This week’s Illustration Friday suggested topic is “asleep”.

The morning began like every morning begins. My alarm went off at six and I smacked the snooze button every ten minutes until I kicked myself out of bed at 6:30. I showered, brushed my teeth and checked the mirror to see if I could get away without shaving for one more day. I exited the bathroom and headed downstairs. I flicked on our Keurig coffee maker and while the water was heating up I ran down the basement steps to grab a matching pair of socks out of the dryer. Back in the kitchen, I watched as hot water purged through my selection of K-Cup and emptied its brewed contents into a waiting mug. After adding a splash of half-and-half and one packet of Sweet ‘n Low, I carried my coffee and my socks back upstairs to watch the first half-hour of The Today Show  while I got dressed. As the clock came up on 7:40 am, I snapped off the TV and grabbed my cellphone and canvas messenger bag. Mrs. Pincus was asleep, still snuggled under several blankets, when I kissed her and whispered “goodbye”. I crossed the hall to say “goodbye” to my son, curled up under his own blankets. Although they each uttered a closed-mouthed “hum”, they may or may not have heard my actual farewell — as is the case most mornings. I scrambled down the stairs, grabbed my denim jacket and pulled it on as I hurried out the door. I ambled to the train station at the end of my block, less than a minute walk from my front door. Most mornings, I see my friend Randi and we ride the train together to our destination, as we both work in the same office building in center city Philadelphia. This particular morning, Randi was not on the platform. Too bad for me.

At 7:50, the train stops at Elkins Park and I get on. It then proceeds on to its scheduled station stops at Melrose Park, Fern Rock, Temple University and Market East until it reaches my journey’s end, Suburban Station. My entire morning commute covers five stations and lasts approximately twenty-five minutes. When I ride with Randi, we are engaged in conversation that lasts the whole trip, usually continuing until we reach the elevators in our building’s lobby. Since Randi was obviously relying on another route to work this morning, I turned to my dog-eared copy of Carson McCullers’ The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter  to pass the time. I boarded the train, selected a seat at the rear of a relatively empty car, pulled the book from my bag and began to read. I had been struggling through Miss McCullers’ Southern Gothic debut, that it now had taken on the characteristics of a high-school reading assignment rather than a source of enjoyment. The train came to a stop at Melrose Park and, unable to focus, I returned the book to my bag and closed my eyes for a quick nap. Too bad for me.

Suddenly, my eyes shot open. The train was in a tunnel and the car lights were flickering. I was groggy and disoriented. Through bleary and unadjusted eyes, I looked at my watch and I saw it was 8:10. However, since I was in a tunnel, I didn’t know which  8:10 of the day it was. I couldn’t remember how long I had been asleep. The train pulled into Market East, the first underground station on my regular morning journey.  My foggy and sleep-addled mind surmised that I was actually on my way home and it was 8:10 in the evening. I convinced myself that I must have traveled all the way to the end of my homecoming train’s line in Glenside — where no train staff had awakened me — and now I was on a return trip to center city. In a panic, I hopped off the train and frantically dialed my wife at home. As the phone rang, I was annoyed that she had not called, wondering why I had not arrived home at my usual 5:30. After four or five rings, my wife’s hushed voice whispered “Hello” from my cellphone’s speaker. I blurted out, “I’m okay! I’m on my way home. I must have fallen asleep on the train, came back from Glenside and now I’m at Market East. I’m getting on a train to Elkins Park and I’ll be home soon.” I rambled on so quickly, I didn’t allow my bewildered wife to get an interrupting word in. I paused and followed my rant with, “I can’t believe you didn’t call me! Didn’t you wonder where I was?”

She was silent, then she cleared her throat and said, “Well, I was asleep” and she trailed off.

“I’m three hours late coming home and you didn’t think to call me?”  I was starting to get angry. “Well, forget it! I’ll be home soon.”

“What are you talking about? Why are you coming home?” She sounded as confused as I felt.

“I’m coming home!”, I said one last time and I pushed the “END” button on my phone as I approached the information desk at Market East to ask the time for the next train to Elkins Park.

My wife sat in our darkened bedroom and stared blankly at the phone. The first thought to cross her mind was “Well, a twenty-seven year marriage was a good run.” Knowing full well that I had just left the house twenty minutes earlier, she began to cry, assuming I had had a stroke while riding the train.

I boarded the Elkins Park-bound train and called home again. I lowered my voice, so as not to attract the attention of my fellow passengers to my slightly embarrassing situation. Once again, I explained the “fell asleep on the train” scenario to my emotional wife. During my explanation, the train emerged from the tunnel — into the harsh sunlight of the morning. Suddenly, it hit me. I had been asleep for merely moments, on my way to  work — not hours, on my way home.  It also occurred to me that Mrs. Pincus must have thought I had a stroke. “Um, I’ll call you right back.” I said to her and ended the call. All that had just transpired became instantly clear to me. I looked at my watch again and up to the sky and concluded the correct time of day. I jumped off the train at Temple University and I waited for the next train to my proper terminus. And I called my wife. Again.

