My grandmother turned ninety-nine in March. Her name is Ruth but most people, including her eighteen grandchildren, call her Roo-Roo. That name came about when, as children, our attempts at pronuncing Ruth came out as “Roo” and then morphed to Roo-Roo.
Roo-Roo is a miracle, a true dynamo of spirit and love. Since I was a child her presence always meant fun, freedom and possibility. My mother once wrote a beautiful poem about Roo that captured her essence. I remember one of the lines saying “When Roo-Roo comes our home becomes a wonderland”. That is still true.
My brother recently suggested “Who knows if you become a comedian without the influence of Roo-Roo?” I agree. Her spirit of mischief and fun are part of my DNA and I am so grateful for that. She embodies a philosophy of hope, survival and never taking life or yourself too seriously, which is essential to comedy.
Some time around her ninety-second birthday Roo-Roo informed us that she would like to be called “Morning Dew Hibiscus”, with no further explanation. I would receive letters and cards in the mail from Roo-Roo signed with her new alias “Morning Dew Hibiscus”. That might seem bizarre or perhaps a red flag of waning mental health for anyone else but for Roo-Roo it was the opposite; a confirmation that she was the very same wacky, silly, unique individual still reinventing herself into her nineties.
My mother, brother and I recently visited Roo-Roo at the assisted living residence that she calls home. We usually take her out to lunch at the Olive Garden for her favorite, mussels and zinfindel. Roo-Roo orders the same thing every time but yet when we sit down she always peruses the menu, asking “What looks good today?” I can’t help but laugh; she acts as though she is carefully weighing her options (perhaps she is) but ultimately orders the very same mussels and zinfindel.
My mother told me of a recent trip in the car, driving Roo-Roo back home. The GPS, in an english woman’s voice, was instructing my mother where and when to turn. Roo-Roo was fascinated by this and asked my mother “Do you always listen to her, Patty?”
My mother, not at all phased by such a question coming from Roo, answered “Most of the time, yes. Unless I’m familiar with the area and know a better way, then I’ll make my own decision.”
To which Roo-Roo replied, in all sincerity, “You’re so good with relationships.”
If we are good with relationships it’s thanks in no small measure to you, Roo-Roo. You have left us a marvelous blueprint for a life of love and happiness.
May we all be as good with relationships and as graceful with living life as you, our beautiful and precious Morning Dew Hibiscus.

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As half-time approaches I get a hankering for Dunkin’ Donuts. I decide I will run out at the half to satisfy my craving. The Lakers cut it to six at the half, I throw on pants and a shirt and bolt out for my donuts.

I call my friend, Gil, out in L.A. to pass the time and talk about the Lakers as I walk to Dunkin’ Donuts. Gil and I have known each other since high school yet we usually keep our conversations to Knicks and Lakers updates.

I’m talking to Gil, he’s asking my how I like the Knicks hiring Mike D’Antoni as their coach. I say I like it because he coaches LeBron on the USA team and maybe that will help lure LeBron to NY in 2010, when he becomes a free agent.

As I’m crossing a crowded intersection (the very same intersection from a few blogs ago), I notice a tiny animal trailing behind me, scurrying about.

At first I think it’s a cat but I realize it’s a little puppy; a scared, little puppy following me out into traffic. Now you should know I am not a dog person. My family never had a dog, I’m not particularly comfortable around them but I have gotten slightly better in recent years. I totally forget I’m talking to Gil and start yelling at the dog “Hey! Hey! Hey! Go back over there, little guy!” The cars stop and I tell Gil I’ll have to call him back later, I have to save a puppy.

The puppy is doing that thing where it is cowering yet following you at the same time.

I realize I’m going to have to pick it up, which concerns me. I don’t think I’ve ever picked up a dog. In fact, it seems weird and unnatural to me to pick one up, like when those animal handlers pick up a goat or something on The Tonight Show. It just doesn’t seem right, or at least it doesn’t seem like anything I would ever do.

But there I am and there he is, in the middle of the intersection, so I have no choice but to scoop his tiny body up and carry him to safety. I think it’s a terrier. The only reason I know that is because that was my high school mascot. There is a restaurant with outdoor seating on the corner and I now realize that they are witnessing my heroism.

I now have a dog in my arms and no idea who it belongs to or what to do. I ring a couple of doorbells of the houses along the street and nobody is answering, which makes sense because it’s almost 11pm. Finally, these two girls come out. They are in their early twenties and immediately start making high pitches noises when they see the adorable puppy.

“Awww! Look at him! Is that your puppy?”
Yeah, I rang your doorbell at 11pm to show you my puppy.
“No, I found it in the street. I was wondering if it was yours or if you know who he belongs to.”

At this point a young gay guy comes out of the house. I guess he lives with them, too. It’s like a Three’s Company or Real World type deal.

One of the girls says,”It’s not ours. I don’t recognize it. Awww! Look at him!!! Yeah, baby! He’s so scared.”
The gay guy chimes in “I know the people next door have a dog. But it’s not this one.”
Thanks, gay guy.
The other girl says “You just found it in the street?”
“Yeah. I was just crossing the street and I saw him following behind me, out into traffic.”
“So you saved a puppy?!”
“I guess so. Yeah. I saved a puppy.”

While they fawn over the puppy I decide to call 3-1-1 and see if NYC provides any animal rescue service. It turns out they do, but only during regular business hours. The operator asks “Do you have a box you could put it in until the morning?”

I thank her for her help and tell her I’ll figure something out.

