Time Fries! (17 page)

June 2012

P
ADDY
, 13, C
OVER
B
OY

Paddy Jacobs-Quesenberry, 13, passed away on Thursday, May 31, 2012 from complications of diabetes. Born on St. Patrick's Day 1999, he spent his career working as a cover model for A&M Books of Rehoboth. His photograph appeared on the covers of
As I Lay Frying—a Rehoboth Beach Memoir, Fried & True—Tales from Rehoboth Beach
, and
For Frying Out Loud—Rehoboth Beach Diaries
all by Rehoboth Beach writer Fay Jacobs.

Paddy is survived by his family, including Fay and Bonnie, his older brother Moxie, Aunt Gwen and 39 feline cousins, and best friends Mitzi Hooker and Chanel Sneider-Cohen.

• • •

When I wrote my column about Schnauzerhaven Assisted Living a short time ago, I had no idea this news would follow so soon. As I have many
Letters
readers who didn't get this news personally, I feel a responsibility to let you know, in this space, of Paddy's passing.

Also, it's a chance to reiterate my view of story-telling. As I have said before, I inherited a gift from my father. It was his vision that no event is so terrible if you can tell a funny story about it. In fact, laughter is the very best medicine.

So I have to relate that following our terrible trip to the vet on that sad Thursday night, Bonnie and I were a mess. But she had a previously planned trip out of town and I told her to go. I assured her Moxie and I would be fine.

As I sat in my living room on Friday, Moxie could not settle down. He went from room to room in the house, looking for Paddy. While it was breaking my heart, I realized he hadn't seen Bonnie since Thursday night either. My God, he probably thinks I killed them both.

Between laughing and crying, I got through the night.

Bonnie's back now, and we're adjusting. Moxie is feeling a
bit more secure and we've been taking him to friends' homes for play dates. Paddy lives on, his face gracing the covers of thousands of books at Proud, Browseabout,
Amazon.com
, Barnes & Noble, etc., but mostly in great big stacks in my garage. In his memory, buy a book…see, I can shamelessly turn everything into a marketing opportunity.

As for his super model career, photographer Murray Archibald always had less trouble posing Paddy than me. Unlike me, Paddy never whined that he'd rather the photos didn't highlight his thighs, never squinted unattractively into the camera and didn't come up with a dozen shots with his eyes closed. And goodness knows, he was not picky about which photos would make good cover shots.

So the smiles continue. Bonnie and I giggle that our kitchen floor no longer looks like Lake Superior. Paddy, it can now be told, had a drinking problem. He couldn't take a sip of water without sticking his entire beard in the bowl, then dripping all over the floor. Then wiping his disgusting beard on the sofa. We smile, remember, and feel hopeful for the longevity of our new couch.

Finally, this column would not be complete without a nod to the incredible compassion and wonderful care of Dr. Sarah Curtis at Rehoboth Animal Hospital. The whole office is amazingly friendly and efficient. Cannot recommend them enough.

Oh, and I know Paddy would want me to say, “In lieu of flowers, donations to Delaware ASPCA, please.” Just kidding. No response required. But we do have to go on kidding. It is the best medicine of all.

June 2012

L
APPING THE
T
RACK ON
E
IGHT
W
HEELS AND A
P
RAYER

There could not have been two New York City episodes further separated in style and substance than the two I experienced a couple of weeks ago. That they both involved my idol Angela Lansbury is by turns odd and exhilarating.

First, for the sublime: I went to see the revival of Gore Vidal's
The Best Man
, a brilliant political drama taking place in the 1960s that is as relevant today as it was then. Scary. The smallest star role was Angela's as a flag-waving Southern political committee woman. She was, of course, charming, funny, and perfect. But the show's big attractions were James Earl Jones, John Larroquette, Eric McCormack and Candice Bergen, so how could the show have been anything but brilliant and electric? It was a theatre-lover's grand slam.

Then we moved from sublime to ridiculous: The Gotham Girls Roller Derby.

When I was told to wear closed toe shoes if I was going to sit in the front row for the grudge match between the Manhattan Mayhem and the Brooklyn Bombshells, I should have known better. Holy rollers!

The match took place in the gym at Hunter College in Manhattan, where hundreds and hundreds of fans piled in to watch their favorite teams skate it out. The all-women teams had both male and female cheerleaders, and the crowd was nothing if not freakily diverse. Young, old, gay, straight, cheering, and screaming for their favorite skaters.

The athletes, a combo of gay and straight it seemed, dressed in hottie outfits of scanty panties or bike shorts and long tees over black three-quarter tights, plus knee pads, elbow pads and helmets, transported themselves not on roller blades but on the old-fashioned four-wheel models. Pumping their arms, sometimes their chests, and flying around the track
like lightning, it was a sight to behold…and to duck for cover from.

From the program: “The objectives of roller derby are relatively simple. Each team fields a single point scoring skater (“Jammer”) whose object is to lap as many opposing skaters as they can. The remaining skaters who aren't scoring points work both on offense and defense at the same time—to block the opposing Jammer and to clear a path for their own Jammer. Well-played roller derby requires agility, strength, speed, control, peripheral vision, communication, and teamwork.”