Mrs. Pincus answered on the first ring. She hit me with a battery of inquiry. “Are you okay? Where are you? Did you have a stroke?” I assured her I was now fully aware of the situation and I was now headed in the right direction and I did not have a stroke. It took several repeat affirmations but I finally convinced her that I was, indeed, fine.

At last, I reached Suburban Station, ten minutes later than usual arrival. I walked my usual route to my office and as I snapped my office light on, two of my co-workers noted, “You’re later than usual.”

Too bad for me.

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Summer 1979. My friends and I had just graduated from high school. We were all turning eighteen, the then-legal drinking age in New Jersey. Four of us ― Alan, Scott, Sam and ol’ Josh Pincus ― crossed the Pennsylvania border, headed for Atlantic City, for what would be a beer-soaked, debauchery-filled last hurrah before college.

Atlantic City was in a transitional period in the late 70s, caught somewhere between the “America’s Playground” time of the 60s and the new frontier of casino gambling. The grand old hotels on the famed Boardwalk, now dingy gray shadows of their glittery and esteemed heyday, were still out of our league. The more modern family motor inns were also a bit pricey for the likes of four high-schoolers with minimum wage jobs. The most monetarily-appealing option was one of the many rooming houses available just off the Boardwalk. An older couple, usually ones whose grown children had left the nest, would open up several rooms in their large pseudo-Victorian seaside homes for vacationers on a budget. My friends and I happily booked accommodations at Betty’s Rooms, one of the larger rooming houses still within the beach block.

Alan secured the use of his father’s sedan for several days and we all met at his house. Each of us packed a bag with the few items that eighteen year-olds feel they need for a four-day vacation – clothing in pairs (underwear, socks, shorts and a pair of T-shirts), possibly a toothbrush and enough cash to keep us in beer and junk food until our return home. We piled into the car and set off for our Jersey Coast destination. We decided to take the less-frequently used Betsy Ross Bridge instead of the more popular (and possibly traffic-jammed) Tacony-Palmyra Bridge as our cross-over into The Garden State. Finding ours being the only vehicle on the bridge in that early morning hour, Alan maneuvered the car across all eight lanes in a haphazard, zig-zaggy pattern. We all laughed hysterically, unfazed by the potential danger of his actions. Actually, we perceived it more of a foreshadowing of the unbridled revelry that lie ahead.

The ninety-minute drive ended at Betty’s Rooms, a massive, three-story single-family structure, now converted to a labyrinth of odd-shaped rooms and a mixed assemblage of guests, mostly families with an eye on thriftiness and teens like us. We were greeted by Crying Bob, Betty’s partner (possibly her husband – the jury is still out on that call), who managed the large off-street parking lot. Bob, with his white crew-cut and windburned skin, directed us to a designated parking space with a warbling voice sounding as though he was on the verge of tears. We popped the trunk and grabbed our bags. The four of us bounded up the front steps, across the porch and through the front door where we were met by Betty herself. Betty was a frail, wizened, leathery woman with gray hair pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head and a horse-choking wad of paper money tucked securely under her ubiquitous crocheted shawl between a frayed bra strap and a bony shoulder. With a crooked, twig-like finger, Betty pointed up the stairs and handed over the key to the largest room in the house. We recklessly tossed our luggage into the room that would be our home for the next few days. A room that Betty would freshen daily with mismatched towels and hospital-cornered beds. A room whose condition would invariably deteriorate and bring unspoken disgust to Betty’s old-fashioned sense of respect and decency (for a woman who runs a rooming house, that is).

Our first order of business (which would lead to our second order of business), was to stock up on beer, soda, snacks, beer and beer. We made our way to Chelsea Liquors on Atlantic Avenue. Despite its “stripper-sounding” name, Chelsea Liquors was a small, cramped establishment eager to cater to the alcoholic whims of anyone with a valid proof of age. As the oldest of the group, I made my first official legal purchase of beer (four six-packs), while my friends gathered bags of crunchy snacks and two-liter bottles of soda. (No cups needed as we were pretty friendly. What’s a few wipes of a bottle-top between friends?) We returned to our room at Betty’s and, with no regard for the early hour of the day, began drinking immediately. And that’s how we occupied ourselves for four days. It was a veritable race to see who would succumb to cirrhosis of the liver first. And a hotly competitive race it was. We paused briefly to visit the beach or to ogle girls or to eat a normal meal, but mostly, we drank. As the first evening fell, we staggered to the Boardwalk for some fresh air and, possibly, a stop at a bar. The Boardwalk was crowded with peers also experiencing a summertime epilogue to their high school days. Familiar and unfamiliar faces swam past our bleary eyes as we feigned enthusiasm in superficial conversations. We were more interested in pickling our senses. After a few more hours of additional intoxication, we wavered and pitched back to Betty’s to sleep off some of the ingredients of the next morning’s impending hangover.