Now Jack, Chrissy and Janice’s landlord comes out and they ask him if they can keep the puppy. Mr. Furley says “I think I’ve seen that puppy before. I think it belongs to the lady around the corner. We can ask her in the morning. You can keep it overnight.”

Satisfied that the puppy is safe and in good hands, I thank them and take off for Dunkin’ Donuts. I feel a mixture of pride and bemusement at the fact that a simple donut run can turn into an animal rescue mission. You truly never know what awaits when you walk out your door.

A block from Dunkin’ Donuts I notice a Mister Softee truck. I make an executive decision and opt for a vanilla cone with chocolate sprinkles, scrapping my original donut plan. Ice cream feels more appropriate than donuts to celebrate a heroic act, though cops may disagree.

I walk back home, savoring my ice cream cone and replaying the rescue in my mind. It all happened so fast, I want to make sure to recount every detail. If the news were there I could picture myself saying “I’m no hero. Just a guy who was in the right place at the right time.”

As I approach the block where the girls lived I wonder if they’ll still be out there. Sure enough, they’re all still out there sitting on the stoop. I give a wave as I walk by and one of the girls yells out “Someone came for it! It was someone around the corner where you rang the doorbells!”

“Really? Oh, good, good!” I immediately felt strange saying “good” twice but I think it was appropriate. I was excited that the story had an even happier ending than what I had assumed.

A perfect spring night; a puppy saved and returned to his rightful owner, an ice cream cone and a community brought a bit closer  together by the simple heroic act of one man in the right place at the right time.
All in a day’s work, my friends. All in a day’s work.

Anyway, I’m at the corner confronted with a potentially combustible combination; no traffic, an illuminated solid red “Don’t Walk” hand with an irascible crossing guard stationed just beneath. The scene played out like a classic gun fight in the old west. Only, rather than a ten gallon cowboy hat she was wearing the standard crossing guard headgear; that weird boxy thing peculiar to crossing guards and pre-1970’s nurses.

Our eyes locked. Hers squinted slightly, suggesting “I wouldn’t if I were you”. I stared back, first at her, then at the “Don’t Walk” sign, a quick glance at her white sash and badge, then back at her. I could feel my heart rate increasing and my blood pumping through my veins. I felt alive.

It was now or never; I made my move. My confident gait propelled me through the crosswalk, toward her, as if in slow motion like the cliched shot in every action movie. Chin up and jaw squared, I strutted defiantly, dismissing everything she believed in, the very tenets she had built her adult life upon. A life of rules. A life of structure and discipline. A life of crossing at the green and not in between.

I could feel her icy stare piercing through me but somehow it felt good. A voice reassured me with every step, “You’re a grown man. You’ve been crossing streets by yourself for close to thirty years. You don’t need anyone’s help or permission. You can probably buy one of those badges at a 99 cent store.”

As I arrived at her corner she looked at me with all the contempt and disdain she could muster. The trace of a smile came across my lips. She shook her head disapprovingly. I could almost hear her say “This isn’t over. We’ll meet again.”

“I hope we do.” I continued past, a dizzying mix of adrenaline and pride welling inside of me.
“I hope we do.”

What makes the condition even more troubling is that over sixty percent of Americans can’t locate Iraq on a map, so we are fatigued by a place we can’t even find.
Rather than sit on my ass and complain I decided to do something about it. I wrote a letter to a soldier in Iraq, telling him about the situation.

Dear U.S. soldier,
I am writing to tell you how fatigued we are becoming with the war back home. I don’t know how you guys feel about the war you are fighting but we are really tired of it. You would not believe how often we have to read about it, sometimes even on the front page. Not to mention the occasional television coverage or online story. Do you have internet access over there? If so, google “Iraq War” and you’ll see what I mean. It’s ridiculous. It’s like “Alright already! We get it! There’s a war going on!” It’s exhausting. I’m telling you I’ve had about all I can stand and I am not alone.

Anyway, I figured a little taste of home would brighten your day over there. Get home soon and get home safe; America could really use the pick-me-up!

Sincerely,
Ted Alexandro

Of course I feel badly for the wife in these situations. I can’t imagine too many things being more devastating than finding out your spouse has cheated. That said, marriage is “for better or for worse” and it looks like worse just rolled into town. I think it’s commendable to stick it out, work through it together, get counseling. Do whatever you have to do to eventually get to the point where you can look back together and laugh about it. “Remember that time I had to step down as governor because I fucked a prostitute? That was pretty funny, huh?”

I can’t imagine having to confess to your wife and then, right afterwards, to your kids. “Girls, did you hear all that screaming and glass breaking in the other room? Well, Daddy has to tell you something. Mommy is mad because Daddy spent a lot of money on something. Something that Mommy already has. A vagina. You know how sometimes you ask Daddy for money for a new outfit even though you already have a lot of perfectly good outfits? Well, that’s how Daddy felt about Mommy’s vagina. Now go play.”

While reflecting on Elliott and his gal pal, Ashley Alexandra Dupre, I was reminded of Neil Diamond’s “Heartlight”.

Come back again
I want you to stay next time
’Cause sometimes the world ain’t kind
When people get lost like you and me

I just made a friend
A friend is someone you need
But now that he had to go away
I still feel the words that he might say

He’s lookin’ for home
’Cause everyone needs a place
And home’s the most excellent place of all
And I’ll be right here if you should call me

Turn on your heartlight, Elliott. You’ll find your way home.