomo!” they repeatedly shouted at a state house protest.

          A curious aspect to this event was the disclosure that Cuomo and his family own considerable stock in Proctor and Gamble’s Gillette Shaving Division.  State Republicans are calling for a complete investigation into what appears to be a conflict of interest.  Cuomo, who was filmed shaving,  has declined comment.

At The Deli Counter

By

Leo de Natale

          There I was, waiting to order my half-pound of home cooked turkey and six slices of liverwurst – my normal fare for lunchtime sandwiches–  and there he was.

The customer to my right had placed his gargantuan order: one pound of sliced ham, two pounds of provolone cheese, one pound of chipotle-flavored roast beef and one pound of imported Swiss cheese.

The man stood about 5’5” and, given his deli order, predictably portly. He was fortyish and dressed in black. His hands were soft and pudgy but too small to be considered hamhocks. My eyes gravitated to his head. His bald, bull-necked head was cleanshaven but hidden by the obligatory baseball cap. Adorning his left ear lobe was a small gold hoop earring. Adjoining the hoop was a small gold stud. He turned and I noticed the right lobe was asymmetric—only one gold stud was visible. At least he wasn’t wearing a pinky ring or any hand jewelry. Clearly, this man was one of many middle-aged men who are trying to make a fashion statement. At about 225 lbs. and experiencing presumed male menopause is a difficult task. I once saw a man at the local emergency room who was similar in age but had a fuzzy flat top hairdo. His hair was completely gray. He was wearing dual diamond stud earrings. His eyeglasses were thick and the kicker was he was also wearing dual hearing aids. In both cases I said to myself what’s wrong with this picture?

The piece de resistance, however, was deli-man’s facial hair. Beside the wizened gray mustache, was a billy-goat gruff beard that ended at mid-chest. Every time he moved his head, the beard would sway side-to-side.

          My, my, my, what a real stud. I knew this because in the nearly filled shopping cart, Billy was purchasing a dozen multi-colored tulips.  How romantic.   Charm her with flowers and cured meats and imported cheese.

Men such as Billy are common and predictable. An optometrist friend told me about a biker and new patient whose first comment was “I can’t see for shit.” Translation: I’m in my forties and seeing up close (presbyopia) was difficult and would require reading glasses. As the patient was leaving he told my friend he had to leave for home because “I’m gonna be getting some skin from my old lady”. I have a feeling that gentleman was never taught the King’s English.

Anyway, there was only one deli person on duty and I witnessed the prodigious amount of food being stacked into Billy’s shopping cart. Ten or fifteen minutes passed before he waddled away from the deli.  All I could do was shake my head in disbelief.  Enjoy the tulips, honey.

The Mechanics

By

Leo de Natale

            I spent much of my life as an optometrist.  It’s one of those professions that is in the middling section of the health care food chain.  We serve a vital purpose in the wellbeing of society but it’s not a sexy occupation.  Dentistry, podiatry and chiropractic are also in this category. You never watch television or movies whose plot includes filling cavities (although Woody Allen wrote a humor piece entitled ‘If van Gogh Had Been a Dentist’), having a spine cracked, removing bunions  or arriving at a proper eyeglass  prescription.

            No, that’s left to the superstars: physicians.  Medicine is a long-honored occupation – Marcus Welby, ER, Coma, etc.   People hold medicine in esteem.  Optometrists, for example, are viewed as untermenchen. A colleague recently texted me this message: “A patient yesterday asked ‘Do you do surgery or are you just an optometrist?’”  That’s what is known as the proverbial stake through the heart but we get used to  contempt that borders self-loathing.  Such insults go with the territory.

 Health care   is indeed changing, the docs still take top billing but should they be prepared, as European physicians have, to decline in social status.  Socialized medicine has that effect.  Optometrists are lucky – we’ve already accepted our diminished status.  Over the years of referring patients to ophthalmologists and other sub-specialties and now even more because my life is filled with doctors’ appointments, I concluded that in many respects MDs are  merely mechanics and the machines they fix are human bodies.   Urologists and gastroenterologists are plumbers, cardiologists are HVAC repairmen, the aforementioned ophthalmologists are TV repairmen who correct visual system glitches.  Proctologists are sewer workers,  psychiatrists are software engineers. Surgeons are city road crews who fix burst waterpipes, street potholes or gas explosions.  Dermatologists are house painters- they sandpaper a house, fill in cracks and apply new paint to a rough exterior.

