Dating Your Mom

by Ian Frazier

  9:10 p.m. While technicians work frantically to fix the computer, yet a third huge dog attacks the power lines between Westchester and Manhattan, eating the insulators off the towers and triggering circuit breakers.

  9:14 p.m. Further strain is placed on an already stretched-to-the-limits situation when every Cuisinart in Westchester turns itself on simultaneously, as if following some eerie brand-specific command.

  9:17 p.m. Con Ed repairmen have just about fixed one power station when suddenly, out of the sewers—hundreds of giant white alligators! (There really is such a thing, and if you don’t believe me you can call the Department of Sanitation and ask them whether there is such a thing or not.) The repairmen have to go back into their trucks and wait for the alligators to go away, and this costs precious minutes as station after station loses power.

  9:19 p.m. One of Con Ed’s chief engineers, working desperately against the clock, devises a plan to forestall blackout by “load shedding”—i.e., allowing power loss in some areas until the system regains its balance—and he gives the plan to Con Ed chairman Charles Luce. Before Luce can put the plan into effect, however, while he is giving the first instructions by phone, he accidentally leaves the plan where his baby sister can reach it, and she gets into it and scatters the papers around and crumples up some pages and gets her teething cracker all over it. By the time he can get the papers away from her and copy them over, the domino-like sequence of power-plant shutdown is well on its way.

  9:20 p.m. Throughout the five boroughs, packs of huge dogs begin eating the actual power lines.

  9:30 p.m. Herds of buffalo, nobody has any idea where they came from, probably from Canada, begin stampeding across New York State and start rubbing up against the exposed power lines where the dogs have eaten off the insulation. Also, walking catfish and poisonous Mexican spitting mice do this. They impede last-minute efforts to restore power.

  9:34 p.m.Total blackout.

  THE END OF BOB’S BOB HOUSE

  In the thirties, it was in the basement of the old Van-derbob Towers Hotel. In the forties, it moved into the first floor of the Youbob Building on Fifty-second Street. In the late fifties, it settled in what was to become its final home, the plush revolving lounge on the top of the BobCo Building. No matter where they found it through the years, patrons of Bob’s Bob House (and there were many who were much more than patrons—devotees might be a better word) knew that anyplace old Bob Bobson, God love him, was hanging out there was sure to be excitement, fun, and big thick steaks nearby. I’ll never forget back in ’54, I’d just been fired by Bill Veeck for alcoholism, and I walked into the Bob House with a face about a mile long. Bob took one look at me and hollered, “Christ, you’re sober, Doc!” (He always called me Doc. Of course, I didn’t have a medical degree, but I did have my own stapling gun. He called me Doc ever since the war, over in Korea.) “Anything you want, it’s on me.” My God, I drank the place dry that night, and then I had a good solid piece of American grain-fed beef and got in my car and ran over a claims adjuster and ended up in Matteawan State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. That’s the kind of guy Bob was.

  If you were a friend of Bob’s, there was nothing he wouldn’t do for you, even to the point of making soup out of your underwear and drinking the broth, as he once did for longtime crony and companion Maria Montessori, the Italian educator. But if you fell among the unfortunate few who Bob considered enemies, then look out: he might refuse to give you a good table or, looking serious, say he was going to put your dog through the bologna slicer. I’ll never forget, it was June of ’58 and my first ex-wife had just won a thousand dollars a month alimony so she could go and shack up with that big Mennonite buck she used to run with, plus custody of my little son and daughter. I told the judge, “God damn it, she’s got the boy sleeping in a basket of fish heads—now, I don’t think that’s right. She’s making my daughter lick dead bugs off the car radiator grille. You think that’s the behavior of a fit mother?” Well, hell, she got custody anyway. The judge gave her custody. I suppose he knows better than me.

  The only friend I had left in the world in those days was old Bob. I spent most of my time at the Bob House. “Mother of God, Highpockets,” he’d say. (Always called me Highpockets. Course, I was only five-eight, but I did have my own cattle prod.) “Highpockets, buddy, let me tell you what happened to my luggage” —and off he’d go on a long involved rigamarole that never failed to make me feel white again.