Also cursing, screaming, bleeding. I haven't seen such aggressive women since 1978 at the Phase One bar on 8th Street in DC. And the tattoos! There hasn't been so much ink since John Hancock wrote on parchment.

Every time the gals started a round (a jam), they'd whiz by so fast, first you'd get windburn, then be whipped silly by a tailwind. Round and round they'd skate, uttering taunts, maneuvering bodies, sly elbowing (Foul!) with order trying to be kept by a cadre of striped-shirted referees, mostly male. The penalty box was always, always full.

When somebody went down, lots of folks went down, with wheels spinning, women cursing, and fans cheering. It was less a blood sport than ice hockey, but not by much. The platoon of refs kept everybody pretty much in line.

I think the best part for me, was the roster. The skaters boasted names like Ann Phetermean, Bitch Cassidy, Megahurz, Raggedy Animal, and such for the Mayhem. The Bombshells had Amesto-Maim, Bonita AppleBomb, Violet Knockout, Ann Frankenstein, and, as a writer familiar with the printing biz, my favorite, Em Dash.

These powerfully built, strong, independent women obviously had a blast doing derby in big, bad New York and it was a hoot to watch.

Luckily, no personal podiatry was required as a result of my sitting right at the action. Each time the jammers and their entourage flew by, often within an inch or two of my shoes, I'd
scrunch my feet back and pray. When a pile-up of sweaty, butch gals landed at my feet I didn't know, as they sort of say, whether to sit or go blind.

But when I came knees to knees with one particular skidding skater, my night was complete. Right there, practically in my lap, was Angela Slamsbury.

As the sign I saw on my way out of the city said, “If You Can Make It Here…You Really Should.” From gritty political drama to death-defying roller derby, I was a great big part of it, New York, New York.

June 2012

E
XERCISE
, M
Y
W
AY

It's time to act our age at the beach. And since we're all responsible adults, we should just haul our bones to the beach, waddle onto the sand, relax quietly under an umbrella, stay away from junk food and go home early.

Really? I have come up with a new summer workout regimen. It's kind of a cross between slothery and enjoying what the beach has to offer. As Goldilocks would say, not too tough, not too easy, just right.

Walk & Reduce
– I get an all-day parking pass for the neighborhoods, where feeding the hungry parking meters is not required. That way I am shedding calories by walking the few blocks to Rehoboth's commercial district and boardwalk. True, sprints to feed the ravenous meters are slimming, but fines for memory lapses only exercise my mouth and middle finger.

Bench Press
– Since the backs on the historic white boardwalk benches flip from front to back, I can rest my glutes and watch the ocean for a while, then press the back of the bench and scoot it the other way. That's when I get to stare at the eternally amusing humanity. As my late father once said as I wheeled him down the boardwalk to enjoy the night air and the tourists, “If this is America, we're in trouble.” Okay, the boardwalk at night is a little like the crowd at a state fair or Renaissance Faire, but what the heck. If I get up and down enough for food, drink, or to get a better view of something outrageous I have just witnessed, I can achieve my requisite squats.

Crunches
– Oh, where to start? Caramel popcorn is the crunchiest, but beach fries come in second. On days I'm up to it I compete in the pizza, taffy, funnel cake triathlon. While I know stretching is key, I avoid holding a French fry aloft to the swooping gulls. Those beastly birds can hover and discharge
simultaneously, requiring lunges just to duck and cover.

Balance
– As in checkbook. Love exercising the debit card with retail therapy. In this arena I have real stamina. Sadly, I can easily spend 5K in 5K. But if I'm picky I can really stretch those dollars along with the hamstrings.

Cardio Workout
– I'm off to Skee-Ball at the arcade, where just the right effort is required to win prize tickets but steer clear of rotator cuff issues. It's best to avoid hyperextension, meaning you have to bend down and rip the prize tickets off after every game, lest they extend to where other, more hyper players can steal them. The key is flexibility—be happy with the souvenir kazoo or the backscratcher.

Going for the Burn
– With all this exercise it's time to relax, but I can still go for the burn on a blanket on the sand. This is a good place to do curls, as in curling up with a good book. Of course, actual burning is unwise, so I apply sunscreen, SPF 146 epoxy. Then I practice my resting heart rate.

Body Building
– Using a plastic pail and shovel, I do aerobic sand sculpting, building shark and starfish bodies. Burying the occasional human in the sand is fun and is low impact as long as the person is willing to be buried.

Cool Down
– Where else but in the ocean? I usually need a spotter for this activity to remind me to take off my expensive glasses first. This cool down phase can be exhilarating, but be warned, I have seen it turn into a 100-meter dash at a jellyfish sighting.

Strength Training
– The evening exercise session is where I build endurance. I start with the 12-ounce Dogfish Head beer and toil my way up to the 18 ounce. I'm working on my six pack. Talk about ripped. An alternative is the antioxidant pomegranate martini. As in many exercise programs, prior carbohydrate loading may be required, giving me an upper body workout from fork lifting.

Dumbbell Time
– This happens as I exit town, power-lifting my beach chair and purchases. I've forgotten where I parked. It's hell getting old.

Chin-ups
– The car will surface eventually. It can't be far. And I live here. What can be better than that? Life's a beach and I can get right back onto this treadmill again tomorrow. As they say, chin up. All of them.