Think about it. As sexy as physicians appear to be, many specialties aren’t as sexy at all. Also, they won’t admit this to the outside world but within the medical profession there is a caste system. Neurosurgeons are the demigods, dermatologists, stablehands. How many persons want to observe dermatologists dealing with the “heartbreak of psoriasis” or obese patients with pink scaly lesions under sweaty, fatty slabs or squamous cell carcinomas. The traditional war cry for dermatologists is “If it’s wet, keep it dry, if it’s dry keep it wet!” They don’t have to deal with blood and guts nor do they work weekends or emergency visits. Most derm appointments are scheduled at least six months out or greater. But think of it. They deal with ugly warts, patients with layers of fat that smell and fungus-ridden appendages.

            Also low in the pecking order are psychiatrists.  They, too, don’t deal with blood.  The conveyer belt for them is a new customer every 50 minutes and see you next week.  Most psychiatrists are attracted to the field because many of them are  themselves have psychological issues.  Their job is to pigeonhole and treat various neuroses and psychoses.  An obsessive-compulsive goes here, a manic depressive there.  Throw in a schizophrenic  and a garden-variety neurotic in shelf no. 12.  Every patient is categorized with psychiatric criteria.  It is the essence of this discipline. The specialty is so stressful most psychiatrists in the Northeast escape to Truro, Massachusetts during July and August.  It’s their way of detoxing and getting away from the madness.

            We ascend through the medical strata.  Think of what it takes to specialize in urology.  Day in, day out, these poor bastards inspect and fondle penises and insert their index fingers into anuses to evaluate the odious prostate gland.  The prostate, or as many laymen refer to it as the “prostrate”, is the scourge of every man over age 50.  Sooner or later it morphs from a walnut to a grapefruit and causes millions of men to recollect days when they could sleep eight hours without urinating.

            A similar specialty is gynecology.  Why would anyone want to spend his or her day evaluating women’s vaginas and uteruses.  I picture these docs arriving home after work with their spouses saying “Tough day at the office, honey?” 

The same could be said for colo-rectal specialists.  They deal not only with the anus but the entire colon, always in search of a dreaded malignancy or malfunction.  I personally dealt with one of these guys for a bad case of pruritis ani, aka an itchy heinie. The guy was incredibly arrogant and condescending.   He fixed my problem, but I left his office saying to myself, it takes an asshole to fix an asshole.

The gastroenterologists are roto-rooter specialists.  They diagnose and treat stones, moans and groans.  Gastric ulcers.  A bum gall bladder with rolling stones aplenty.  Renal specialists are plumbers who deal with kidney disease and dialysis.  Endocrinologists have the unenviable task of treating diabetics and such weird conditions as acromegaly – Andre the Giant—and dwarfism.  Amazing what misery the endocrine glands produce.

            Moving up the body, there are the cardiologists whose function is to diagnose and treat so many patients with heart disease.  The human heart is similar to a house furnace.  It circulates heat (blood) flowing through pipes.  A house turns cold with a malfunctioning furnace.  So does the heart.  Many patients are usually overweight or morbidly obese.  Many are diabetic and also have elevated cholesterol levels and high blood pressure.  It’s called the Trifecta.  The chubbies often develop clogged arteries that lead to stent surgery.  Do they lose weight?  Usually no.  Non-compliance is a biggy with the heart guys.  An overweight neighbor  celebrated at a Super Bowl party by consuming three pounds of fried shrimp and a case of Bud Light. At 3 am he awoke with severe chest pain. A nice guy, but he had the near fatal combination of being stupid and cheap.  Instead of calling an ambulance, his wife drove him to a nearby hospital.  The pain and symptoms were intensifying and he sustained breathing difficulties.  His condition was dire and was immediately transferred to Massachusetts General Hospital.  The heart mechanics performed a quadruple bypass surgery.  In automotive parlances, he had four valves  and an oil filter replaced.

            He survived and was told to lose 50 pounds.  He lost 20 and told me “I don’t like being so thin.  I look better with a little weight on me.”  He died 12 months later after sustaining a massive myocardial infarction.