  It was through Bob, of course, that I first met Senator Robert Mebob. This was back before all the controversy surrounding the Committee to Re-Bob Mebob, as we all called it, which Bob got tangled up in with that crazy prank where he and someone on the Senator’s staff put a Saltine in a cup of warm tea (an allegation that was never proved, by the way). At any rate, Bob took me over to the Senator’s table at the Bob House one night. “Curly,” he said to me. (He always called me Curly. Course, I didn’t have any hair of my own, but I did have my own meat thermometer.) “Curly,” he says, “I want you to meet the Honorable Robert Youbob Mebob—I call him Bob, buddy of mine—he’s the greatest guy, he’s a helluva guy. God, I love him. I’ll bet you didn’t know that this guy right here, Senator Bob Mebob, he’s the father of my oldest boy, Bobby.” Then he grinned and grabbed the Senator in a big bear hug and his eyes filled with tears, and I have to admit I was surprised, even though I knew that Bob’s wife, who used to wait tables at the Bob House, was a great and beautiful lady and a fine helpmeet and a terrific gal who shacked up with any damned guy she felt like, and a terrific mother who loved to drink and drive. Later, when the Senator got indicted, Bob never forgot him, and once sent him five dozen red roses with a note asking if he was still in love with Otis Sistrunk, of the Oakland Raiders. That’s the way it was if you were friends with Bob—you were in love with Otis Sistrunk, although probably you weren’t.

  Now, after forty years and who knows how many stomachs pumped, they’re closing down the old Bob House, where so many of us had such great times and blacked out so many times over the years, and we’re sure going to miss it. Of course, Bob has slowed down a lot, and he can’t threaten people as well as he used to when he was younger, and that, along with the incident last fall where a bunch of kids broke in after hours and taped live ferrets to the salad bar, has taken a lot of the fun out of the Bob House for him. Bob is moving to Jersey, where he plans to just take it easy and collect moving violations and rifle the desks of guys who know him and trust him, and we wish him the best. I know I speak for everybody else who has known Bob and his Bob House when I say that we love him and think he’s the greatest guy and the cutest guy and has done a terrific job not only for the restaurant business but also for the city as a whole.

  THE SANDY FRAZIER DREAM TEAM OFFENSE

  THE SANDY FRAZIER DREAM TEAM

  OFFENSE

  Quarterback: 6’4” , 185-lb. senior Sandy Frazier led St. Joe’s Vikings to their second straight all-city championship, amassing 1,593 yards in the air with an 87% completion ratio. Set state mark for rushing by a quarterback with 830 yards for the season.

  Fullback: Stow junior Sandy Frazier (6’5”, 217 lbs.) broke all rushing records set at Stow in 1962 by star alum Larry Csonka. Frazier is tremendously quick for a big man.

  Running Back: Suspended early in the season for disciplinary reasons, Akron North’s Sandy Frazier came back in the final three games to beat Hoban, Buchtel, and Firestone with his spectacular catches and kickoff returns. He runs the hundred in 9.4, an excellent time for a man his size.

  Wide Receiver: Sandy Frazier of John F. Kennedy caught 45 passes for touchdowns this season. Team captain in his sophomore year, he will make the Fighting Eagles squad of 17 returning lettermen a power in the ’78 city championships.

  Wide Receiver: The Lancers cruised to the Greater Cleveland Private School title behind the receiving and open-field blocking of 6’5”, 195-lb. junior end Ian “Sandy” Frazier. For a man of his size, he possesses outstanding quickness an
d agility.

  Tight End: Canton Timken relied on their big junior tight end Sandy Frazier for his blocking on traps and sweeps, as well as for his pass-catching abilities. His quickness is amazing, considering his height and weight (6’7”, 223 lbs.).

  Tackle: Massillon’s Washington High has produced more pro tackles than any other high school in the country, and 6’8”, 260-lb. junior Sandy Frazier is well on his way to joining that list. He moves with great agility for a tackle that large.

  Tackle: University School’s four-year letterman and team captain Sandy Frazier displays surprising quickness, despite his 6’2”, 230-lb. frame.