Before conking out for the night, we indulged in some chips and soda, consciously steering clear of any more alcohol. The cellophane bags were passed around as well as the plastic jug of Coke. I was seated on the edge of one bed and I clapped my hands to get the attention of Sam who was seated at a small table several feet away. I waved my palms towards me in the universal gesture of “send that soda bottle this way”. Sam cocked his arm and hefted the two-liter container up in the manner of an NFL quarterback facing the oncoming defensive line. He lightly bounced the nearly-full bottle and suddenly rocketed it in my direction. In the same instant, Scott decided he had had enough for one evening. He reached up and yanked the cord on the single light fixture on the ceiling ― immersing the room in total darkness. I sat in the obscuring emptiness with my arms outstretched, waiting for the approaching carbonated missile that Sam had launched a second earlier. My wait was minimal as I was immediately slammed in the head by the plastic decanter and sent backwards off the bed. The audible “WHAP” confirmed a direct hit to the three other occupants of the room. In a roar of laughter, someone snapped the light back on to find me laid out on the floor, a large welt already blooming on my forehead. The merriment of my pals faded away at the same rate as my consciousness.

The next morning, my hangover arrived right on schedule. But the bulletproof mentality of an eighteen year-old male is a tough thing to alter. I popped a few Excedrin and minutes later I felt I was ready to accompany my friends to breakfast. Everyone knows that there’s nothing better to fight a hangover than a couple of aspirin and a stack of pancakes.

The next three days took a course similar to Day One, except I didn’t take anymore Coke bottles to the noggin. On Day Four, we disposed of the many beer cans and swept the pretzel crumbs off the beds to leave the room as presentable as possible. We loaded our bags into Alan’s car and started for home, waving to Betty and Crying Bob as we exited the parking lot.

Summer was over. Life awaited us.

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This week’s Illustration Friday challenge word is “safari”.

Every kid grows up listening to novelty songs and every generation had their favorites. From the early 20th century’s “K-K-K-Katy” and “Yes We Have No Bananas” to the wildly popular “Der Fuher’s Face” during World War II, novelty songs have always been crowd-pleasers.

When I was in high school, I loyally tuned in to the syndicated Dr. Demento Show  every Sunday night on local station WYSP. Upon hearing the opening strains of The Roto Rooter Good Time Christmas Band’s instrumental version of “Pico and Sepulveda”, I knew I was in store for two hours jammed with the strangest, wackiest and coolest novelty songs hand-picked by the good Doctor himself.  Dr. Demento’s (aka Barry Hansen) playlist spanned several decades. It was on the Dr. Demento Show  that I first heard the classics “Shaving Cream” and “Fish Heads”. He played Allan Sherman songs that I had listened to as a kid. He played Frank Zappa songs that may have been considered novelties by the masses, but not by Frank. Dr. Demento even played homemade tapes tapes some kid with an accodorian sent him. That kid, Weird Al Yankovic, made a career out of the novelty genre.

I had some favorites that I would wait for every week, hoping to hear and laugh along with them again. One was Jerry Samuels’ “I Owe A Lot (to Iowa Pot)”. This folk guitar ditty was a vast departure from Jerry’s previous novelty effort. In the middle 60s, Jerry recorded the international novelty hit “They’re Coming to Take Me Away” under the pseudonym Napoleon XIV. I was also partial to “Friendly Neighborhood Narco Agent” by Jef Jaisun. Jef’s fun little ode to getting busted was actually a nightmare for the budding rockstar. Warner Brothers Records gave poor Jef the run-around for years, denying him any royalties. After years of futile attempts for payment, Jef’s career headed in another direction and he became a fairly successful photographer until he passed away in 2006. Folk singer Peter Alsop had a minor hit with Larry Groce’s “Junk Food Junkie”. On his tenth album, Peter recorded “Let’s Go On Safari into My Sister’s Nose” — a song, thirty-five years later, I still can’t get out of my head. Peter still records today, but here are the lyrics to his opus about his sibling’s snot:

Let’s go on safari\Into my sister’s nose,\I’ll bet we find some treasure\Like we found between her toes
Be careful that you don’t get lost\And tangled-up in hair\I hope that it’s still open\Cause her finger’s always there!

Leave your gas mask in the car\My sister’s nose won’t smell\But bring along a pack\You might find something you can sell!
Sometimes a loose stalactite\Gives no warning when it falls\So walk only on the hard part\And please don’t touch the walls
Or we’ll never get you out of there\You’ll slide right out of sight\Although my sister’s nose is nice\It’s a scary place at night!

So let’s go on safari\Into my sister’s nose\The Northwest Passage might be open\Usually it’s closed!
Don’t worry about the monsters\That are lurking up in there\If you get one on you, do like her\And wipe it on Mom’s chair!

She’ll blow away our troubles\If we simply ask her, “Please?”\My sister loves me very much\Because I never tease!!

Yep, it’s still  funny.

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