            Next we turn to another trade: otolaryngology – the ears, nose and throat guys.  They deal with ventilation and acoustical engineering.  They also deal with such plumbing supplies as faucets and drainage systems (runny noses and post nasal drip).  These specialists have the unenviable task of looking up hairy, snot-filled noses, ears that often have enough wax to fabricate birthday candles.  They have the unpleasant task of assessing slimy, mucous-laden throats. 

Twenty years ago, I developed nasal polyps that were exacerbating my seasonal allergies.  I was referred to an ENT guy and my assessment of him was compromised when I notice he was wearing a toupee.  He would wear and remove those circular head mirrors very, very carefully.  He performed the surgery but the anesthesiologist overjuiced me with an anesthetic that affected my breathing.

 The so-called day surgery turned into an overnight (for “precaution only”) and left me loopy for nearly a month.   The moral of the story is never trust an ENT mechanic who dons a hairpiece.

Ophthalmologists, the video repairmen do perform an admirable service. Problem is they’re probably the most sub-specialized of all the mechanics. The specialty has been balkanized. There are few general ophthalmologists remaining. They’ve subdivided themselves: cornea, glaucoma, cataracts and oculo-plastic surgery, i.e., removing sagging, baggy eyelids. These docs perform micro-surgery. Most procedures require a loupes or computer magnified cameras. It is ultra-precise. I know because some ophthalmologists aren’t talented and that’s when screw-ups, expecially with cataract surgery, occur. I knew one ophthalmologist who, in his later years, developed a tremor. We used to call him “Shaky”. He very quickly segued into treating patients who didn’t require surgery. At least he was honest with himself.

Then there are the orthopedic surgeons. They’re carpenters. Millions of older Americans eventually develop arthritic joints – knees, hips, shoulders, elbows. Total knee replacement involved cutting skin, sawing bones and reattaching a fake knee. A lot of banging and hammering. There’s a lot of noise when these guys enter a surgical suite. You can hear drills, surgical saws; you see a lot of blood, you see a lot of sweat. It’s messy, exhausting (for the surgeon) work. Ortho guys usually retire earlier than their medical colleagues. That’s how tiring surgery can be.

Neurologists are electricians.  They deal with the body’s nervous system.  It’s a fascinating specialty dealing with the wiring system – all those neurons and axons.  The human brain is a supercomputer with billions of cells that maintain electrical activity throughout the human body.  Their task is to evaluate and diagnose such conditions as Bell’s  Palsy, transient ischemic attacks – mini-strokes—and outright strokes.  They also have the unfortunate task of diagnosing and treating neurological maladies that include multiple sclerosis and brain tumors.  As a patient I can attest to the methodical process of differential diagnosis and an exercise in the process of elimination.

            Last spring I awoke at 2 am with a sharp, shooting pain behind my left eye.  It was as if some sadist had inserted a 10 guage hypodermic needle and wiggled it around.  The pain then shifted to my upper lid and again created searing pain. It recurred later that day.   This event occurred while my wife and I were vacationing in hot, sunny Phoenix.  Being an optometrist, I started to ponder the diagnosis.   It could be a space-occupying mass, the beginning of the dreaded tic doloureux – an inflammation of the giant trigeminal that has literally caused persons to commit suicide.  The pain is that severe.  I was destined to be on the receiving end of  three step diagnosis and treatment plan.

Step 1 was a visit to a neurophthalmologist after returning home. This subspecialty is the first stage where they determine if the problem is limited to the eye. They perform an eye examination on steroids. Everything internally seemed to be within normal limits. There were no internal eye tumors. Step 2 was performing an MRI (Magnetic Resonating Imaging) that will identify if there was a growth/tumor within the eyeball socket. The neurophthalmologist was through with me and shipped me out. Step 3 was an appointment with a neurologist – in my case a middle-aged woman with a charming South African accent. Her job was to sift through the various test findings and determine a final diagnosis and treatment.

            After performing the usual physical testing – the famous rubber reflex tester—and flexing and pulling my arms and shoulders, she made a final diagnosis.  It was trigeminal neuralgia, a relatively common and benign malady.  She prescribed a medication originally used for controlling epilepsy, but, because of its beneficial neurological effects, it’s used off-label for neuralgia.  Four pills daily was the ticket.  The unknown is how long I’ll be taking this drug.