  Guard: Ian (Sandy) Frazier of Warren G. Harding really made the Panthers’ ground game roll. The 6’3”, 215-lb. senior is an excellent pulling guard, with his 9.8 speed.

  Guard: Elyria Catholic senior Sandy Frazier, at 6’4” and 240 lbs., is a lineman who can do it all. He has great mobility for a big man.

  Center: St. Ignatius sophomore Sandy Frazier, at 5’11”, 212 lbs., was the dependable keystone of the Maize and Blue offense this year, which ranked third in total yardage in the state prep totals.

  DEFENSE

  Deep Safety: John Adams coach Paul Feldermacher calls 5’9”, 165-lb. junior defensive back Sandy Frazier “pound for pound the best player I have ever coached.” He wins the Dream-Team Headhunter Award for most tackles this season.

  Deep Safety: 5’11”, 175-lb. senior Sandy Frazier of Glenville won the East Cleveland Thanksgiving Turkey Day Game with his 85-yard runback of an interception in the final seconds.

  Free Safety: A player skilled at reading defenses who also loves to hit people, Kent Roosevelt junior Sandy Frazier was the headache of running backs throughout the greater Akron area, with his 6’7”, 210-lb. build coupled with his excellent speed.

  Outside Linebacker: Sandy Frazier of Cuyahoga Falls, a 6’3”, 210-lb. junior, led the Suburban League in tackles per game. He is as fast and nimble as a man half his size.

  Outside Linebacker: Kenston High’s junior defender Sandy Frazier (6’4”, 215 lbs.) played with reckless abandon in the Class AA Divisional Championship, blocking three punts. Even though he is huge, he is also swift.

  Middle Linebacker: A narrow choice in the Dream Team voting over Walsh Jesuit’s outstanding MLB Sandy Frazier, Akron Garfield senior captain Sandy Frazier won out because even though he clocks a speedy 4.2 in the 40-yard dash, he is still extremely large (6’2”, 210 lbs.).

  End: Bay Village High senior DE Ian “Sandy” Frazier, at 6’6”, 231 lbs., has the catlike quickness which makes him a really tough defender, when you consider how big he is.

  End: Mogadore owes most of its 6–3 won-lost record to sophomore defensive end Sandy Frazier, who intimidated blockers with his agility, which was outstanding when operating in concert with his 6’5”, 223-lb. body.

  Tackle: Ian “Sandy” Frazier of Hawken School is a player who you would think would move slow off the ball when you realized that he weighs in at 6’8”, 240 lbs., but that was not the case, as many prep-league opponents can attest.

  Tackle: Cleveland Heights junior standout Sandy Frazier (6’3”, 219 lbs.) made game-saving tackles three times in goal-line stands when the Heights Tigers shut out the mighty Blue Bombers of Cleveland East. He is very large, in addition to being very fast.

  Middle Guard: Akron East junior Sandy Frazier was the mainstay of East’s defense, which allowed only 24 points all season. For a man of his quickness and agility, he possesses tremendous size.

  DATING YOUR MOM

  In today’s fast-moving, transient, rootless society, where people meet and make love and part without ever really touching, the relationship every guy already has with his own mother is too valuable to ignore. Here is a grown, experienced, loving woman—one you do not have to go to a party or a singles bar to meet, one you do not have to go to great lengths to get to know. There are hundreds of times when you and your mother are thrown together naturally, without the tension that usually accompanies courtship—just the two of you, alone. All you need is a little presence of mind to take advantage of these situations. Say your mom is driving you downtown in the car to buy you a new pair of slacks. First, find a nice station on the car radio, one that she likes. Get into the pleasant lull of freeway driving—tires humming along the pavement, air-conditioner on max. Then turn to look at her across the front seat and say something like, “You know, you’ve really kept your shape, Mom, and don’t think I haven’t noticed.” Or suppose she comes into your room to bring you some clean socks. Take her by the wrist, pull her close, and say, “Mom, you’re the most fascinating woman I’ve ever met.” Probably she’ll tell you to cut out the foolishness, but I can guarantee you one thing: she will never tell your dad. Possibly she would find it hard to say, “Dear, Piper just made a pass at me,” or possibly she is secretly flattered, but, whatever the reason, she will keep it to herself until the day comes when she is no longer ashamed to tell the world of your love.