 She was somewhat evasive, but hinted I may be taking the drug for an undetermined period – maybe for the rest of my life.  One has to place things in perspective.  I fortunately have no hypertension or elevated cholesterol levels. Many persons my age aren’t so fortunate.  I regard the neuralgia medication as an alternative.  It’s solved my problem.

There are various medical specialties who are included in the “Mechanics” moniker.  There’s the infectious disease docs who are basically pest control workers.  Their job is to diagnose (usually via blood test) what critter has afflicted the patient. I’ve noticed regardless of the discipline there’s always a certain level of elitism.  Most physicians do regard themselves as different, perhaps better than the hoi polloi.  So many of them have those goddamned stethoscopes wrapped around their necks.  “Hey, look at me!  I’m a doctor!”  And those starched white laboratory coats with embroidered names on the left that make it official.  Yup, I’m and M.D. 

For the rest of us ancillary health care folks, we wander in a world making patients see better, feel better.   Eyes, teeth, spines, need a lot of loving.

In my case I have embraced a profession without airs. We are in the trenches. Optometrists help people see and without much pretense. We talk and listen better. We’re user friendly.

So remember the next time you’re in a physician’s office you’re really in a parking lot full of human motor vehicles who are there for a tune up, brake job, a new muffler or tire rotation.  The difference between cars and humans is the  MD doesn’t greet you with grease stains on his white jacket.

Hairy Bastards
By
Leo de Natale

Perhaps the first time I realized there was a difference between being hairy and a hairy bastard occurred when I was age10. The local barbershop had hired a young new barber. He started cutting my hair –boy’s regular–and I noticed his incredibly hairy forearms. In particular, I observed that underneath his hairy right wrist was a relatively new tattoo. I grew up in an era when tattoos were socially unacceptable and relegated to sailors or motorcycle gangs. The problem with this guy’s tattoo was its invisibility. You couldn’t see it because his forearm hair had regrown. It was an unseen tat.

Listening to my parents while growing up I learned there were certain ethnic groups that were notoriously hirsute. Greeks, Armenians, Turks, Arabs and Southern Italians were infamous for their thick, turbid hairiness. It was primarily males who exhibited the most hair but many women followed suit. The men often adorned themselves with mustaches, thick, coarse beards and sideburns. However, it wasn’t uncommon for these ladies to sport unwanted visible mustaches, facial hair or forearms. Of course many women in that era didn’t shave their legs –or probably armpits. These groups were awash in hair. They were apparently oblivious to their physical appearance but times have changed.
Television infomercials are inundated with products that eliminate female and male hirsutism. They especially concentrate on women and ‘staches that occur even in fair-skinned, blue-eyed women. When I was in college I dated a young Irish beauty – once. We had a wonderful evening that ended at a local area known for “parking”. We began kissing and, like Jerry Seinfeld dating the woman with “man hands”, I suddenly drew back. This blonde blue-eyed coed had a hidden mustache, felt but not seen. I recoiled when it scratched my face. As Austin Powers would say, it was like kissing a man, baby.

That incident heightened my observational skills. Soon, I started to notice men with thick black hairs scattered on the tip of their noses. My longtime plumber Dino is in his early 50’s. A handsome Italian-American (some think he resembles George Clooney) is not your typical plumber. He is 6’1” and quite fit. There’s not an ounce of fat on him. You’ll never see the usual plumber’s crack when he’s replacing your toilet.
His once black hair is now salt and pepper. At the last service call he made I noticed a change. At the tip of his nose, a forest of short, black hairs had sprouted. Dino is at the age where he needs reading eyeglasses. My hunch was he can’t see those bristles but they’re there. I also noted another invasion of hirsutism. Dino was now growing a black forest surrounding his ears. We’re talking enough hair to camouflage his ear canal.

He’ll soon require an industrial-sized ear trimmer to scythe through the hairy buildup. What I can’t understand is how his wife can presumably see this growth and alert him to his advancing fur line. Maybe she needs reading glasses, too.
Perhaps I’m generalizing but Italian men seem to exhibit this problem ear/nose problem. I remember a boyhood friend, Johnny Guglietto, whose grandfather lived with Johnny’s family. It was the first time I witnessed someone with ear hair so overgrown it covered the entire aural opening. The hair obscured nearly 100 per cent of the passageway. I pondered what is it with these old guinea men? Maybe this was the reason for his hearing loss. Was it considered a hairy badge of honor or was it, like Dino’s case, they just can’t see the changes in their physical appearance.
As an aside, while touring the Grand Canyon several years ago, I stood next to an impeccably well-dressed middle-aged gentleman. He was by the paddock where the canyon donkeys were corralled. Much to his chagrin, his expensive, spit-shined shoes were filthy with dust and manure. Looking at him closely was a sight I had never seen. His nose was pointed and had flared nostrils. I couldn’t believe my eyes. His interior nasal hairs were grey and combed into neat, straight rows. I surreptitiously moved from side to side and, yep, both right and left nostril hair was fastidiously groomed. It was a WTF moment. It was as if this kook was flaunting an anatomical anomaly. To paraphrase James Brown, say it loud, my nose is hairy and I’m proud.

This is one of the mysteries of male homo sapiens. The unwanted, unnecessary, unsightly and atavistic body hair.
Moving elsewhere on the body there are guys who have neck hair, resembling an ivy vine. I always conjure fictitious horror movies –“It Came From Beneath The Neck!!” Such hair weaves through men’s shirt collars and form a labyrinth of hair connecting neck with head. Pro football quarterbacks Joe Flacco and Andrew Luck are classic examples of why turtleneck jerseys can make a remarkable improvement on physical appearance, with or without uniform.
Moving along the human anatomy, there are other areas that wreak havoc on a man’s physical appearance. First stop is the chest. Back in the 1960’s, actor Sean Connery portrayed the iconic James Bond. In nearly every film he appeared bare chested for certain scenes. Connery was an incredibly hairy beast with a human sweater that started at the chest and ended at his waistline. That look may have been more acceptable 50 years ago but compare Connery’s forest to the most recent Bond, Daniel Craig. During a beach scene in Casino Royale, Craig wades to the shore, displaying his taut, well muscled physique, and no visible chest hair. And don’t forget the film Forty-Year-Old Virgin where Steve Carell undergoes a painful yet hilarious chest hair removal by a sadistic salon employee.

Spinning around the torso, we find another designated area: hairy backs. The late pro wrestler George “The Animal” Steele was in the villain category. He’d always wrestled bare-chested. His back was almost as woolly as his chest. Steele’s bald, clean-shaven head added to his bad guy appeal. I always felt sorry for his opponents who grappled with his hairy, sweat-laden body. Unsightly back hair also is included on infomercials. One device resembles a modified back scratcher. Hirsute male models demonstrate how the device removes lawnmower-style– back hair one section at a time. There’s a hair removal product for every area of the human body.
Let’s go a little lower. Legendary basketball player Bob Cousy was an incredible athlete. He also had probably the hairiest legs in the National Basketball Association’s history. It appeared he was wearing woolen leggings while playing on the old Boston Garden’s parquet floor. To Cousy’s credit he’s very self-deprecating about his thighs and calves. He was a hairy bastard extraordinaire and accepted his genetics.

Speaking of legs, many women undergo the masochistic ritual of waxing. Hot wax is applied to their legs and, very much like the Steve Carrel scene, the leg hairs are pulled from their roots and cause considerable pain. Leg hair takes longer to regrow with waxing. Of course there’s also the women’s Brazilian waxing technique where hair is removed from the groin, aka “down there”.

And so both sexes deal with the issues of unwanted hair. I heard a comedian who was commenting about men, especially bald men ( he also was bald). “Why is it men who are losing their hair in one place –their heads– deal with hair sprouting in places –their ears” he queried. “They resort to plugs and usually succumb to ugly toupees?”
“Why not transplant the ear hair or chest hair on to the head?”, he said. “Or maybe even the controversial pubic transplant!”. Bald Sean Connery would have never need to wear a “piece” if that cosmetic dermatology were available.

There’s another area I’ve noticed over the years. Older men’s eyebrows. Age and their old guy DNA kicks in and creates bushy caterpillar eyebrows. The Jerry Seinfeld character Sandy Baron, the late Andy Rooney and newscaster Walter Cronkite were prime examples of this anomaly. The eyebrows become bushier as they age.