  Dating your mother seriously might seem difficult at first, but once you try it I’ll bet you’ll be surprised at how easy it is. Facing up to your intention is the main thing: you have to want it bad enough. One problem is that lots of people get hung up on feelings of guilt about their dad. They think, Oh, here’s this kindly old guy who taught me how to hunt and whittle and dynamite fish—I can’t let him go on into his twilight years alone. Well, there are two reasons you can dismiss those thoughts from your mind. First, every woman, I don’t care who she is, prefers her son to her husband. That is a simple fact; ask any woman who has a son, and she’ll admit it. And why shouldn’t she prefer someone who is so much like herself, who represents nine months of special concern and love and intense physical closeness—someone whom she actually created? As more women begin to express the need to have something all their own in the world, more women are going to start being honest about this preference. When you and your mom begin going together, you will simply become part of a natural and inevitable historical trend.

  Second, you must remember this about your dad: you have your mother, he has his! Let him go put the moves on his own mother and stop messing with yours. If his mother is dead or too old to be much fun anymore, that’s not your fault, is it? It’s not your fault that he didn’t realize his mom for the woman she was, before it was too late. Probably he’s going to try a lot of emotional blackmail on you just because you had a good idea and he never did. Don’t buy it. Comfort yourself with the thought that your dad belongs to the last generation of guys who will let their moms slip away from them like that.

  Once your dad is out of the picture—once he has taken up fly-tying, joined the Single Again Club, moved to Russia, whatever—and your mom has been wooed and won, if you’re anything like me you’re going to start having so much fun that the good times you had with your mother when you were little will seem tame by comparison. For a while, Mom and I went along living a contented, quiet life, just happy to be with each other. But after several months we started getting into some different things, like the big motorized stroller. The thrill I felt the first time Mom steered me down the street! On the tray, in addition to my Big Jim doll and the wire with the colored wooden beads, I have my desk blotter, my typewriter, an in-out basket, and my name plate. I get a lot of work done, plus I get a great chance to people-watch. Then there’s my big, adult-sized highchair, where I sit in the evening as Mom and I watch the news and discuss current events, while I paddle in my food and throw my dishes on the floor. When Mom reaches to wipe off my chin and I take her hand, and we fall to the floor in a heap—me, Mom, highchair, and all—well, those are the best times, those are the very best times.

  It is true that occasionally I find myself longing for even more—for things I know I cannot have, like the feel of a firm, strong, gentle hand at the small of my back lifting me out of bed into the air, or someone who could walk me around and burp me after I’ve watched all the bowl games and had about nine beers. Ideally, I would like
a mom about nineteen or twenty feet tall, and although I considered for a while asking my mom to start working out with weights and drinking Nutrament, I finally figured, Why put her through it? After all, she is not only my woman, she is my best friend. I have to take her as she is, and the way she is is plenty good enough for me.

  NIVEN: A RECONSIDERATION

  Over the years, it has been the custom of literary critics to regard Niven as a lonely monument, self-created —almost as much a fiction as one of his own characters, magnificent in the uniqueness of his achievement. While I realize that this is doctrine from which one of our number strays at his peril, I have always believed that such a view of the man and his work removes Niven from his historical context and neglects consideration of the author as a product of the turbulent intellectual climate of his time. One must remember that it was during Niven’s age that Hope also wrote. Although Hope had produced most of his oeuvre (including the major works, Have Tux, Will Travel, So This Is Peace, and his masterpiece, I Owe Russia $I,200) a number of years before Niven wrote The Moon’s a Balloon, he was still alive in the full noon of Niven’s day, and they may even have known each other. We should remember, too, that it was about this time that MacLaine produced her Don’t Fall Off the Mountain, Arnaz his A Book, and Boone his Twixt Twelve and Twenty. And what of Davis, Jr.? His Yes I Can, which predates Niven’s Balloon, has a clean, architectonic style reminiscent of Nivenian prose. Indeed, is it mere coincidence that Davis, Jr.’s work even contains some of the same characters that we find in both Balloon and Bring on the Empty Horses?