I often had this image of taking an electric hedge clipper to Rooney’s brows and pretend I’m trimming a privet bush. I would yell at the television set, “Yo, Andy, Walter, time for a trim. Your brows are a distraction to your commentary!”. I guess when men reach a certain age, they feel more avuncular and the bushy brows become de rigueur. Concern over physical appearance wanes.
Returning to the head, there is one area that’s particularly noticeable: the nose. Unlike the Grand Canyon dandy, many persons, male and female, grow unsightly nasal hairs. They protrude from the nasal cavities and become human crab grass. Many will notice these unwanted visitors and routinely snip them away. The problem is they return, sometimes overnight. The aforementioned television infomercials also advertise nasal hair trimmers that resemble a modified toothbrush.
Our last bodily topic pertains to younger men. It’s the Unibrow. I will never understand why young guys walk around with such an unsightly eyebrow pattern. Someone should tell them Unibrows are grotesque. It’s one of the anatomical anomalies that forces people to look away during up close discussion as if they’re staring at the sun. Look long enough and it damages retinas. People become transfixed by the Unibrow and find it difficult to sustain a conversation. You cannot recall what the Unibrowed are saying. In induces hirsute-related amnesia. Maybe one day the infomercials will advertise a laser or women’s wax treatment for this category of hairy bastards.

Let’s face it. Body hair is a pain in the ass. Especially a big, fat hairy ass.

Toilet Paper Wars, 2020

By

Leo de Natale

 2020 will be remembered as The Year of the Plague.  A mutated virus originating in China in late December, early January swiftly spread across Planet Earth.  The conceit of mankind, thinking we are impervious to worldwide disease and mass deaths, was brought to its knees.

World economies crashed, stock markets plunged and mass hysteria became increasingly prominent.  Globally, people were dying, people were freaking out. This demoralizing event turned neighbor against neighbor.  It was the first apocalyptic event seen since the 1919 Spanish influenza pandemic.

Watching the panic unfold from within my “safe” home, I time- traveled back to 1953 when, as a young boy, I went with my friends and watched the classic film, War Of The Worlds.  The 50’s were an era of monster films: Creature From The Black Lagoon, Them, Invaders From Mars.  They all scared the bejesus out of me.  These movies gave me nightmares.   It was a time when you’d turn off your bedroom light and fearfully jump into bed.  One unwritten rule was you never slept with your hand hanging from the sheets.  You could be pulled underneath by the monsters lurking under the mattress.

War Of The Worlds was special. There were invading spaceships impervious to weapons including the atomic bomb. Wow, I thought, we’re in deep shit if the Bomb couldn’t protect us. The film was highly acclaimed. There were heroic scenes when the U.S. military vainly attempted to vanquish these alien demons. Familiar character actors I would see throughout the 50’s were packed in every scene. Many had obligatory mustaches and Brylcreemed hair – those were the greaseball days. There were creepy scenes where the protagonist, Professor Clayton Forrester, played by actor Gene Barry, and his assistant/paramour, actress Ann Robinson, are hiding in a demolished basement. A Martian probe is searching for them and a three-fingered alien actually touches actress Robinson. The plot moves along. I was filling my mouth with Pom Poms and Jujubes candy.

Which brings me to the bestial behavior observed during March, 2020.

Towards the movie’s end, Prof. Forrester has important information contained in  scientific instruments.  He’s trying to reach the research facility and is driving a truck.  In the background, the Martian spaceships are destroying large swaths of downtown Los Angeles – actually today’s Los Angeles landscape resembles the movie’s.  Suddenly, a crazed mob surrounds Forrester’s truck.  He stops the vehicle and is pulled from the truck and thrown to the pavement.  The mob grabs his precious instruments that are smashed against a building.  Bloodied and shell-shocked, Forrester yells “You fools!  You fools!”.  The truck lurches away.

Forward to 2020.  The mob isn’t interested in a truck carrying scientific instruments.  It’s toilet paper and paper towels.  It’s hand sanitizers and disinfecting wipes.  It’s bread and water. Fist fights erupt outside major supermarkets.  It’s the only time I can remember seeing storewide empty shelves.  People are stealing nine-pack paper towels from each other.  Pandemonium sweeps across the United States and Europe.  In England, British citizens fight over scones, France, baguettes, Germany, jaeger schnitzels, Poland, pierogis.  The insanity increases.  People fear to venture outside their homes.  Hospitals are overflowing with patients.  McDonald’s suspends operations.  No Big Macs.  Other restaurants follow suit.

Me?  I have a healthy respect for this Plague but history shows us the true Apocalypse is yet to come.  My faith in mankind’s ability to solve problems gives me hope.  The world has survived biblical plagues; Medieval Europe survived the Bubonic Plague; the 20^th Century survived the aforementioned 1919 plague.  This current scourge will pass, too.

What we are experiencing in early 2020 is a reminder how evolution hasn’t rid us of our Neanderthal forbears. We’re one catastrophe away from the opening scene of 2001: Space Odyssey where the apes discover leg bones can be used to annihilate enemies. In 2020 the bones have been replaced with rolls of Charmin.

At the end of War of the Worlds, Gene Barry finds himself huddled with others inside a Catholic church. Hollywood being Hollywood, his assistant/paramour find each other, embrace and wait for the end. Obliteration is avoided because the alien Martians become infected with Earth’s bacteria and slowly die, one by one. There’s a message there.

Choppers

By

Leo de Natale

          “Okay, Mr. O’Brien, one more and we’re done,” said Dr. Jonathan Twine, a periodontist located in South Boston, a primarily Irish Roman Catholic enclave.  “This may hurt but I’ll have extracted the last tooth in your mouth.”

          Twine had been practicing his profession for nearly 30 years.  O’Brien, who was in his mid-50’s, was just another patient who now resembled Moms Mabley,  the black comedienne whose shtick was performing toothless and talking while playing with her gums.  After O’Brien’s procedure ended, he looked at Twine and smiled.  Yep, Moms Mablely, with an oral cavity showing only gums and a sunken mouth.

          “Ah be-glory, Doctor,” O’Brien slurred with a thick Irish brogue, his mouth still affected by the novacaine injection. “I’m finally rid of that goddamned tooth!”

          Soon after opening his practice Twine noticed a pattern that constantly perpetuated itself.  Not all, but many of his patients had almost a disdain for human teeth and an utter disregard for dental health. If I lose a tooth, so what? was the attitude.  Cigarette smoking was common among his patients.  Like so many negative aspects of smoking, nicotine has a deleterious effect on dentition.  The longer you smoked, the greater chance of dental problems.

          Twine’s primary job was preventing gum disease and its consequences, most common of which was tooth loss. The Northern European inhabitants  — British, Welsh, Irish, Scots and German were infamous for their poor dentition.  Just ask the fictitious Austin Powers who said, “I know, baby, I’ve got bad teeth!”

          The oddest aspect of Twine’s observations was that many of his Irish patients had a distorted sense of  dental care’s cost.  More than one of his patients would say, “Aye, Doctor, just yank ‘em all out.  I’ll have me choppers and won’t need to see you no more, don’t you know?”

He’d explain how absurd that notion was. He’d tell them as toothless persons age, their gums shrink. New dentures require periodic replacement. Otherwise, the old dentures start floating around and can fall out of the mouth regardless of the amount of Poligrip adhesive applied. He rarely mentioned an additional side effect the creates foul odor: denture breath. Actor Clark Gable was infamous for his denture-induced bad breath. It’s far worse than ordinary halitosis, he’d say. And those fake pearly-whites will yellow over time. After the extraction, Dr. Twine arranged for a denture fitting and like so many before him, he scheduled an appointment for Mr. O’Brien’s brave new world of perfectly white fake teeth, complete with nice pink gums. As an aside, one of Twine’s favorite Youtube videos is an elderly woman skydiving. The wind velocity was so high her dentures suddenly fly out of her mouth and are sent hurtling into oblivion.

After O’Brien left, Twine was reminded  of an Irish family– the Murphys – father, mother and three sons all of whom wore dentures.  The sons were hard-nosed blue collar types.  They frequently fought.  On one such occasion, they began arguing at the dinner table.   The oldest son named Jacky was incensed by his brother and, in a fit of anger, removed his upper denture and hurled it as a weapon.   

Jacky missed his target and the choppers were shattered against the dining room wall.  His arguing brother hurled his dentures at Jacky.  Those choppers broke a living room window.  Brine laughed to himself.  It was the only time he’d heard of smelly, slimy dentures being used as assault weapons.

The above scenario is something that you can “sink your teeth into” and that’s what this essay is all about: dentition.  In modern times, dental care is a fundamental of living a good life.  Since the 1960’s water fluoridation has greatly reduced cavities in children.   Orthodontics – getting fit to braces during a child’s middle school years—has become a rite of passage.  There is less teasing and ridiculing these days.  Fewer children endure the tauntings – “Hey barbed-wire mouth” or “When do you lose the grille?”.   Many children pass through youth and adulthood without paying much attention to dental health.  But, are they aware of the minefield awaits them if such inattention occurs?

Millennials and Gen Z’ers are prime examples of this disregard.  An example unrelated to teeth is the mainstreaming acceptance of tattoos.  Once considered socially unacceptable, sporting tattoos  is commonplace.  Many of this age group have at least one tattoo.  There are the meatheads who defile their bodies with ink on their faces, necks, forearms, hands and chest. 

Rock stars and professional athletes are a prime example of this body desecration.  You want to scream “Hey you idiots! When you’re 50 of 60 years old, do you realize what those tats will look like?  Just blobs of blue, yellow, red Rorschach tests!  They’ll be gross and unrecognizable.”

During his career, Twine adopted a cynical attitude towards educating his patients.  In healthcare, noncompliance is the greatest source of frustration among professionals.  For example, Twine had an optometrist friend who would complain about contact lens abuse.  Sometimes it was a case of poor patient education, his friend said.

More commonly, however,  the abuse was a sense of invincibility, laziness, penury or  utter disregard for rules and regulations.  Some contact lenses are “daily disposables”.  Those are the healthiest for the human eye.  Wear once, throw away and reduce the chance of infection.  Other modalities are two-week disposable lenses and four week intervals.

Twine’s colleague described the following scenarios: “If it’s a daily contact lens, patients will wear them for two days,” the optometrist said. “If it’s a two week, they’ll change them every four weeks; one month lenses will be replaced every two months. Some of these idiots will not remove the contacts for months. Economics is a factor in this abuse. Folks want to save money so they push the envelope. Many, for chrissake, have no eyeglasses, the optometrist would say.

Naturally, some of these abusers wind up with pernicious corneal ulcers, some of which can cause permanent damage or even loss of an eye.  Twine had learned in dentistry the circumstances are different but the outcome is similar.  Noncompliance is always the cause.  Patients sometimes skip routine cleanings that lead to tooth decay, abscesses, gum disease and eventual tooth extraction.

By the time patients see Twine the ship has already sailed and he’s left with the task of salvaging what remains of a sick mouth.  His years of experience enabled him to draw odds on the future of so many teeth that could have been saved.

This guy’s headed for a new set of piano keys, he’d say.  This middle-aged lady will have a “partial”.  Many will develop gingivitis requiring surgery, “gum jobs”, a procedure requiring resectioning of the gums.  Periodontistry  is a challenging dental specialty,  Twine’s clientele  were divided into two groups: those who don’t fear losing their teeth and those who’ll pay thousands of dollars to save them.  The first group, exemplified by Mr. O’Brien, have an I-don’t-give-a-shit attitude.  He has dealt with former far more than the latter.

Financially periodontists  do well.  All those procedures help pay for the summer home on Cape Cod and the winter condominium in sunny Florida.  From afar, dentistry seems to have an appeal.  In reality it’s a gross profession.  Dentists spend their time sticking their fingers into mouths.  The odor can be foul, especially with patients with industrial strength halitosis.  Their job deals with blood and pain.  It’s drill and fill, rinse and spit.  They can’t share the usual doctor/patient banter.  Dentists stare at hairy nostrils, face such potential hazards of hepatitis and have one of the highest suicide rates among health care professionals.

During the past century, dentistry has made incredible advances in improving patients’ health.  Instruments have become more sophisticated, novacaine a godsend.  Cosmetic dentistry had become a sub-specialty for patients who can afford costly veneer procedures and leave the office with  pearly whites. Unlike Mr. O’Brien who’ll be whistling through those yellowing choppers until it’s time for a refit, aye bejesus.